Art: Openings by Linda Chapman
LOOK AT THE WATER
Two men had broken in through the kitchen window. That’s what my mother said. Her blue eyes were red by the time we arrived. My sister tried to calm her. I called the police. One officer, moustached and dark, took notes while the other, blonde and pink, asked my mother questions.
She said two men with masks had come in through the window. They had sat with her at the kitchen table. They would not respond when she asked them what they wanted. She had offered them water, and pointed to the wet stain on the wall to show where one of the men had flung his glass. She said the glass didn’t shatter. “But look at the water,” she said. “Look at it.”
The officers were kind enough, but after a quick inspection of the window, they doubted the incident had taken place.
“Talk to her after we leave,” said the blonde officer, his blue eyes unblinking. “And take her to a doctor. My mother—”
“His mother has dementia,” said the other officer.
I thanked them and saw them out. My mother had been having issues—her memory shot, her pronouns all over the place. She had expressed some ideas about my sister being an impostor.
When my sister finally calmed her down and we sat for bite to eat, I decided to question my mother about what she had seen or thought she had seen.
“Ma, they came in through the kitchen window? But the window wasn’t even open. How could they get in without at least opening it?”
My mother stared at me hard. How dare I doubt her story? She’d always been fiercely independent, and, well, just fierce. In the past that look could turn into a stiff backhand. I had to tread softly.
“Now, Ma, is there any way you really didn’t see these men? You know you haven’t been feeling right. You said you’ve been confused.”
“I wasn’t confused,” she said with tight lips. “Those bastards came in and one of them tossed a glass of water against the wall. I thought they were going to hurt me.”
“But who were they, Ma? And why would they want to hurt you?”
Her lips trembled and tears erupted from her eyes. It pained me to see her in such distress. I didn’t know what to do for her. My helplessness angered me. My sister told me to let it go for now. She’d already made an appointment with the family doctor, who knew of my mother’s recent issues, but had not yet diagnosed dementia. Up until that day, except for a few blips, she’d been managing fine on her own.
“Fuck,” I told my sister, “she totally believes two dudes came in through the window. I mean, look at her.”
My sister nodded. “I know.”
We spent the afternoon trying to console my mother. She feared the two masked men would return to finish the job. She kept looking at the window, or going to the front door and checking through the peephole to see if anyone stood there.
“Try talking to her again,” my sister suggested.
“Don’t know if it’ll do any good.”
I sat across from my mother at the kitchen table. My sister had made espresso. My mother loved her afternoon espresso with a little biscotto.
“Ma,” I said. “So tell me again, did these men say anything to you?”
“I know what you’re thinking.” She grabbed my hands in hers and squeezed. “But I saw them. They were here. They were sitting right here and they wouldn’t say anything. They had these masks—I don’t know. They were horrible, horrible.”
She started weeping again and I stroked her neck until she stopped.
“You don’t believe me,” she said, her shoulders jerking. “You don’t believe me and the police don’t believe me.”
I sought help from my sister, who stood back at a loss, fighting off her own tears.
“What do you want me to do, Ma?” I said, feeling her anguish but also feeling outraged that this—whatever it was—could happen to my mother.
She leaned over the table and looked into my eyes. “I want you to find them, son,” she said. “I want you to find them and tell them to never come back here. You have to do this for me. Promise me you’ll do this.”
“I promise, Ma,” I said, clenching my fists. “I promise I’ll find these guys and talk to them.”
I went to the closet, took out my jacket, and put it on. Then I put on my shoes and grabbed my car keys from the key-bowl in the hall.
“Where are you going?” my sister asked, alarmed.
“To find those bastards,” I said.
In the artist’s words:
Linda Chapman.
I am an abstract photographic artist living in London .After graduating in art photography, I pursued a successful career as a commercial photographer, working in fine art, theatre and music. In between working, I enjoyed exhibiting my personal work, including exhibitions around the UK and abroad.
About 5 years ago I decided to work full time on my art.
My artworks are a visual representation of how my mind often naturally interprets things I see or hear, into complex stories, full of colour and abstract hidden detail. Although I use a digital camera, I use only the natural elements, light, reflections and refraction at its most colourful and playful, without manipulation. The results are reflected layers, abstracted from everyday life.
I have a great interest in architecture and the city and how to view the mundane in a new light. I believe that my artworks have an ability to change how an area can feel and how you see it, uncovering extraordinary views not often seen from day to day. Glass is such a beautiful material. Urban windows offer such fascinating frames, showing a representation, giving away so much but never quite telling the whole truth. What is inside? What is outside?
I love to suggest to viewers that we all take a moment longer and abandon our sense of urban reality and question what your eyes and mind can really see.
