WOMANKIND’S ART CHALLENGE 108108 Womankind Communityand by focusing on the stria I find
the shape of each leaf. Yet again, I
learn it’s how you look at an object
that is important. Our garden faces
north: searing in summer and warm
in winter, it’s a compact work in
progress. The first things we planted
were pittosporum trees, now taller
than the garden fence. In the morn-
ing the leaves are tipped with sun-
light. They shine and sway in the
breeze, an unruly phalanx of silver
sword-like tips. I cannot imagine
what I’d need in the way of paints,
let alone talent, to recreate them but
I long to try.
Day four: As I sat over breakfast,
wondering what to draw, I glanced
at my coffee mug. It’s red and white,
large and gleams in the morning sun
coming through the window. Today I
abandon care and make quick, light
strokes using my arm as well as my
hand. I am trying to find the shape
of my subject without looking at it
too closely or over analysing. Emily
Dickinson wrote, “Tell all the truth
but tell it slant” - words writers often
take to heart. It seems to apply to art
as well, although it’s a long bow to
draw in terms of a coffee mug. The
result looks like a coffee cup, but my
perspective is wrong. I don’t try to
change it because I’m learning that
what my mind perceives and what
my hand draws don’t often coincide,
but it’s OK, it’s part of the magic.
Day five: My six-year-old grand-
daughter is visiting me for the week-
end. Last Easter she taught me how
to draw an Easter Bunny holding
an oversized carrot. This weekend
she teaches me to draw an owl sit-
ting next to a tree. Her directions
are clear, she is a patient tutor. My
owl looks as if she is rolling her eyes
and my granddaughter and I giggle
together over the idea. She is an
unselfconscious artist. Whateverappears on her page is acceptable,
the pleasure is found in moving the
pencil across the page, filling each
shape with colour and talking about
her subject as if it was a new friend.
When we complete our drawings,
she praises my work then devises
another game for us to play. Over
the last five days I’ve learned my
impatient perfectionism causes me
to lose sight of what is the purpose
of art making - it’s about challenge,
pleasure, letting go, and seeing what
happens when you play with your
medium. It’s about being a child
again and not giving a hoot about
the outcome.Day two: No change. My sib-
lings and I are maintaining a round-
the-clock vigil by her bedside. See-
ing someone shrivel in front of your
eyes is confronting. But being there
means bearing witness to her strug-
gle to let go of life. Although it took
most of my free hours at home today,
I finally found my favourite photo of
her - a black and white shot - that
I enlarged and sent to friends and
family. My mother in the picture is
in her late-thirties, leaning back on
a groovy 1960s rattan chair swing.
She looks radiant - that glorious
smile. My mother knew how to en-
joy life. Living well was, for her, an
art form. Mum told me that some-
one once asked her what she’d done
with her life. “Well,” she replied,
“I’ve been happy - and that’s an
achievement.” And she was right.
Our mother knew how to be happy
and make the most of life, to go with
what life tossed up - the good and
the bad. More than anyone I know,
she honestly did not care what peo-
ple thought about her. This gave her
the freedom to be herself. How can I
capture her essence in a collage?
Day three: There’s a pencil
sketch of my mother in her auto-
graph book. She must have been
about eleven at the time. A friend
of hers drew it, the niece of a well-
known artist. I’ve spent half an hour
today trying to copy it into my col-
lage - but it’s useless. I can’t draw. My
hand does not obey my thoughts. It’s
better that I stay with collage - the
juxtaposition of images, words, co-
lours and ideas - a palimpsest of her
life, a homage of sorts to her 90 years
on Earth.
Day four: I stayed home today.
There were plenty of people sitting
with mum. No real change; still in a
coma. This is the 8th day. I spend the
day writing about my memories andAnni WebsterDay one: My mother is dying. It’s
not totally unexpected. Since enter-
ing the doorway of dementia a decade
ago, she’s been slipping away. We’ve
had dress rehearsals for this event
before, but this time it’s for real. The
door is closing. But it’s not a gentle
passing. Despite the best of palliative
care, dying from dementia, from old
age, from the body slowly shutting
down, is gruelling to negotiate and
gruesome to watch. I’m trying to calm
myself for the hours and days ahead,
by making a collage of my favourite
photos of her - sprinkled with some
words from the poetry she loved. It’s
not easy to concentrate though. My
mind is a whirlpool.WOMANKIND’S ART CHALLENGE 108 Womankind Community
and by focusing on the stria I find
the shape of each leaf. Yet again, I
learn it’s how you look at an object
that is important. Our garden faces
north: searing in summer and warm
in winter, it’s a compact work in
progress. The first things we planted
were pittosporum trees, now taller
than the garden fence. In the morn-
ing the leaves are tipped with sun-
light. They shine and sway in the
breeze, an unruly phalanx of silver
sword-like tips. I cannot imagine
what I’d need in the way of paints,
let alone talent, to recreate them but
I long to try.
