How My Mother Protected Us from My Father and Found Solace in Art
My mother described the Rembrandt paintings as her friends. I'd never heard anyone talk about art that way, instilling it with something like a personhood of its own.
Aristotle with a Bust of Homer by Rembrandt (Rembrandt van Rijn), Dutch, 1652”
No. I don’t want you to go.
why was she so quiet, what did my dad do now?
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Morisot’s paintings of women up close lined the walls, a pastel perspective at vanity tables and in gardens. My breath rushed in: beautiful.
Yet, my same racial mutability also poses a threat: “How can you identify a ‘them’ if it can pass for an ‘us’?”