THIS LAND
My mother once purchased two paintings from an artist peddling her work in the hair salon. The way the woman glided around the women waiting to get their hair fried, dyed, and laid to the side fascinated me. She sold Mom the folk-style pieces and disappeared from our lives.
My mother was newly divorced with two children, and probably couldn’t afford the paintings. Perhaps the woman was just a good salesperson. Or maybe my mother appreciated the art of the ask, something she never quite managed to execute herself. An artist with some classical training, Mom painted pastoral scenes on repurposed coffee cans. Painfully shy, she would often cut the price or give
