My cosmos is everchanging, and I hate it.
I think that’s why I’ve always loved her, a constant glistening presence in my life, my great-grandmother, Kaliroi.
Mum painted her when she was 18. She referenced Picasso as inspiration for her work, but all I see are her broad brushstrokes and affinity for bright colours: oranges, blues and reds. She is one of only three paintings to have survived Mum’s short but passionate endeavour to become an artist. That is why, for most of my life, she graced the dining room wall. She watched over us all every time we ate as a family – and we ate together every day.
I’ve been gazing at her in awe from a young age. I realised now that she manifested in my psyche like a religious idol would.
As a little girl, I asked Mum if she could be my guardian angel.
“She always has been,” Mum said, and I smiled. This confirmation brought me joy. It was like Mum gave me permission to love her as much as I already did and the knowledge that she loved me too.
My adoration didn’t just derive from her portrait but also from the stories I discovered at family gatherings, which depicted her strength of character and images of her village life. The stories aligned perfectly with her life-sized rendering – tactile, a history grounded in reality.
In the painting, she carries sticks, returning home after foraging in the woods by her house to start a fire and persevering through such laborious tasks. However, her rough hands and muscly legs consolidate her strength. She was fit for such jobs, even in her old age.
Her life was monochromatic, but her reincarnation was iridescent.
That’s why I visited her home at 8 years old when the opportunity came. Some memories are vague, and others are so visually and emotionally vivid. I remembered the heat and the stone-clad path we took to her house. I remembered my disappointment; the house had been left abandoned and was now debilitated ruins; the village square was eerily quiet, and the only sounds came from the trees and a distant stream. Ironically, the cemetery was the only part of the village with a semblance of human touch. Humble flowers were placed upon each grave though there was no one but me and my family in the vicinity. All I wanted to do was leave. I didn’t come to see a lifeless village but to find a trace of the life my great-grandmother once lived. My sadness deepened when I stumbled upon a grave of a distant relative who shared my exact name. I never thought the tradition of passing down family names would lead to such an instance. As I stared at my name on the tombstone, I began to cry.
That was the day I truly began to understand death and the finality of it. Maybe I now unconsciously relate the passing of time and the changes that come with it to death. Maybe that’s why I hate change.
Even so, my perception of her changed that day, and so did Mum’s.
Currently, she is hidden behind a bookshelf. Mum no longer wanted to look at her. For Mum, my best guess is that she recites the trauma of our family’s poverty. Now that I’m older, I see that in her too and can emphasize.
Though I don’t know if I’ll ever wish to have met her, I’m still filled with strength and love whenever I think of her.
Hence, my cosmos is everchanging but always grounded in her image.
Victoria Hronas was born in South Melbourne, Victoria. She was raised by an immigrant family
originating from The Peloponnese, Greece. She is a student at The University of Melbourne studying
a Bachelor of Arts, majoring in Art History. She primarily studies Renaissance Art but also delves into
Ancient History. Observing art and how humans interact with it is her main intrigue. She believed the
new volume of COSMOS, brought the opportunity to reflect inwards. More specifically, her own
relationship with art and the cosmos.