She is a beauty. This antique treasure is 92 years old. I’m not talking about the pastel drawing which is under 24 hours old. I’m referring to the woman in the pastel: Toby.
Cultures that care for their elderly are civilized cultures. Elders are the repositories of wisdom, experience and memories. Their past is our history. No online website can provide the flavor to the facts – only the elders can stir those ingredients together.
I’ve decided on pastels as my medium of choice. I’ve been toying with oils, acrylics and watercolors. Pastels are where I draw and paint at the same time. Toby is proof my best work is pastels.
Sallow skin tone holds warm greens. In the sunlight, Toby’s face is a pale peach color. She was inside where the radiant sunlight didn’t even light up the white orchid plant bought for her Mother’s Day gift. I used pure white only on her hair.
Prismacolor Nupastels are the easiest set to travel with. It’s easy to pull out in the rehab center. Clean-up is only for my fingers. I tend to be neat when working with pastels. They’re too easily crushed if I’m not careful with them.
Toby is not my mother. I’m not related to her at all. However, she is my Mother. Is this a mystical paradox? It is and isn’t! I don’t have a system of reincarnation nor am I so mystical that I can sight soul transference. Upon first view of her, my soul knew without a doubt she is mine. She is mine to kiss her dandelion hair wisps. She is mine to read Psalms and Bible Stories to. She is mine to sit next to at her family gatherings: I stand guard to make sure her bread has the right amount of mustard schmear.
When she lets me, I give her massages. I’m not a masseuse: I’m a lover. I’m her lover. Touching only the parts of her 92 year old body that provides circulation, not sex, she knows my touch is Love.