Have you heard the Fresh Air interview with Sally Mann? She’s a photographer specializing in black and white photos of life in the South, her family, decaying human bodies (from a forensics lab), a series of photos of her husband’s withering body, and—what got her a lot of negative attention from the media—photos of her young children, naked. Her pictures are stunningly raw and intimate.

Terry Gross opened the interview with the controversy surrounding Mann’s photos of her naked children. Terry painted a word picture of several of the photos, including this one: a young, naked girl leans against a bed, one hand on her cocked hip, the other hand touching her chest. Another child is in the bed under the covers. Immediately, all my red flags went up. How was this not child pornography?

But Mann was neither ruffled nor defensive. She simply explained the situation: their family lived in the deep South with not another human for miles around. It was so hot that her children rarely bothered to wear clothes, and they pretty much lived in the river all day long. That particular day, the older daughter was sick in bed. The younger daughter, the picture of health, was standing beside her, defiantly flaunting her good fortune over her laid-out sister. That was it: two sisters—one healthy and one not—juxtaposed.

I find it disturbing that I (and everyone else, apparently) was so quick to sexualize the children. And I am both fascinated and dismayed by how far my perceptions were from the truth.

Art in context makes sense. The risky thing about art, though, is that it’s rarely in context. It’s one person’s experience put out to the world for interpretation. In a sense, we’re all artists, shaping our lives, editing its meaning, curating our existence, longing for appreciation. No matter how carefully we craft ourselves, we are received differently, depending on the person.

That’s what I got out of Terry’s interview with Sally Mann: to approach people as I would art. To appreciate art—to appreciate each other—I need interest, open-mindedness, a few questions, and the time to listen, the only agenda being to hear what the other person wants to say.

It’s so simple, really. Remembering to do it is the hard part.

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (5.26.14), questions and carrots, we love you, Wayne, and de butchery.

This same time, years previous: Shirley’s sugar cookies, the basics, more on trash, rosa de jamaica tea, down to the river to play, the reason why, savoring Saturday’s sun, through my daughter’s eyes, deviating from my norm, chocolate-kissed chili, strawberry shortcake with milk on top, ranch dressing, Aunt Valerie’s blueberry bars, and asparagus, goat cheese, and lemon pasta.       

A couple days ago, my daughter and I found ourselves at home alone for the evening. My husband was working late hours, my older son was at choir rehearsal, my younger daughter was on an out-of-state trip with the grandparents, and my younger son was with my husband. We had just gotten back from town where we had attended the boys’ informal choir concert. The air was thick with humidity and lightening flashed. A storm was brewing.

“How about ice cream cones for supper?” I asked.

Her answer was predictable. Cookies and cream for her, and chocolate peanut butter cup for me.

We took our cones to the deck where we could eat while keeping our eye on the storm. She sheepishly informed me that she had been wearing make-up all evening. “Really?” I said. I realized I didn’t care and said so. “As long as I can’t tell you’re wearing it, it’s okay with me.” And then—

Me: So, do you have a crush on anyone?

Her: Mom! If I did, I wouldn’t tell you!

Me: Okay. But if you were going to have a crush on someone, who would it be?

And so went our bantering. The girl has a knack for making me belly laugh. It’s one of the things I love about older children: when they are honest-to-goodness funny. It’s gratifying.

The thunder grumbled louder and the lightening jagged. We better go inside, I said. 

Claiming braces-induced chewing difficulties, she fed the tail end of her cone to the animals.

And then the rain started and in we went, supper over.

This same time, years previous: the trouble with Mother’s Day, the quotidian (5.21.12), and the boring blues.