Art is a lie that makes us realize truth.
~ Pablo Picasso
I guess that’s basically what I strive for with my fiction: to write lies in such a way the reader realizes some truths.
I loathe liars, but this kind of lying is a pretty good gig.
Just finished a two-hour Skype session with Zebu. Haven’t talked much in the last couple weeks, so he was getting us caught up on his studies and travels. He and two friends just got back this morning from a trip to Oslo. Their favorite experience was at a sculpture park, Vigelandsparken.
He shared photos he’d taken, and this is one of the sculptures he’d especially liked. I found this image online, and posting it here helps me feel even more connected to my faraway son.
His travel is broadening all our horizons.
Am back from Florida trip.
Was at mother’s along with three siblings and one nephew.
We had many nice moments including laughter and teamwork
as we sorted through years of stuff.
But we also experienced some nastiness and angst.
At some point during the weekend
my sister’s husband came upon this painting at MOMA,
FAMILY PICTURE by Max Beckmann,
and forwarded it to my sister.
He said it reminded him of us:
It’s true that the painting has the exact number of family members.
But the trouble is,
my siblings and I all laid claim
to the one member leaning on a hand.
Staring into the flames.