Entry 19: The Magic of Art

AccidentalPerfectionistBlog

I first witnessed Art when I was 8 years old.  I came upon a black and white photo print, taken by my dad, in a paper folder under my parent’s bed.  The moment I saw the photograph of my grandmother, I felt myself gasp, and I tried to breathe in every detail.  

My grandmother’s face is not visible, but I am certain it is her.  Her hands are framed by the sewing machine, as she pushes fabric through.  A light reveals the creases of her weathered, yet loving hands.  I can almost hear the machine chugging as the stitches pierce the fabric rhythmically.  

My grandmother came alive to me in this 2-dimensional image, even though she had passed away when I was a toddler.  My heart ached with a new reverence for my dad- it had not occurred to me that my idol had an idol of his own.

I imagined my dad at 12 years old, gripping his black and silver Minolta camera, one with no automated capability for zoom or focus.  With the viewfinder raised to his eye, he quietly approaches his mother while she is sewing.  She asks him, Khokha ki korchish thui?  [Little boy, what are you doing?].  He doesn’t answer her, instead he steps closer until he is within one foot of the sewing machine.  She is pushing the last of the fabric through the machine, and he waits, without breathing, for the moment that her hands are fully exposed.  He clicks the shutter, just as she stands up and scolds him lovingly for being a silly boy.

He doesn’t know at that moment, that he captured the shot, or that it will leave an enduring mark on his daughter, more than 60 years later.

That is the Magic of Art.

Entry 13: Family

AccidentalPerfectionistBlog

Our family is sweet, except when we’re not.  

Sometimes the arguments are spicy and hot.

Other times one of us becomes subdued

And you could say, he is in a sour mood.  

 

When the boys use salty words, we are stern.

But over time, I want them to learn

That strong words can be our choice

They give vibrance and tang to our voice.

 

A bitter attitude —  mine, not theirs,

Will spoil and pollute the air.

I regret leaving behind a bad taste

Ultimately, I feel shame and disgrace.

 

But our palates are designed for complex blends,

We are resilient – we can make amends.

In the end, whether we are happy or blue

The range of flavors are universal and true

 

I want them to relish everything and be free

Because in essence, that allows me to be me.