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Bertha was born in 1914 into the kind of poverty that leaves marks. She didn't make anything look effortless because nothing was. Every penny was recorded. Every scrap was saved. Every skill she passed down, the sewing, the knitting, the tea, the garden, the sweep of a broom after a meal, was survival knowledge dressed up as domesticity.
She wasn't warm. But she showed up. And every now and then, she'd ask you to sit down and play cribbage.
She never let me win.
This painting is for her. For the women who kept meticulous notes and asked for nothing. For the ones who gave you everything useful and called it ordinary. And taught you, without ever saying so, that you have to earn it.
6"x6"
Mixed media
Framed and ready to hang
Bertha was born in 1914 into the kind of poverty that leaves marks. She didn't make anything look effortless because nothing was. Every penny was recorded. Every scrap was saved. Every skill she passed down, the sewing, the knitting, the tea, the garden, the sweep of a broom after a meal, was survival knowledge dressed up as domesticity.
She wasn't warm. But she showed up. And every now and then, she'd ask you to sit down and play cribbage.
She never let me win.
This painting is for her. For the women who kept meticulous notes and asked for nothing. For the ones who gave you everything useful and called it ordinary. And taught you, without ever saying so, that you have to earn it.
6"x6"
Mixed media
Framed and ready to hang
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