“Is she pretty?” I’m told this is the first thing my mom said upon giving birth to me. A loaded, and in some ways painful legacy, one I’ve come to understand in more nuanced ways as the years pass.
Eulogizing her in 2009 I noted:
My mother never thought of herself as beautiful. For anyone who knew her, this is a remarkable thing to contemplate. She was exquisitely beautiful. And she cared deeply about beauty. I found a picture of her recently. She appears to have been at an ancient Greek ruin of some sort. Surrounded by people chatting away, she alone has her face tilted up and she’s clearly enthralled. I’m so grateful to her for the gift of awareness and appreciation - of flowers, and nature, and art.
People ask me why I’m compelled to paint my mom. Partly I want to restore her beauty and power from what Alzheimer's stole. She had an immaculate closet, with rows of color coordinated suede pumps, paisley hat boxes with jewel-toned ties piled to the ceiling. It was quietly excruciating to witness it all get dusty and faded, just one example of her incremental vanishing even as she remained ostensibly here.
I’m well aware of the ways societal dictates around beauty can enslave women. Still there’s just something about the glamour of her era. Despite second guessing her beauty, Esther reveled in her voluptuousness and unapologetically wanted folks to take notice.
Did she care too much about her own beauty, and mine? Absolutely. And still, I wouldn’t be here pursing this dream in this way if not for all of it. And so… I continue to be deeply grateful.
