12.12.21 | Sylvia Trotter Ewens

The Banana Trees Stand Vigil in Your Resting Place
12.12.21

The series I am currently working on is drawing from the texts I wrote that oscillated between direct descriptions of my experience of caregiving and grief and symbolic associations to a garden that my mother and I build in my mental space. The garden in my texts act as a place where my mother and I meet, a symbolic reference to the past or imagined future and the emotions that these memories bring as I delve into this experience. The paintings are a visualization of those texts as I continue to grapple with loss, while paying homage to her and our time together. The portrayal of loss will be working with a dulled versus vibrant palette as she and I bring back the garden to full light and colour. Her touch in reviving this mental sanctuary will be expressed in her own mark-making that I will mimic from her colouring books she was fascinated by before she passed.

Full Text

Waiting for You to Shine Brighter, 2023
36'' x 48'' inch,
Oil on canvas

Text:

1 week ago, 1 month ago, 2 months ago— you were alive.

I count them less frequently now. I searched for you in our garden, but you are not here today. The plants are growing wild and crowded. They shove, they writhe, they warp and reach. They are reaching for me and glare at me in exasperation when I think of you, but it was you I gave for. Spontaneously, I give them water and then I retreat. Your gaze enlivened me. Without their sun, these leaves reach towards this lesser light, waiting for it to be brighter.

I Still See You in Them, 2023
36" x 48" Inch,
Oil on canvas

Text:

You are as thin as these vines all bundled together. They grew mold that was choking them. We were so focused on our fruit trees that we didn’t see it get so bad until it was too late. In a way, you knew it was there and that it was happening quickly. You just didn’t want me to look. You wanted us to appreciate the vines while they still appeared healthy. We tried to prune the damage off to slow the decay with the hope it would recover, but we had to cut it down.

So high, this pile became. These thin twigs are too heavy for me to carry when all bundled together. They are too tangled for me to make them lighter, and I dare not try. I collapse with them and cradle them. Some of their precious leaves that I held so dear are still green and healthy. I still see you in them, I cry for help.

I Cling to Remember, 2023, 
Oil on canvas,
12” x 9” x .78” inch

Text:

The flowers are glaring at you accusingly. They shift, creak and reach for me. They try to block you from my view. They connive for me to forget you. There are rooms in this garden being built without my instruction. Do they want to erase you?

I cling to remember.

I cling to remember how you looked alive. I watch my two videos of you and hungrily take in every word. I remember the lines by heart now, every eye crinkle, smile and mutter, but sometimes I feel like I’m forgetting what it was like when you were alive.

I Search for a Way to Give Your New Form Movement Again, 2023,
16" x 12" inch,
Oil on wood

Text:

If these fish accept you, will that give you life?

I search for a way to give your new form movement again, to understand you are not really gone, just different.

Winter Freezes Frostbites over Your Branches, 2023,
Oil on canvas,
9” x 12” x .78” inch

Text:

It is growing cold.

Winter freezes frostbites over your branches, but I hold on.

That hand is only warmer from my own.

I have nothing left to give.

Walls Are Forming in This Garden, 2023,  Oil on canvas,  24” x 36” x 1.5” inch

Text:

There are rooms in this garden being built without my instruction. Do they want to erase you?

My mind rebels against me. Why won’t it listen to me? I bang these walls repeatedly yelling for what is outside to stop rummaging and reordering our carefully laid out garden. Your work will not be made into weeds for plucking or left to wilt in the crevices we forgot about. When I am let out, I search for you in these weeds. If I must, I will nurture what has already become weeds. Luckily weeds are hardy, and I hear dandelions and clovers are edible all the same.
I sometimes share my worries for the future, for my retirement and care. Aging is not kind. Those who are a lot older than me scoff at my concern. They tell me I am so young and that there is no need to worry about something that won’t reach me yet, but I will never take my youth for granted again.

The Banana Trees Stand Vigil in Your Resting Place, 2023
60" x 36" inch,
Oil on canvas

Text:

Today, we buried you, another step made in a longer journey until you are put fully to rest. You weighed a rock in my arms. You carried light, but the longer I held on to you, the heavier you became. So heavy you were, that my arms began to tremble. I rocked you and walked around to distract myself from the pain. Just as before, I would not let you go until the time came and stood steady as you needed me to be. It’s cold in the garden today. Our new well has been filling. I plant you in it as your sister cries next to me. She came to visit our garden. Grains of sand fall past my fingers. Will this finality bring me comfort? The banana trees stand vigil in your resting place, and I with them, our family with us. I hope one day you will grow alive and I promise, I will be there to see it.

The Banana Trees Stand Vigil in Your Resting Place 12.12.21

The Banana Trees Stand Vigil in Your Resting Place
12.12.21