Dolorès

When a grandmother passes away, everyone imagines the loss of a sweet and sugary universe made of Sunday afternoon cakes. No one envisions flames from a blowtorch and the impact of a chisel on stones, the noise and fury, Smaug in the mountain, Encelande under Mount Etna, always ready to erupt and harm those who came too close.

Loving those who, at the very least, want to be idolized is difficult, an artist, in a way. She referred to herself as a sculptor, not a sculptress, as she believed that gendering would diminish the prestige of the title. Moreover, she wasn't very gendered herself, with her false butch airs, passion for sports cars, and her unconventional friendships that fueled gossip behind her back. In her museum-like dwelling, dark as a cabinet of curiosities, the weekly visit might have given me a taste for a certain gothic atmosphere.

She traversed Europe from war to war without realizing that it would make for excellent stories to tell at Christmas between cheese and dessert. Even if the atmosphere was somewhat disrupted by deportees and decapitations, making the red fruit ice cream log a bit bitter, the resistance continued even though there were no more enemies to fight; one does not choose their ghosts.

Mystical, she liked to repeat that she had only two loves, God and Art; leaving little for her fellow beings. Art will remain here to haunt the living, church visitors, or observant strollers. As for her, for a seasoned traveler, a destination is always at best a mere legend.