About This Painting
There’s a woman in my old neighborhood who loves gardening and especially tending her roses. I commented that this one beautiful variety, with its brilliant yellow-orange center and deep magenta “blush,” was one of the most beautiful roses I’d ever seen.
She told me it is a “Chris Evert.”
“Like the tennis player?”
“Named after her,” I . I never knew about that kind of thing. And I never forgot this was a Chris Evert rose. This particular bush produced rose after rose of incredible shape and intense color.
For weeks at a time recently, however, I rarely saw the woman… working too many hours I surmised. Scurrying off early in the morning and not seen again until after dark. But the roses bloomed day after day into perfect blossoms, then fluffed and then dropped their petals in piles all around, and died. Day after day I walked by these perfect roses watching this sad cycle occur again and again.
One morning I saw this perfect bloom, and almost in anger that it would suffer a similar fate, I grabbed my clippers and walked straight out to the rose-bush and brazenly cut the blossom off and took it inside.
I never heard a word about it from the woman. Not a word.
The irony was that I had to end its life to enjoy it. Which was, in my opinion, much better than being neglected.
And I was able to extend its life by painting its portrait. ◙