When I Want Someone To Talk To
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quadriptych (10" x 10" each), mixed media on canvas with paper, acrylics and graphite. 2017.
Four images of those who bully and those who are bullied. Unifying the four are words of a handmade poem-postcard sent by my mother. They roughly translate to “When I Want Someone To Talk To.” My mother and I have a complicated relationship. It will always be a one-way communication channel between us. Over the last fifteen years we took bargain-priced Japanese bus tours that included stops at various hot springs, inns and historic villages. The gentle motion of the bus on the highway and monotonous drawl of the bus guide were conducive to dozing off and talking. During these long rides mom shared memories of her childhood and mine. Her stories surprised me and forced me to question my own memories. Her recollections created context for my sickly childhood, tumultuous family life, intergenerational sibling relationships fragmented beyond repair, and her desire to live a solitary life in her old age. Whether true or false, her memories freed me and validated the life I chose to live. Now that her memories have drifted away I treasure the gift of memory mom shared with me.
Four images of those who bully and those who are bullied. Unifying the four are words of a handmade poem-postcard sent by my mother. They roughly translate to “When I Want Someone To Talk To.” My mother and I have a complicated relationship. It will always be a one-way communication channel between us. Over the last fifteen years we took bargain-priced Japanese bus tours that included stops at various hot springs, inns and historic villages. The gentle motion of the bus on the highway and monotonous drawl of the bus guide were conducive to dozing off and talking. During these long rides mom shared memories of her childhood and mine. Her stories surprised me and forced me to question my own memories. Her recollections created context for my sickly childhood, tumultuous family life, intergenerational sibling relationships fragmented beyond repair, and her desire to live a solitary life in her old age. Whether true or false, her memories freed me and validated the life I chose to live. Now that her memories have drifted away I treasure the gift of memory mom shared with me.
