ANDREA ROLFES
my mother’s eyes
before my mother’s eyes started to decay before the macular degeneration had its way with them her life drawings were a delicate dance on the paper, as the years passed and her sight deteriorated her drawings became wilder, the figures inhabit the page
no. I’m not a writer, writing doesn’t come easily to me. here is a series of her drawings some are the ones when the disease had taken hold of her macular
to try and replicate/what her vision was like, i ‘attacked’ distorted the camera lens attempting to capture the world through her eyes
what did she see when she was looking at something?[1]my mother died in 2017 we still have her ashes we find it hard to let them go.
this is a something a small something a tribute to her sight
my mother’s eyes
slowly it crept in
like a fog rolling over the hill
blurring her vision
spreading
eating away at the macular
it stole her sight
a disease devastating to an artist
was she an artist?
was she a woman who drew?
her hand held
the pencil
never leaving the page
the figure appeared
as if draped
across
the paper
paper
blind. blinded
and still the drawing
life drawing
i see her hand flying over the page
scratching. pressing
guided by the knowledge of
years of drawing
life drawing
her the paper the model one.
seeing became different
drawing was different
everything was different
imagined
illusion
gesture
the center of your vision
grey
gone
no longer there
only the edges
always drawn
to the page
don’t know what else to do for joy
so i keep on drawing
even though i can’t see what i have made
the pencil to paper
the body just knows
where the figure lies.
hundreds of drawings.
piles of them.
paper filled with scratches
and pencil marks
making the figure in front of me
the affection for the page
the love of drawing
drawing figures
life drawing
drawing from life
live eyes
dead eyes
unseeing seeing eyes.
Pleasure
observation
seeing.
the art of seeing
macular
de-macular
my mother
my mother’s eyes
Song sung By Knee Deep In Custard with Hommybird
Salt Angel
By Knee Deep In Custard (English lyrics Abigail Meekel and Claire Meekel with Dutch lyrics Hommybird)
We rijden op een eenwieler
Hoe verder ik terug ga
Accepteer dit bestaan
Onder dezelfde sterren
Is het nu echt voorbij,
Of is het een omdraai?
(lach)
Ja, ja is goed
Oke, ik zal er zijn
Ik kom eraan
We ride on a unicycle
The further back I go
Accept this existence
Under the same stars
Is it really over now,
Or is it a turnaround?
(laugh)
Yes, yes that's good
Okay, I will be there
I'm on my way
I pretend to be fine until I sit alone in front of an empty block of concrete. There are so many rooms with unfulfilled thoughts, lost lives, and regret.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7…
More and more sticks and stones, dusty offices, and blank smiles waiting for the grand piano to fall on their heads.
I smile as a woman walks past with her dog. She notices my shoes and looks away. I’m wearing sandals in the coldest months. I wear them to stay awake; the cold keeps me standing upright.
Another reason could be to punish myself.
A train washes over my head and reminds me to move. I start packing boxes for the 100th time.
This glass will break, another drawing will rip, and a new dent in my couch will appear. Sitting at the edge of the couch, hoping for an interruption.
Praying for the salt angel—the one I used to see when I was running around my grandmother’s garden playing hide and seek. I found its feather on the dining room table and lost it.
I seek to find it.
Je mag best vertellen wat je dwars zit
(accepteer dit bestaan)
De straatverlichting springt aan
Ik duik weer de nacht in
Het hangt aan een zijde draadje
We kunnen niet klagen
Vang me als ik val,
Trap niet in de val
In deze tijd voelt het namelijk anders
Verder weg, maar toch dichtbij
In een handomdraai
M’n inkt is op
M’n inkt is op
Verdwaald in het licht van de straat
Ik heb nog veel te leren
You're allowed to say what's bothering you
(accept this existence)
The street lighting comes on
I dive back into the night
It hangs by a single thread
We can't complain
Catch me when I fall,
Don't fall into the trap
In these times it feels different
Further away, yet still close
In the blink of an eye
My ink has run out
My ink has run out
Lost in the light of the street
I still have so much to learn
Praying for the salt angel—the one I used to see when I was running around my grandmother’s garden playing hide and seek. I found its feather on the dining room table and lost it.
I seek to find it.
I think about my dead grandmother’s eyes. She could only see in blurs and colours; there were no lines. All the wrinkles were gone, the age disappeared. Textures and details were memories, but the light was still there. She could listen and remembered well. She always knew who I was even though I looked like the girl who could be mistaken for me.
“You don’t sound the same,” she said.
Realising I have my own laugh.
Now, I am afraid to laugh because I fear a bee will fly into my mouth. Swallowing my breath just to find out that I’m not the person you thought I was.
What should I delete next?
Crossing the street with a vague sense of purpose, picking up a brown envelope, turning left, going straight, shaking my head trying not to panic. I felt a ghost pat me on the back.
A second train washes over my head reminding me to leave. There are holes in the walls, sweet wrappers, and empty beer bottles, a rotting mop, and a lost sock where my bed used to be.
Nothing to grasp, can’t sit still.
I only sit still when my fingers move. I was 12 when I jammed one of them in the car door while fighting with my mother. I wanted liquorice, and she said no. I hated it when she said no because I felt like life was hard enough.
Now I say no.
Just tired. Tired of promising, I’ll probably break it in the end.
My hand was growing red, covered with bits of tissue from my mother’s car. She was full of tears and sorrys, flying down the broken streets, beating all the red lights just to get to the steel room where they’d glue back my finger to what it was 20 minutes earlier. I felt nothing other than the urge to eat liquorice. Almost lost a finger for the stuff—might as well love it.
I closed the door behind me for the 100th time, waiting for the train to take me to my new home just to start all over again.
In the end, you won’t hear from me, see me, or recognize me.
Just know that I undoubtedly accepted every pinching moment we had together.
Notes
| 1. | ↑ | my mother died in 2017 we still have her ashes we find it hard to let them go. this is a something a small something a tribute to her sight |