The Courier

My dear fabulous daughter,

Last week in the midst of preparing for this month’s exhibition of my latest series, Villages of the South of France, the doorbell rang. I was totally engrossed in completing one of the last paintings for the show, so it was with great reluctance that I tore myself away from my easel and headed for the front door. After a look through the peephole and seeing a courier holding a package from an art supply company, I opened the door. On the periphery of my over-burdened brain I fleetingly noted a startled look upon the courier’s face, his raised eyebrow as I signed the sheet upon his clipboard, and his surreptitious backwards glances as he hastily retreated towards his vehicle. However, in a nanosecond all thought of the courier was gone; I hurried back to the easel, and there I worked for a number of hours before taking a break for a cup of tea and a nibble of chocolate.

It was then, as I passed the hallway mirror, the look upon the courier’s face resurfaced from the “whatever” file in back of my brain and hurtled to the “Oh dear Lord!” file pressing in an alarming fashion at the front of said brain.

When I am working in the studio for numerous days or weeks on end under pressure to meet an impending deadline, it is my custom to awaken in the morning, hastily dress into paint clothes and head to the studio to examine the works I’ve laboured upon the previous evening. I often do a little correcting, colour mixing, and readjustment to my palette, then have a shower and a bite of breakfast before resuming work in the studio. This particular morning, as fate would have it, I was feeling rather stressed about the work still to be finished before Friday’s opening at a local gallery, so the breakfast and shower part of my daily ritual had been abandoned . As you and numerous other family members and friends are aware, my hair takes on a life of its own during the night or after wearing a hat, and each morning I am awarded with an amazing heretofore unimaginable “do”. (As you may recall, after a day of skiing, I once was awarded a pair of Vuarnet sunglasses for winning the Worst Hat Head Hairdo in All of Whistler Village Contest at an apres ski bar.) But the demented rooster comb hairdo I was sporting this studio day was the least of my cause for alarm ...

When one reaches a certain age one’s eyesight is not as keen as it was in bygone youthful days. As I have reached and am actually now well beyond that certain age, I am having some difficulty in obtaining multi-purpose glasses that will accommodate me when I am working at various distances from my canvas, so I have taken to wearing my usual progressive lens glasses together with one of my numerous pair of cheater reading glasses - upon this particular day, overtop my regular glasses, I was sporting a damaged pair of cheaters that held only one lens within it’s heavy manly frame - this works very well for me as far as my work goes, however aesthetically it leaves much to be desired. Also, in winter when the outside temperatures are cold and the inside temperatures are warm and dry, my lips chap easily - this may also be caused by the way I tend to stick my tongue out a bit when I’m concentrating very hard (thank you for that inheritted mannerism, Grandma Wilda). In order to be economical (thank you again Grandma Wilda) about my abundant use of lipstick in winter, I wear lipstick of unfortunate shades that I have misguidedly purchased in hopes of creating a ‘new look’. After a wear or two, when I realize the ‘new look’ I have created can be described as nothing other than garish, I relegate these tubes of lip colour to the “to be worn only on those days when housebound and no one is coming to visit” pile. This particular housebound day I was wearing a charming shade appropriately named Fire Engine.

Now, you may be imagining that the sight of me at the front door, unwashed, unkempt, and wearing an unfortunate shade of lipstick may well have raised the courier’s eyebrow, but “so what?” Ah, my dearling daughter, I have yet to complete the description of my appearance - I’ve saved the very best for last...

I had worn a newish bra that morning - one of those modern types with the molded cups that have a definite shape whether one is wearing it or not. I had not adjusted the straps properly, so the bra was annoyingly me by tugging upward and disturbing my concentration as I slavishly worked before my easel. In an effort to hastily relieve the pressure and so as to least disrupt my work, I unfastened the bra at the back and kept on painting. When the back clasp was released, the over stretched elastic shoulder straps were able to contract, causing the molded cups of the bra to leap upward toward my neck, I need not describe in detail to you what happens to one’s breasts when one reaches a certain age as you already know of the laws of gravity.

So now imagine me, hours after the courier had left, catching sight of my reflection in the mirror: the nasty hairdo; a boldly framed pair of one-eyed glasses stacked upon another pair, and me, head tilted down peering over both sets; the frightening shade of lipstick; and, last but by no measure least, four clearly defined breasts fighting for attention beneath my sweater.

I think I shall change courier companies and reconsider my opinion of Emily Carr in that hairnet.

Have a lovely day,

LOVE YOUR WONDERFUL MOTHER