Mira Benson
Artist Statement
For my project, I chose a painting from my late grandmother, Heidi. The painting itself centers on a simple wicker chair with cushions and a yellow-ish blanket on the arm. The chair –much like many of my memories of my Nana– is a fading memory. In the poems herself and the chair end up converging, creating a sense of discomfort that soothes, and solace that oppresses. In tying the features of the chair to those of my grandmother in her last few years of life, I am aiming to identify (particularly for myself) the dueling realities of grief: the push from the discomfort, but the pull of love; the pain of slowly losing someone, but the sadness when they're gone.
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In describing the chair and her, their features converge, creating a disorienting sense of discomfort that soothes, and a solace that oppresses. In trying the features of the chair to those of my grandmother, I am aiming to clarify (particularly for myself) the dueling realities of grief: the push from discomfort, but the pull of love; the pain of slowly losing someone, but the sadness when they're gone.
Recollections in Conflict: A Diptych of a Memory
Chair with a Blanket
the chair is wooden, with its back of
wicker
the bent twigs poke as you lean
every part of the chair creaks
a whine that sounds like
it'll break
its cushions are the colour of creme,
rough fabric, like a canvas
fabric rough on my skin
I wonder if it would be better just to
stand?
blanket of wool thrown on the arm.
it itches my skin, the smell
that musk, sharp scent of
fresh oatmeal cookies, and
moth balls
It was warm.
wicker, wood, cushion, wool
is this the chair?
Is it as rickety as
i satisfy myself to remember?
regardless
i'll stay in it
just for now.
Nana in my Arms
her arms are thin, its just her skin
her bones
i feel them on my ribs, we embrace
bone on bone
a touch that makes my
body retract
her skin was the color of creme,
skin soft, like a baby
soft skin on hard bones
I wonder if it would be better just to
let go?
beautiful curly strands on her head.
it itches my cheek, the smell
that perfume, soft scent of
oil paints, and
nivea lotion
She was warm.
skin, bones, strands, smell
is this her body?
Is it as uncomfortable as
i satisfy myself to remember?
maybe,
i'll let go
but not now.
© 2026 Mira Benson
Heidi Baring, Untitled, n.d., All Rights Reserved