The wild roses bloom abundantly in June, richly pink in shaded hollows, bleached almost-white in dusty ditches, swarmed with bees, heady with fragrance. By late summer, the petals have long since fluttered away and gnarled crimson rose hips are all that remain.
Grandma always says that rose hips are healthy, full of Vitamin C. She’d peel off the skin and pop it in her mouth, discarding the fuzzy inner seeds. “Or they’d make a good tea,” she’d remind me. Well, maybe, but I don’t think we ever bothered to make any. My Aunt Zola would have. She was a true artist, always trying out interesting ideas. She passed away in 2001 and we all miss her.
I think all of my paintings have some kind of familial connection. If musing on a wild rose hip can make memories of loved ones close and fresh, isn’t that wonderful, and a worthwhile reason to paint? I wish for everyone who buys my paintings to find a personal connection in my brushstrokes.