Long before I was born, my maternal grandmother painted. At first, her canvases reflected realistic subjects, flower still lifes and portraits of her favorite movie stars. At some point, such literal lines dissolved, the colors becoming richer, the layers marking wild movement and chaotic emotions untethered to any particular form. As a child, I found them terrifying, feeling as if they might eat me as I would pass by the three or four hanging in the hallways of our home.
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