Leslie Went Dutch

The story of a painting.

I sold a print of my “Leslie Went Dutch” today and it made me want to share its meaning.

Art is personal and every one of my paintings has a story. Magical flowers that channel joy, color, and a little bit of wonder are often about much more.

My client Leslie originally contacted me because she wanted one of my huge flower paintings for her newly renovated apartment. I went through my portfolio over and over with her before she finally fell in love with my “Going Dutch” painting. There was only one small problem: the piece didn’t have a single sunflower and those were her favorite. Something we had in common = a love of sunflowers. So, I added sunflowers and “Leslie Went Dutch” was born.

Leslie was really fun. I liked her ... alot. She was one of those rare people you meet and immediately feel as though you have known them much longer than you have. She was a client who became a friend.

Leslie and I both had a leaning towards flamboyance. Her wardrobe was as colorful as mine and we shared a love of flowers, feathers, faux fur, and Broadway. The first night I visited her home, she tried to give me a hot pink faux fur coat that she could no longer wear. It was the kind of coat that not just anyone could (or even dare) wear. Her daughters had not been interested in the least. Basically, only Bette Midler, Diana Ross, Leslie, and I were likely candidates. I loved it, but the one thing we didn’t have in common was scale. Leslie was a petite flower and I am more of a sequoia.

After her new masterpiece was installed, Leslie kept having me come back to the apartment to look at things. There was always something to consider. A pillow. A color. A little adjustment. I remember helping her think through the perfect turquoise pillow. She wasn’t quite sure about the shade, and naturally, neither of us was going to let the wrong pillow into her home after we had worked so hard on getting the right painting for her new space.

I knew Leslie had been living with lung cancer for quite some time (years) when I first met her. She didn’t talk about it much. If I hadn’t known, I would have never guessed she was sick. She was always upbeat and full of energy. At my every visit, she was beautifully dressed and groomed as though she might be heading out at any moment to catch a Broadway show.

The last time I saw her, she seemed more tired than usual and a little short of breath. I noticed it, but I didn’t think it was as serious as it must have been. Leslie looked like her usual self and nothing about that visit felt like a goodbye. It never occurred to me that this would be our last meeting.

Looking back now, I sometimes wonder if she kept asking me to come over because she was trying to tell me that she was dying. Maybe talking about the turquoise pillow was easier. Maybe it was comforting to have someone there that she didn’t know that well to talk about fun things that belonged to the life she was still very much living to the very last minute.

Leslie passed away shortly after that visit. It was a shock. I had known she was sick, but she was just so full of life that it was hard to believe. I enjoyed her company so much. I loved her exuberance, her eye, her style, and her humor. Most of all, I loved that she was unmistakably herself.