![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqSGx1A3BuZKjHPaX74mOT-wZ1JoI1BaqjIP1QkPptvUskQzUaDreWr7vtI94LherCCl8n7YR7ciG6HG_8B5tYDvelm4IFk-fbcQRw44vM8YTy_qj_vp2Ue_IfrRKDUA__fAGCD79vV1E/s320/08_1220_0001.jpg)
These days, I am amused at the accolades on Mother's Day that often include the passing down of make-up tips and the special shopping trips for new clothes.
These were not the gifts Florence gave my sister or me. And although I inherited her love of lipstick, it's what is not found in a tube or a store that reminds me of my mother. It is, instead, a ferocious, unending, tenacious, gut wrenching, miserable exhaustion, banging-head-against-wall, exhilarating 'til-death-do-us-part relationship with the work of an artist.
Personally, there are days I would have been just fine with a new dress or some blue eyeshadow.