The women I paint have experienced something. In my purview, each has most often done so with quiet resolve. A strength reflected in the set of her jaw, the tilt of her head, the stillness of her silhouette. Her memory of memory seldom more than a veiled reference lending credence, nevertheless and always. These are women I have known in some guise or another. Women whose denials fall short, throttled by fear and perception. Women whose stature or piercing gaze is steadfast. Women I have been.
That is one truth.
Another, for surely there are many, is that this infamous quiet resolve may be more myth than truth. More endurance than strength, more indifference than supernatural integrity. More like a nonsensical thing that women like me use to internalize conflict rather than confront it, head-on, fist and clap-back ready.
Still. I and all the women I paint have experienced something. Consequently, we are diligent in our efforts to ensure we are properly distanced and appropriately Separate From The Memory of whatever that something is.
Because women must do what women do.