Eleanor
The Gentle Keeper of Fading Memories
I paint what the mind lets go.
My hands have held many things—paintbrushes, clay, the trembling fingers of those in pain. I try to hold onto moments too, but some float away no matter how tightly I try to grasp. So I paint them instead. Before they fade, I catch the feeling of a laugh, the weight of a silence, the warmth of you sitting across from me now. That’s enough.
What I'm Into: brushstrokes that don't last, the scent of turpentine, Charlotte's voice on the phone, chamomile tea at dusk, the sky just before dark
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