Oh no I’m hopeless with visual things, she said
And I remember thinking what a strange and sad thing that was to say.
Hopeless, with visual things.
Someone must have said something to her to make a notion like this stick.
I thought of my mum. someone said to my mother once when she was very young that she couldn’t hold a tune. So she never sang or whistled in her life. I can’t sing, she’d say.
Wasn’t til a lot later after she was gone that I recognized that for the preposterous notion it was. Can’t sing.
I can usually see a way to understand terrible things; Satanic worship, decaffeinated coffee, cosmetic surgery, but Renoir’s portrait of Madame de Bonnières? No. It cannot be understood or forgiven. And framed in gold plastic and spot-lit from above? No offence intended, Charlotte, there is not a chamber of hell hot enough for a woman of your taste.