In my vorige blog het ek gedeel hoekom ek skilder. Vandag wil ek deel met wie. Vir ’n lang tyd het ek geglo kuns is iets wat mens alleen doen — net jy, jou kwas en jou gedagtes. Hierdie seisoen van my lewe het my sagkens anders geleer: dit wat jy saam met mense beleef, bly dieper in jou hart as dit wat jy alleen regkry.
Hoekom “met wie”? Omdat verhoudings in seisoene beweeg. Party mense stap ’n lang pad saam met jou. Ander is net vir ’n rukkie deel van jou storie. Ek is soms huiwerig om oor vriendskappe te skryf, want dit kan so vinnig verander. Mense kom en gaan. Lewe skuif. Seisoene draai. En tog laat sommige mense merke op jou siel. Hierdie vroue is daardie soort storie.
In 2022 het ek my ma begin “verloor” aan ’n breinsiekte. My lewe saam met haar was altyd vol lag — die soort lag wat ’n vertrek vul. Rodien het nie net met haar mond gelag nie; sy het met haar oë en met haar siel gelag. Jy moes ’n bietjie versigtig langs haar staan, want haar hand het jou dikwels raakgeslaan soos sy lag.
Mama Rodien en haar aansteeklike lag
Maar buiten haar lag, het my ma ’n buitengewone oog vir die mooi gehad. Sy was ’n fotograaf in haar hart — altyd besig om die klein, maklik-misgekykte besonderhede raak te sien: lig op ’n muur, veldblomme langs die pad, die stille poësie van die gewone. Sy kon deur Engeland se platteland stap en terugkom met foto’s van oomblikke waarby meeste mense net sou verbyloop. In die Cotswolds het sy amper in ’n dam beland omdat sy so gefokus was op die perfekte refleksie. Ons het jare lank daaroor gelag. Haar lag is die ding wat ek die meeste mis. En haar manier om die mooi in die gewone raak te sien.
Ná hierdie seisoen van verlies het iets onverwags gebeur. Ek het hierdie groep vroue in George ontmoet.
Aanvanklik was daar ’n stilte. En toe… nie meer nie. Dit het nie lank geneem voordat die ruimte begin klink het soos My Big Fat Greek Wedding nie — nie omdat iemand Grieks is nie, maar oor die volume, die energie, die sterk menings en die baie liefde. Dis die tipe plek waar almal gelyk praat, iemand halfpad deur ’n sin onderbreek word, en iemand onvermydelik met ’n kwas beduie soos met ’n mikrofoon — soms met verf wat op plekke beland waar dit nooit bedoel was nie.
Daar is stories van honde wat in damme beland in fancy estates. Daar is dramatiese hervertellings van heel gewone gebeure. Daar is grappies wat eers vyf minute later regtig “land”. En daar is altyd lag — hard, ongefilterd, aansteeklik.
Onlangs het ons saam ’n fotosessie gedoen. Nie om glam te wees nie. Nie om perfek te wees nie. Maar om die lewe te vier — hard, speels, sonder verskonings. Daar was pose wat in lag verander het.Lag wat in nóg meer lag verander het. Op ’n stadium dink ek die fotograaf het harder gelag as ons.
Daardie foto’s het iets eg vasgevang:vroue wat kies vir vreugde, vroue wat kies om gesien te word, vroue wat kies om hierdie brose, kosbare, mooi ding genaamd die lewe te geniet.
Hulle verryk my lewe op maniere wat ek nie verwag het nie. Tussen hulle verloor onsekerheid sy houvas. Die lewe word nie so ernstig opgeneem nie. Ek word herinner dat nie alles perfek hoef te wees om betekenisvol te wees nie.
Hulle moedig my aan deur seisoene wat hulle self al deurgeloop het.Hulle herinner my dat wat op 33 oorweldigend voel, met tyd ligter word.Hulle dra perspektief. Hulle dra stories van oorlewing, verlies, vreugde en veerkragtigheid — en hulle deel dit vrylik.
En op ’n manier glo ek hierdie vriendskap is wedersyds verrykend. Daar is iets besonders lekker aan die samewerking tussen 30’s- en 50’s-energie.Ons ontmoet mekaar in die “fun zone”. Hulle bring wysheid, perspektief en toestemming om asem te haal. Ek bring energie, nuuskierigheid en dalk ’n bietjie chaos. En iewers tussenin ontmoet ons mekaar as gelykes.
Ouderdom is in hierdie kring net ’n nommer.
In ’n seisoen waar my ma nie meer my ma kon wees nie, het hierdie vroue opgedaag — nie om haar te vervang nie, maar om die ruimte wat sy met lag en lig gevul het, op hul eie unieke maniere weer te vul. Die een lag hard. Die ander lag sag. Nog een lag met haar oë. Saam herinner hulle my dat vreugde nie verdwyn nie — dit verander net van vorm.
