a knowledge of flowers

A couple of weeks back, I took a walk in Aullwood Gardens, this time with my mother.  We talked, pointed out particular specimens, wandered away from each other, wandered back.

My mother has a wonderful knowledge of flowers, of their species and varieties.  She loves their natural beauty, and I suspect, the way they refuse to be controlled.  In some ways, I am a better gardener, because I actually look up directions on how to care for particular flowers, and then follow them.

Mom, however, gets results that I never will, simply by breaking all the rules.
She puts shade plants in bright sun, and subjects sun-loving plants to gloomy spots.  She hates weeding so much that she would rather use weed killer right next to a prized plant rather than dig up a dandelion.  She lets plants duke it out for root space.  She prunes viciously, or not at all.  she doesn't create plant groupings with any symmetry, or even any organization. Nevertheless, her garden has a wild sort of beauty.  It makes no sense to me, much like my mother.

As we meandered through the garden, I found myself, trying to take a decent picture of my mother.  I'd try, look at the digital negative, decide it didn't work, take a pretty picture of a flower to console myself, then try again.

I've never taken a picture of mom that I'm really happy with, though I believe that the picture is there, if I can figure out how to take it.

There is a painting in the Philadelphia Museum of Art of Renior's wife, Aline.  Looking at Mom reminds me of it.
I admit, I'm not a huge fan of Renior.  His vibrant colors frequently fade into masses of pastels.  His paintings are almost too cheerful, or sappy.  However, when I look at this painting of his wife, I understand why his colors are so chipper, and that there is a depth in his happiness.

Aline modeled for her husband for years before and after their marriage.  In her youth, Aline was a buxom, cheerful brunette, with graceful lines.  She's a model in many of Renior's paintings from the 1880's onwards, and is clearly the physical inspiration for figures in his later works.

In this painting though, Aline is fat, greying, wrinkled, weathered. Her years of bouyant, buxom perfection are behind her. These are not the important details of the painting.  The important thing is how she is gazing straight out, and laughing with such joy.
The whole of her happy adult life is in the painting.  It's in the clear, vibrant french sun that's shining down on her.  It's in her sloppy, workaday clothes.  Most importantly it's in her husband's brush strokes, as he notes the damage that time has done, and clearly loves her even more for it.  It's as if he wouldn't have her any other way, because it's their life together that has put the pounds on her rolling hips and the wrinkles around her eyes.

Mom is so much like that.  Her life has caused her to look the way she does, and it's a life I'm very grateful for.
However, I am no Renior, and therefore it's been virtually impossible for me to take a really good portrait of my mother.  Instead, I have a handful of almost-portraits, and some good pictures of flowers.