Oil on canvas – 10,63 x 18,11 inch – Unique work

No, as far as I’m concerned, this word doesn’t remind me of a flower but rather a name.

How long has it been? Probably over twenty long years, in other words a lifetime. I close my eyes and I still remember that woman’s face, her shining smile, her overflowing joie de vivre, her four children whom she raised with a beating voice. And if I concentrate enough, I hear his voice.

I met her a couple of times a year at her sister and brother-in-law’s house for her nieces birthday, their communion also. Oh, I almost forgot her thunderous laughter. They would bring back anyone to life. I can fully guarantee my speech. I waited eagerly for her dramatic entrance, her husband, as her shadows, anxious, in front of this brilliant woman.

She could sew, sing, play the piano. Each party took on a festive air. She also loved literature, sharp on many subjects. She was, no in fact she is a woman …

What has become of her? I haven’t got a clue. And what if she had become a happy grandmother, a young active retiree, an involved person in her neighborhood. Or, an exile in a tiny piece of land of Scotland, which I love, to spend quiet days far from the Paris crowd and the family torments of a clan.

Looking at the flower, and its spectral guardian angel watching over it, I like to think that my Daisy has the same protection. May the sun warm her cold days, may the rain save her pretty hazel eyes, or green? I don’t really remember. It’s crazy how memory plays tricks. May happiness enters her daily life, just enough to make the worries of life bearable.

I’m certainly boring you with this so personal story. Memories that come back, an embellished tale, as often when it appeals to memory. The latter necessarily plays tricks. A slight tendency to select the best moments, to ignore tensions, to magnify a soul, to …

But what is it about exactly? I really enjoyed painting this daisy that once lived in my garden in the center of France and I found myself wandering, telling a story.