(Rosa Bonheur, Rue des Tournelles, Paris 1836)
My easel billetedbetween stove and painting chest,Most mornings Papa teachesat an atelier for young ladies,later portrait sittings–a Portuguesefactory owner, Senhor Micas,begged, please paint his Nanettewho won’t live to be thirteen.
In one corner in a stanchion, the ewelittle ‘Dodore carries upsix flights each day, thenoff to the schoolthat expelled me.My only other visitor a dullmonochromatic sky frowning throughthe open window.
From street noise I conjurepiano chords, the Mozart Mere playedwith toy-sized hands. She pauses, fingersmy landscape’s foreground as I paintgrass that sings her lullabies;each blade, a brief upward stroketo heaven where you are, Maman.
Today’s instructions:Far left, a cresting rivulet; center left, threeLacaune with lambs;on the right, old oaks shadeso here grass a huedarker than the Prussian sky.Each mouton’s white locks spiral backin time, the feel of fleece, Maman’s hair.Each ewe’s eyes contented bya memory that does not fade: Youwho were also Papa’s drawing student.
Sky palette. Green palette. Brushes washedat day’s end with the tendernessyou used bathing baby Juju.Painting grass soothes me;bellies of resting sheep warmthe ground where you were buriedin a potter’s field unmarked; your fleshindistinguishable as a strand of wind .Today I lay you to rest here, Mere,so that your remains nourishmy sheepscape, a place on earth to bringbouquets of everlasting and bluebellsthe color of your sighs.
This day’s canvas–remunerationfor your sons’ school fees–finished, signedas directed, bottom right:RB, Raymond Bonheur.
***
Oil-on-canvas painting by French artist Rosa Bonheur (1822–1899)
