Whistler’s Mother, Arrangement in Grey and Black No. 1

by Bob Bradshaw

Image source: Wikimedia Commons

Who would have thought
a simple woman
from Paterson
would live out her life
in the Musée
d’Orsay?
At first
the painting
outraged the critics.
It was as if their own sister
had been painted
in a brothel.
My boy must
have positioned me that way
to avoid gazing
all day at my stern face
is what some wag chirped.
Truth is,
I asked to face off
towards a window
just out of view.
I turned
my good ear
and my best side
toward Jemie.
Who wants to stare
at the back of a canvas
day after day?
But I would have done it
if Jemie had asked.
My heart basked
in his presence,
glad at my age
to still help.

Why
did the critics
show such disdain?
Had I insulted them
without knowing it?
Or maybe
this palette
touched them in ways
they couldn't
admit to,
embittered that unlike
my colorful Jemie
with his art
they would always
be dull sons
and husbands,
their lives arrangements
in grey and black.
Let them complain
like an overheated
tea kettle, offended,
steaming.
I’ll gaze out the window
at other impressionist works
at the Musée
d’Orsay,
a former
railway station
where the great
disembark
with art
the heart
celebrates,
like this symphony
by my first son,
Jemie.