Day four: As I sat over breakfast,
wondering what to draw, I glanced
at my coffee mug. It’s red and white,
large and gleams in the morning sun
coming through the window. Today I
abandon care and make quick, light
strokes using my arm as well as my
hand. I am trying to find the shape
of my subject without looking at it
too closely or over analysing. Emily
Dickinson wrote, “Tell all the truth
but tell it slant” - words writers often
take to heart. It seems to apply to art
as well, although it’s a long bow to
draw in terms of a coffee mug. The
result looks like a coffee cup, but my
perspective is wrong. I don’t try to
change it because I’m learning that
what my mind perceives and what
my hand draws don’t often coincide,
but it’s OK, it’s part of the magic.
Day five: My six-year-old grand-
daughter is visiting me for the week-
end. Last Easter she taught me how
to draw an Easter Bunny holding
an oversized carrot. This weekend
she teaches me to draw an owl sit-
ting next to a tree. Her directions
are clear, she is a patient tutor. My
owl looks as if she is rolling her eyes
and my granddaughter and I giggle
together over the idea. She is an
unselfconscious artist. Whatever
appears on her page is acceptable,
the pleasure is found in moving the
pencil across the page, filling each
shape with colour and talking about
her subject as if it was a new friend.
When we complete our drawings,
she praises my work then devises
another game for us to play. Over
the last five days I’ve learned my
impatient perfectionism causes me
to lose sight of what is the purpose
of art making - it’s about challenge,
pleasure, letting go, and seeing what
happens when you play with your
medium. It’s about being a child
again and not giving a hoot about
the outcome.Day two: No change. My sib-
lings and I are maintaining a round-
the-clock vigil by her bedside. See-
ing someone shrivel in front of your
eyes is confronting. But being there
means bearing witness to her strug-
gle to let go of life. Although it took
most of my free hours at home today,
I finally found my favourite photo of
her - a black and white shot - that
I enlarged and sent to friends and
family. My mother in the picture is
in her late-thirties, leaning back on
a groovy 1960s rattan chair swing.
She looks radiant - that glorious
smile. My mother knew how to en-
joy life. Living well was, for her, an
art form. Mum told me that some-
one once asked her what she’d done
with her life. “Well,” she replied,
“I’ve been happy - and that’s an
achievement.” And she was right.
Our mother knew how to be happy
and make the most of life, to go with
what life tossed up - the good and
the bad. More than anyone I know,
she honestly did not care what peo-
ple thought about her. This gave her
the freedom to be herself. How can I
capture her essence in a collage?
Day three: There’s a pencil
sketch of my mother in her auto-
graph book. She must have been
about eleven at the time. A friend
of hers drew it, the niece of a well-
known artist. I’ve spent half an hour
today trying to copy it into my col-
lage - but it’s useless. I can’t draw. My
hand does not obey my thoughts. It’s
better that I stay with collage - the
juxtaposition of images, words, co-
lours and ideas - a palimpsest of her
life, a homage of sorts to her 90 years
on Earth.
Day four: I stayed home today.
There were plenty of people sitting
with mum. No real change; still in a
coma. This is the 8th day. I spend the
day writing about my memories andAnni WebsterDay one: My mother is dying. It’s
not totally unexpected. Since enter-
ing the doorway of dementia a decade
ago, she’s been slipping away. We’ve
had dress rehearsals for this event
before, but this time it’s for real. The
door is closing. But it’s not a gentle
passing. Despite the best of palliative
care, dying from dementia, from old
age, from the body slowly shutting
down, is gruelling to negotiate and
gruesome to watch. I’m trying to calm
myself for the hours and days ahead,
by making a collage of my favourite
photos of her - sprinkled with some
words from the poetry she loved. It’s
not easy to concentrate though. My
mind is a whirlpool.