I turned back to my task, unhurriedly measuring out detergent and pouring it in the dispenser. I closed the lid and turned on the washer. I had bought all the time I could.
"Why?"
"It's an assignment for my art class," she explained.
I sighed deeply. The weekly art class my mother attended was an informal assembly of about 4-5 housewives, including Fran the self-proclaimed instructor. They routinely gathered around a dining room table in a friend’s kitchen. Don't get me wrong ... I totally supported the socialization and enrichment this group provided. But this assignment wasn't a project that would earn her college credit or even a grade; it amounted to a grandiose challenge from their mentor that "all artists should paint a nude" at some point in their "career". Fran assigned this task as homework between regular painting sessions and my mother was apparently determined to prove herself. I still couldn't imagine this strait-laced, prudish grandmother taking this seriously.
"Today? Now?!"
"Well, I'm supposed to have it finished by Tuesday .... ."
Now honestly, while my mother had obviously seen me au naturel many times, I wasn't exactly a six-year-old anymore. The thought of disrobing was a touch disconcerting. The human figure can be depicted quite beautifully, though, and given some time the notion of behaving a little wicked and out of character was growing like a fanned ember.
So it happened that as my innocent child napped and laundry tumbled in the warm dryer, I sat in front of my mother as naked as a jaybird. It turned out that she didn't require me to pose for the hours it would take her to actually paint her canvas; she promised she could work from a series of quick sketches.
I never saw the painting in progress and I avoided the topic during subsequent laundry days. I preferred to pretend this had never happened and that it was only an odd dream worthy of research by Carl Jung.
Inevitably the day came when I showed up, toddler and laundry in tow, and my mother stood in the doorway with her painting proudly thrust in my face.
I stared at the image … and gradually a smile spread across my face. A tiny giggle escaped my lips.
"What? Don't you like it?" she asked, as disappointment flickered in her eyes.
"I'm not laughing at your painting. No," I shook my head, "I'm amused at how clever it is and so completely like you."
"What's that supposed to mean?" she countered with an edge of defensiveness.
"Well, I just couldn't imagine you painting a nude in the first place. But you did ... and at the same time, you didn't. What did Fran and the others think of it?"
"Fran said it wasn't what she expected, but it showed creativity. The others said they wished they'd thought of it." There was a sense of pride in her voice now and she spoke with her chin held high.
"It wasn't what I expected either," I admitted. "But I love it because it says so much about you being true to yourself."
My mother was primarily a landscape artist, with an exceptional talent for seascapes and mountain scenery, usually capped by stunning clouds. The notion of painting a nude was so far out of her comfort zone that the address may as well have been Outer Mongolia. But she had a unique way of approaching obstacles and she came up with a solution.
The background setting for her finished canvas was the interior of an artist's studio rendered in dark, muted tones. The composition placed me sitting demurely in the center of the room, bathed in soft light. I was seated on a bench and turned lightly to the left, posed with one leg crossed modestly over the other, head slightly bowed and eyes cast downward. My arms were extended to the sides with hands resting slightly behind me on the bench for support. Then my dear mother added an artist's easel and canvas to the painting, implying this was a study of an artist's work in progress. The easel was in the foreground, however, and situated with its canvas to strategically block the view of any 'naughty bits' my mother wished to avoid!
My head, neck, and shoulders, including a hint of cleavage could be seen above the easel, while my left side and as much of my front as could be included without being deemed improper were visible from behind the right edge of the 'painting within the painting'.
Topping it all off was the second nude image in progress on the easel in the imaginary artist's studio. First of all, it had been positioned so that only the top section showed, allowing the lower portion to run off the bottom of the real canvas, thus leaving the rest to the viewer's imagination. She painted this using an unnatural color palette in an abstract style, reminiscent Picasso’s proto-cubism period. My mother had managed to submit two nudes on one canvas without a nipple in sight. Pure genius!
The painting was never hung on the wall and over I time I forgot all about it. I rediscovered it tucked away in a closet 24 years later while I was handling my parents' estate. When I picked it up I felt that same smile tease the corners of my mouth. It’s not technically my mother’s best work and lacks detail due to the short amount of time she had been allowed to complete it, but it's still one of my favorites. I suppose that’s partly because it has a story, with layers both literal and figurative.
Instead of hiding in a closet, the nude now hangs in the bedroom. My husband tells me he wishes it was more revealing. Personally, I believe it reveals plenty.
©2017 Roberta McReynolds for SeniorWomen.com
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