Photo by Johnny McClung on Unsplash
I was a prime age for enjoying the circus the year that my mother gifted to me a book of Pablo Picasso’s paintings. The content was a long way from my usual canon of easily digested Nancy Drew mysteries. Playfulness associated with the circus was missing in scenes of pensive acrobats, jesters, and dancers who held big secrets. Cubism’s strange angles and splintered faces presented a puzzle. This book was mammoth in my small hands, and I wondered why Mom hadn’t chosen another whodunit by Carolyn Keene. In fact, she had presented a far more compelling mystery.
My mother picked Picasso as her ally in an effort to expose me to perspectives and characters beyond our suburban cul-de-sac. Her inquisitive energy circled beyond the victor’s flag that my father staked. In youth, he played the King of the Hill game with classmates, protecting his position at the top of the hill and fending off challengers to gain a sense of autonomy and power. As an adult, he actualized the game by purchasing land that safely anchored him to a valley in Arkansas’ Boston Mountains. I demonstrated a fierce tendency to abide in place as well, and my mother welcomed the challenge of luring me beyond the precipice of the familiar.
For my Halloween costume that year, she sewed a jacket with patches, a floppy hat, and a bindle, or blanket stick. “What are you?” asked my baffled sister. “A hobo,” I answered with a shrug. Floating in a pink princess costume, I had claimed a castle as my home the previous year. But I slung the bindle over my shoulder and pretended to hop trains while skipping over manicured lawns. Standing in bright porch light, I noticed an altar in the home of a Hindu couple who had come to the United States from Bombay. I knew them only in passing and would not learn about their beliefs and traditions for the many years that I lived in the neighborhood.
Before long, my mother’s friend and local high school teacher Marti DeWeese began visiting every Saturday with travel posters and French vocabulary flashcards. Joined by my sister and several friends, I sat on the living room floor, eating chocolate macrons and learning about a different culture. We made up a progressive circle, and Madam DeWeese was now another of my mother’s allies. A larger shift occurred when I entered high school, and Mom was making frequent phone calls to Madam DeWeese, who by that time was my classroom teacher. I overheard conversations about an American Institute for Foreign Study trip to Paris, Versailles, and Mont Saint-Michel. Soon, I stood in line at the post office beside my mother and applied for a passport, the protagonist in a story with an unknown ending. Leaving for the airport, I wore a pair of Guess jeans, the brand name alluding to uncertainty and confusion about my parents’ expectations.
Exploring the City of Light was like seeing a painting for the first time and awakening to new perspectives. The traveler is in flux, both merging with what is discovered and searching for points of understanding. Inevitably, Picasso joined me on the journey. At the Picasso Museum in Paris, I studied his Portrait of Dora Maar, finding her a bewitching subject rendered in bold colors. Just as the artist played with perspective, I was seeing differently, and giddy exclamation marks danced across my journal page. With each outing, awe and curiosity burgeoned along with confidence in my capacity to learn and to trust others.
After the trip, Mom and Dad welcomed me home with my souvenir gifts of French perfume. My father was palpably moved when I shared stories, and I saw the barriers break in his grey eyes. Perhaps he was ready to venture off his place on the hill’s summit. To date, my mother has visited 96 countries, and her experiences and photographs inspire and inform her children and grandkids. In 2017, we made a family trip to Spain and spent an afternoon at the Museo Picasso in Barcelona. A reunion of sorts took place as my mother walked by my side, examining the artist’s work.
Winding through exhibits, I recalled the book that had been wrapped in austere white paper. A present in wrap patterned with balloons would predictably contain a toy or game, soon to be forgotten. The treasured Picasso book told me that I could venture out and ask questions and explore the complex, sending a message that I was strong and bright. I turned to my mother and thanked her for opening a portal to art and travel and empowering my explorations. She smiled and then moved on to another gallery, beckoning me to see another painting.