Check out the very famous portrait by James Whistler which he painted in his London flat (1879) where he’d recently bustled his Irish model-mistress out to make room for the impending visit from his pious, prim mamma bear, Mrs Whistler.
A bit of a rebel, James had been kicked out of school for his appalling grades then fired from his job in the war office and had gallivanted off to Europe where he incorrectly assumed he’d completely cut the apron strings and could live a Bohemian existence with all the hedonistic benefits.
He was wrong.
A bit of a rebel, James had been kicked out of school for his appalling grades then fired from his job in the war office and had gallivanted off to Europe where he incorrectly assumed he’d completely cut the apron strings and could live a Bohemian existence with all the hedonistic benefits.
He was wrong.
Like all fretting, concerned mothers, Mrs Whistler hunted her son down, sailed across the Atlantic and stymied his hedonistic life style by her very presence alone.
What was going on in her head as she sat posing for those long hours I wonder?
You know, Mrs Whistler and I have a bit in common as she too gave birth to four sons and a daughter.
What was going on in her head as she sat posing for those long hours I wonder?
You know, Mrs Whistler and I have a bit in common as she too gave birth to four sons and a daughter.
That mildly sour expression on her face is one I’ve spotted many times as I’ve glimpsed my strained reflection in the shiny, Smart Phone screen when about to call one of my five pleasure-seeking mavericks.
Sitting tensely, staring at a blank wall/window with my fists, jaw and thighs clenched tightly enough to crack a walnut whilst waiting for one of the renegades to arrive home is exactly how I appear on any given weekend.
This weekend was a particularly Whistlery weekend as seventeen year old daughter Lulu, decided to go on a road trip 400 kilometres north of here with her girlfriend.
“But you’re both still on red P plates!” I beseeched. “You’ve only been driving for a couple of months!”
“We’re going mother,” she pouted defiantly.
“You won’t be able to book accommodation anywhere because you’re both under eighteen!” I cautioned passionately.
“Already booked a very nice hotel thanks,” Lulu smirked.
“What if you break down in the middle of nowhere?” I needled, tears running down my cheeks.
“Roadside assistance,” she flipped back confidently.
Then there was the threat of a cyclone hanging ominously off the coastline. What if they couldn’t get back because of floodwaters… or worse still, attempted to drive back in the rain?
I rang my parents hoping they’d have some guiding words of wisdom for me.
“We wouldn’t have been able to stop you from doing that at seventeen, Pinky,” offered my father unhelpfully.
So I sat like cranky Mrs Whistler for the greater part of this weekend waiting for the promised hourly texts which never materialised and visualising every possible tragic scenario befalling my only daughter in my mentally twisted head.
The girls are back now, safe and sound. But next time I might do what the canny Mrs Whistler did and drive up myself and check in to the room next door to them.
Sitting tensely, staring at a blank wall/window with my fists, jaw and thighs clenched tightly enough to crack a walnut whilst waiting for one of the renegades to arrive home is exactly how I appear on any given weekend.
This weekend was a particularly Whistlery weekend as seventeen year old daughter Lulu, decided to go on a road trip 400 kilometres north of here with her girlfriend.
“But you’re both still on red P plates!” I beseeched. “You’ve only been driving for a couple of months!”
“We’re going mother,” she pouted defiantly.
“You won’t be able to book accommodation anywhere because you’re both under eighteen!” I cautioned passionately.
“Already booked a very nice hotel thanks,” Lulu smirked.
“What if you break down in the middle of nowhere?” I needled, tears running down my cheeks.
“Roadside assistance,” she flipped back confidently.
Then there was the threat of a cyclone hanging ominously off the coastline. What if they couldn’t get back because of floodwaters… or worse still, attempted to drive back in the rain?
I rang my parents hoping they’d have some guiding words of wisdom for me.
“We wouldn’t have been able to stop you from doing that at seventeen, Pinky,” offered my father unhelpfully.
So I sat like cranky Mrs Whistler for the greater part of this weekend waiting for the promised hourly texts which never materialised and visualising every possible tragic scenario befalling my only daughter in my mentally twisted head.
The girls are back now, safe and sound. But next time I might do what the canny Mrs Whistler did and drive up myself and check in to the room next door to them.
That’d spoil their bloody weekend wouldn't it now?
Thanks to Scotto for the excellent Photoshopping!
