Mrs. Lapost

Nel is a painter. She proudly shows me her small room, second down the hall on the 4th floor, unofficially known as the behavioral ward. Paintings line the wall on the floor around the room. A few rest on the shelf above her tv. Most are framed. One, a beach scene, sits behind a golden frame leaning against it. She is surprised when she pulls the frame toward herself and the two separate. Oh! I must have forgotten to frame that one. But the frame is too small. I'll have to find another one. An easel stands in the middle of the room, a blank canvas and oil paints rest neatly on the frame.

I can't hang them up, I don't want to put holes in the wall.

I openly admire them, impressed with her obvious skill. They resemble the style of the Dutch golden era. Winter scenes and stormy seas. But the portraits she is most proud of. They are exact replicas of pictures of her loved ones.

This is my father. He was a bit of a cheeky sort of guy, don't you think? 

She portrayed his smile perfectly, the twinkle in his eye hints at mischief. She points at a photograph of a younger woman surrounded by three teenage boys.

This is my daughter. With her children. All boys. Yes, they are good looking, eh?

Nel tells me about her workshop, where she had space to paint and think. She used to make portraits for friends and clients. All she needed was a picture. She would change the colors of their clothes and the background, but the faces were the same. People loved the portraits she produced.

My daughter hasn't visited in a while. She must be busy. See, this is her in this picture. I nod and smile. And this man, that's my father. And here he is with my mother; they were so young back then. But you can see he was a cheeky man. And this one is my husband. He died some time ago. We used to have so much fun together. This painting is from a beach we visited in Norway. It was beautiful! She touches the frame. Oh! I need to frame this one yet...but this frame is too small. I'll have to get a bigger one. And here, she points to the picture of the woman with the three boys, that's me when I was younger. I don't know who those boys are... they look nice. 

Nel hasn't painted in a while. She can't remember the last time she painted. She looks at the easel, as for the first time. She picks up the box of oils and wonders aloud where they came from. Perhaps she'll try painting later today. But she must be inspired, she says, and she hasn't been inspired for a long time.