Margaret Lough

I always thought I knew this drawing. It’s different from my mother’s other pieces - most feel like a memory, true to life. This feels like a dream. Three girls on swings, hair flying, laughter echoing. I love everything my mother draws, but when I was little, this one looked like magic.

When I hung it up in my apartment a few months ago, I saw it in a new light. Suddenly the room took on a harsher focus, the walls more solid, more compact. The girls. The acrobat in the background. Were they just a little too much like us these lasting months? Were they staying inside, hidden from the world outside those walls? Were they making the best of it, too? (Although, it looks like a pretty nice ballroom, so maybe not too tough).

Then I unpacked a second picture - a photograph of my sister and me. We were visiting a Christmas tree farm in Northern California. The morning rain had cleared but the paths between the trees were muddy, and when we found the giant swings perched on the edge of a hillside, the seats were muddy, too. Still, we couldn’t resist. We stood on the too-large seats and pushed away from the earth. For a moment, the ground disappeared, and it was just the two of us, flying out into a clouded sky. I can almost hear us laughing.

The two pictures hang next to each other now, so close to where I’m writing. When I look at them, I think about how art can change, and still feel timeless. How we can see things through the lenses of past and present at the same moment. How memories can become dreams, too.

Mostly, I see my mother’s magic brought to life.