Butterfly
My grandmother is sick. A few weeks ago, she had a stroke which disabled the right side of her body. According to the nurses at the retirement home where she now lives, Mamy doesn’t speak anymore and she has refused to eat since the stroke.
For years, my Mamy has talked about wanting to die. It started when my grandfather passed away in 2003, but she’s only become more adamant in the last two years since she had to move into a home.
She suffers from Alzheimer’s and often believes she is a child again, wondering aloud why her mother hasn’t been by to pick her up from school yet. In her more lucid moments, she still doesn’t recognize me or my mother, but she does remember that she wants to die.
My grandmother lives in France and I live in the on the west coast of the United States. This distance has always been difficult. Growing up, I remember that any time she or my grandfather had health problems or even more minor issues it broke my heart that I couldn’t be there to help out. At the same time, the separation has always made the time we do spend together special.
Her everyday world has always been my escape. There’s even a different language for this dreamland of yummy pastries and endless cheeses. I can be someone different there, and, in a very real sense, I am.
I’m fluent-ish in French. By that I mean that, while I speak with little or no accent, I can never find my words. As a result, I can’t be half as chatty in French as I am in English, so I come across differently: I am a new person in French.
My grandmother only knows that person. The one who’s a bit of a fish out of water, never knowing how many bises to give this cousin or that acquaintance, always wanting to hug the people she likes best. The one who’s polite to a fault since she refuses to use slang because it doesn’t seem right in her mouth. The one who’s so monstrously tall it’s embarrassing.
It’s hard to be in my real world right now without thinking a lot about my Mamy.
But that’s how it goes when you make your life far from your family, whether it’s in another country entirely or just across the country. There’s a magic in the distance and in the special quality of the time that I have with my grandmother, but there’s also the painful separation implicit in that distance.
I can’t go home and hold my grandmother’s hand, so instead I painted her.
Gwenn Seemel
Bou-ter-flaille
2010
acrylic on wood
4 x 4 inches
(detail below)
My grandmother has never spoken English, but, at one point, she did know one word: butterfly. She had seen it in a book that I had left behind after a visit when I was very small. The next time we came, she greeted us with the word: bou-ter-flaille. I loved the way she said it, and I loved that papillon was the word she chose to learn in English.
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CATÉGORIES: - Philosophy - Process images -
(9) Comments / Commentaires: Butterfly
(((hugs))) for you and your grandmother for this difficult time.
I saw the progression of your painting as very symbolic in the way you had her start in the dark and then illuminated her face and soul with the final image. This is how she wants to be remembered.
The trials of these moments allow us time to see the beauty of life, the times we have spent together, our own traits that we miss or have misplaced. Your writing is beautiful and the art of your grandmother (which I can’t believe is on just a small 4x4” piece of wood!)evokes your own feelings about her.
Oh, my. What a beautiful piece—both the writing and the painting. You and your mother share your grandmother’s eyes and nose!
Was your choice of bleu, blanc et rouge as the first few colors an intentional one? I love the progression of colors and the way you caught her warm expression. It is clear that you painted her with so much love! This is a wonderful tribute to your grandmother, thank you for sharing it!
Thinking of you and your family in this difficult time. ♥
Thank you for all your nice comments. My Maman—my mom—appreciates them too!
This is so moving, and love the way the painting evolved while the story evolved . . . touching! Sending love and hugs to both of you.
You moved me to tears this morning. My grandmother is going through something similar at 90 years old- she lives in Southern California and has Alzheimer’s as well. She has not yet met my son and my grandma was like a second mother to me as a child so it’s very painful to think that she may not even know who I am by the time I have the funds to make a trip down to introduce them- or worse yet that I will not make it in time.
I really feel I understand (on so many levels)all that you have explored here. Having family so far away is bittersweet. When you see each other there seems to be none of the irritated conflict of folks you see too much because they’re too close. No boundaries crossed because everyone is polite when they miss you and there is a layer of our dark humanity that sort gets stripped away in the appreciation for the precious few moments you have together. That distance and longing quickly crystallizes what’s important and petty grievances move to the wayside. This makes the distance a thing of beauty- but in the moments of need, struggle and impending loss the distance can be unbearable. The longing too great.
I am always at odds with these facts. I wish to be present, forgiving and patient with all those I love and who love me but there are times when, with family who live in the same city, I dream of running far away so that we can appreciate each other more- so I don’t have to fight with their ill-fitting misconceptions of me and who I “really” am. But with those that live far away I am always longing to be closer, to spend more time and feeling as if I am wasting precious moments of our lives apart.
This, I suppose, is the condition of being human and part of a family. It is the nature of love. A push/pull between independence and dependence. Between rejection and acceptance- living for yourself and sharing your life with others. And though painful, I would have it no other way.
Life and love are messy, like eating a ripened peach. The sweetest juice can only run down your chin once you’ve taken a bite and no matter how the succulent the flesh there is always the hard inedible pit and the stickiness it leaves behind.
Thanks for always making me think. Love you. Ness
What a gift that you can express your love so vividly both in words and in paint. Sending a hug!
I can really see the family resemblance from your grandmere to Annie to you—wonderful to see it there.
Maman...
Merci, Minouche
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