An artist’s life

It was a good photoshoot. We hid the torn denim shorts that I thought were cool. Francesca, like so many women, preferred to keep her thighs under wraps. I believe that I nailed her vanity, her insecurity and her strength. This friendship was uniquely ours. Not to be repeated or understood. We came from very different backgrounds. Me, the wild Aussie girl. She, the American lost in France. We painted our world with ambition. Shared artistic passion was our glue. It didn’t make sense when Francesca wrote from her hospital bed. It didn’t make sense when she died. I only knew her full of life.

4 thoughts on “An artist’s life

  1. Sunshine Jansen

    How very fortunate you were to know her and to succeed in preserving at least a part of her spirit. I find myself returning increasingly often to Albert Camus’s philosophy, where to be enlightened is to know that there is NO sense to life or death; we persevere and make our art as an act of revolt against this senselessness, to impart our own strokes of human meaning, to connect, however fleetingly. It can be cold comfort but it’s truth.

    Liked by 1 person

    • Thank you for your kind and thoughtful words, Sunshine. I walked in the forest the day I heard the news of Francesca’s death. The growth, change and decay made sense where the city could not, reminding me of the life cycle we are intrinsically and inevitably rooted in. And yet, Albert Camus’s philosophy touches the heart in the same way, if from another perspective. Thanks for connecting xx.

      Liked by 1 person

  2. Thank you for sharing these links

    Liked by 1 person

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