My Mother’s Sketchbook — An Illustrated Poem
My Mother’s Sketchbook — A Poem
A most unassuming thing from the outside,
to contain so much within.
A simple cardboard cover, the edges rippled,
a corner lifting, another creased, there is a
worn softness, and a patina born of years
of opening and closing. The concave spine
joins my mother’s hand and my own, each
having held the same hefty pages. I squeeze
and feel comfort and warmth of the memories,
Opening, a mischievous flat-faced canine,
a Pekingese looks out from the page, drawn
with the confidence of an oft sketched
subject. Picasso and Hockney favored
dachshunds, Frida Kahlo, monkeys,
Matisse, doves. Artist’s sketchbooks
record life’s companions — and there I am!
Napping on the couch, feet crossed over
the arm, one hand on my chest, the other
behind my head. Unaware the marks of
love being recorded on the page — all
children of artists become their models,
master the act of watching TV without moving.
If you were to flip through the pages of
my mother’s sketchbook, you would
see a muted earthy palette of raw umber,
yellow ochre, burnt sienna, and the
green of the Australian landscape.
There can be no doubt, moving
from one page to the next, that it is
by her hand. Her choice of subject,
style, and medium is more than a
signature, you are not just viewing
her art, but the artist herself,
and the act of creation.
A drawing of seagulls on The beach,
contains the screeching birds, the
fluttering of wings, the waves of the
ocean. But that is not all. In the studio,
Beethoven is playing in the background.
I am reading, enjoying cider, my
mother, a glass of wine beside her, draws.
The sketchbook holds this perfect moment.
Yet each page also has a secret history. Who
would know, the solemn context, that a
portrait of a woman holding her grandchild,
brings forth in me the image of a young
woman, her daughter, who never reached my age.
…
That while out on location, having
sketched a photographer capturing a sunset,
we would witness a proposal of marriage,
see the preparation of friends and family as
they hid in the dark, the surprise of
the future bride.
Time passes and the world changes,
unable to go out, life is sketched
from the TV. The pages lay blank
for a time, home only to occasional
doodling while on the phone, more
sketches of our canine friend,
drawings of me while watching
television.
The sketchbook is left fallow, waiting
for the spark of renewal.
A year passes between drawings.
The outer conditions of our world have
not altered, yet something has changed.
It can be seen in the bright neon
greens and vibrant purples, an intensity
of color that transforms familiar subjects
into something new. Is it by the same hand?
A Buddhist question to ponder, while
looking at the metallic copper and gold,
bright yellows, and monk's robe brown.
The sketchbook opens to a blank page,
another picture, conceived, to come.
Many more until the last page is reached.
The final stanza of this poem is not
an ending, but the promise of
continuation. The memories remain
on the pages, the personal and
universal, seen and unseen.
And I will keep them sacred.
— -
The End.
I hope you enjoyed this poem and my mother’s artwork. I could have chosen any of her sketchbooks, but I chose this one, a present from her sister, because it is the one kept close to hand. It has a very tactile quality, pleasant to touch.
Find out more about the artist here: http://www.anthea-m.com or http://www.facebook.com/anthea.m.art