“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose/ By any other name would smell as sweet.” Shakespeare’s Juliet was right, neither her love nor the season of flowers depend on a name, but oh my goodness these last days of May is extraordinarily sweet. I invite you to scroll through this post and linger over each botanical image. You will be elevated. You might even be inclined to find your own blooming spring beyond your doorway.
I think I have been pretty open about how much fun I have when I paint. The process is just joy to me, and I do hope to keep it so for as long as possible. But there is the matter of what to do with the large collection of paintings one acquires, in a relatively short amount of time I might add. Once you have filled your every vacant wall space, available nooks and crannies, space in closets and attics and barns, and given your friends and family canvases they may not have asked for, you are still in trouble because paintings are piled too high. And this is not only a problem for the novice painter such as myself; why I even read Mary Cassatt had 300 of her own paintings in her possession when she died. She was not alone: Vincent van Gogh had “over 850 paintings and almost 1,300 works on paper” in his possession when he died. We all ask: what to do with it all?
Irony interests and excites every AP English Literature teacher I know. The defying of expectation in character or plot, the twists of deception, the nuance of regret, the way shadows fall against the backdrop of romance, each singular thread pulled to create the tapestry within a novel, play or poem is what we feed upon from August to May, what we present to those hopeful students who plod through Dostoevsky and gasp over Miller, who acknowledge the majesty of Woolf and Ellison alike irregardless of their divergent settings. This week I ushered my students, those brave souls willing to sit for three hours of an exam to sift through metaphor and imagery and opposition and unlock both literal and emotional meaning and then craft their own response to texts. It is a lot to ask of anyone. I tell them I love them as I leave them under their proctor’s watch, and in that moment, I am so proud of their resolve to crack open this test and shine onward, for they are readers, now a rarity residing in our republic.
Nine Cent Girl 