dear rose,

behind a simple wooden door, it was your studio which revealed it to me.

layers over layers over layers everywhere: the floor all layered newspaper, the walls layered color, the brushes, the way of layering oil, merely impossible, but you found a way, your way, the collages, the layers of canvases, layering writing within your painting, even the layers of your lawn, trampelling it down not cuttting: this is your layered lawn life. your children, your husband, your work, your days, layers of life. sleeping one of them, maybe, resting, maybe, but all there all the time.

it is not a sleeping beauty tale, awaken finally, or a young art because of a late start – because it has all been there, all the time. it cannot be about young or old. even a layer at the very bottom, not visible, but still there, maybe more the place, what you see through your window and you let time pass. it is not about this one moment at all, because there have been plenty.

a sum? or whole? life.

dear rose, getting to know you means a lot to me. you taught me a lot. thank you.