Die kunswêreld kan soms eensaam voel — asof jy alles alleen moet dra. Hierdie groep het my anders geleer. Die las voel ligter wanneer dit gedeel word. Genesing gebeur nie altyd in stilte nie. Soms gebeur dit in lawaai, in onderbreekte stories, in lag wat jou verras.
Ek skryf oor hulle omdat ek hoop jy sal saam met ons lag wanneer jy na hierdie foto’s kyk — oomblikke waar niemand probeer perfek wees nie, waar niemand probeer “reg” wees nie, waar ons net mense is wat die lewe saam geniet.
Die lewe is kort. En die lewe is ’n voorreg.
English Version
How women in their 50s became my inner circle — and the laughter I didn’t know I was missing
In my previous blog, I shared why I paint. Today, I want to share with whom. For a long time, I believed art was something you did alone — just you, your brush, and your thoughts. This season of my life has gently taught me otherwise: what you experience with people settles deeper in your heart than what you achieve on your own.
Why “with whom”? Because relationships move in seasons. Some people walk a long road with you. Others are only part of your story for a while. I’m sometimes hesitant to write about friendships because they can change so quickly. People come and go. Life shifts. Seasons turn. And yet, some people leave marks on your soul. These women are that kind of story.
In 2022, I began “losing” my mother to a brain illness. My life with her had always been full of laughter — the kind of laughter that fills a room. Rodien didn’t just laugh with her mouth; she laughed with her eyes and her soul. You had to stand a little carefully next to her, because her hand would often land on your arm when she laughed.
But beyond her laughter, my mom had an extraordinary eye for beauty. She was a photographer at heart — always noticing the small, overlooked details: light on a wall, wildflowers on the side of a road, the quiet poetry of ordinary life. She could walk through the English countryside and return with photos of moments most people would walk straight past. In the Cotswolds, she once nearly fell into a pond because she was so focused on capturing the perfect reflection. We laughed about it for years.
Her laughter is the thing I miss most.
And her way of seeing beauty in the ordinary.
After that season of loss began, something unexpected happened.
I met this group of women in George.
At first, there was a quietness. And then… not so much. It didn’t take long before the room began to sound like My Big Fat Greek Wedding — not because anyone is Greek, but because of the volume, the energy, the strong opinions, and the deep affection. It’s the kind of space where everyone speaks at once, someone gets interrupted mid-sentence, and someone inevitably gestures with a paintbrush like it’s a microphone — sometimes with paint landing in places it was never meant to land.
There are stories of dogs falling into ponds in fancy estates.
There are dramatic retellings of very ordinary events.
There are jokes that only land properly five minutes later.
And there is always laughter — loud, unfiltered, contagious laughter.
Recently, we did a photoshoot together.
Not to be glamorous.
Not to be perfect.
But to celebrate life — loudly, playfully, unapologetically.
There was posing that turned into laughing.
Laughing that turned into more laughing.
At one point, I think the photographer was laughing harder than we were.
Those photos captured something real: women choosing joy, women choosing to be seen.
women choosing to enjoy this fleeting, fragile, beautiful thing called life.
They enrich my life in ways I didn’t expect. Around them, insecurity loosens its grip. Life isn’t taken quite so seriously. I’m reminded that not everything needs to be perfect to be meaningful.
They encourage me through seasons they’ve already walked through.
They remind me that what feels overwhelming at 33 often becomes lighter with time.
They carry perspective. They carry stories of survival, loss, joy, resilience — and they share them freely.
And in a way, I believe this friendship is mutually beneficial.
There’s something joyful about the collaboration between 30s and 50s energy.
We meet in the fun zone.
They bring wisdom, perspective, and permission to breathe.
I bring energy, curiosity, and maybe a bit of chaos.
And somewhere in between, we meet as equals.
Age, in this circle, is just a number.
In a season when my mother could no longer be my mother, these women showed up — not to replace her, but to fill the space she once filled with laughter and light, each in their own unique way. One laughs loudly. One laughs quietly. One laughs with her eyes. Together, they remind me that joy doesn’t disappear — it changes shape.
The art world can feel lonely at times — as though you’re meant to carry everything on your own. This group has taught me otherwise. The load feels lighter when it’s shared. Healing doesn’t always happen in silence. Sometimes it happens in noise, in interrupted stories, in laughter that surprises you.
I write about them because I hope you’ll laugh with us when you look at these photos — moments where no one is trying to be perfect, where no one is trying to “get it right,” where we are simply people enjoying life together.
Comments