Another sunny day! Woohoo! And I don't even have to work. I had a haircut appointment this morning but when I got there I saw a note on the door saying that she's in the hospital and may be out for weeks. Yikes. I hope she's okay and, selfishly, back cutting hair soon. My hair's so short that it's immediately obvious if I get a bad cut.
Nice, Jennifer. You are an artist or at the very least an artisan. People bought your cards at that craft show, didn't they? You got a job from it? See, a real artist.
October 27--James Abbott McNeill Whistler, Arrangement in Grey and Black No. 1. For over forty years he's been telling everyone that he is an artist. Why can't he get a normal job like other women's sons? He could be a lawyer or an architect, even a shopkeeper selling dry goods, anything would be better than an artist. He needs to earn his living. I'm getting old, too old to still be cooking meals and doing laundry for a grown man. I had the parson over for supper last week to see if he would have any luck talking sense into Jamie but the man was useless. The two of them ended up sitting far into the night talking about Art while I cleaned up after the meal and went to bed. Parson Samuels must have stayed well into the wee hours because the parlor candles had burned down into the holder. Now I sit here in the most uncomfortable chair in the house with my feet on the footrest, beside the window in Jamie's studio. He says he's not even going to put my name on it or identify me in any way. After all I've sacrificed for him too. That's gratitude.
Now you know why Whistler's mother looks so peeved in the painting.
--Barbara
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