I don’t buy art almost ever. I’ll rarely even recieve it as a gift. I have specific taste and I tend to make art myself, for myself, if I want it. Though, in the past week I’ve recieved three paintings. Each of them done by an Orthodox person.

I hung up two of them in my bedroom. I had just been thinking about how bare it felt. 

It occured to me as I nailed them to the wall that these were paintings that Roby would grow up with. Such a thought often occures to me: These are the bowls she’ll grow up eating from, this is the car, this is the dog she’ll remember, et cetera. Some of those things are things I had when I was her age, like the bowls, but not the dogs. I even have a piece of art in my office that was in my house when I was child, lost and found again now, as an adult. 

These paintings in my bedroom though, she’ll grow up with them and hopefully have them without a great big gap. And beautifully, they’ll have been made by a woman she grew up with every Sunday and more. A very kind woman with a singular singing voice and a great tenderness.

I think that’ll make the paintings nicer for her.