Whistler's Mother

In 1871 a painter named James Abbott McNeil Whistler painted a portrait of his mother. I’ve studied this painting at length, looking for similarities between the subject and myself.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with the work of art to which I refer, I shall attempt to describe this important piece of art history. It is essentially an oil on canvas painting of an older woman, viewed from the side, sitting in a chair and staring straight ahead. It is done in shades of gray and black. The woman, is wearing a lace Mennonite-style hat and a black dress.

You are wondering just why it is I’m attempting to liken myself to this famous portrait, aren’t you? Well, I’ll tell you. I am ‘whistler’s’ mother. No, I’m not Mrs. Whistler I suppose but I am the mother of a new whistler.

Four-year-old Chase has learned to whistle. Isn’t that just the sweetest thing? No. It most assuredly is not sweet in the slightest. It’s like being in the house with beginner violin player who is devoted to constant practice.

My days now have a constant undercurrent of whistle. He has not learned to whistle in the ‘just pucker up and blow’ style. He has mastered the irksome whistle through your teeth technique. No great wolf whistles or even little ditty’s to enjoy with this whistler. Instead, we are enduring the ‘is something leaking air?’ whistle.

50 times a day I stop stock-still and cock my head to the side like a dog who may have heard a sound that interests him. I strain to hear just where the ‘leaking air’ sound is coming from. Each time I trace the sound to the short boy. He is always found idly watching television or playing with his toys; completely unaware of his air seepage.

I know that James Abbot McNeil Whistler’s painting of his mother is entitled “Whistler’s Mother” because she is in fact, his mother, but I think there is more happening in this painting than James was willing to admit.

Mrs. Whistler doesn’t exactly appear happy in this painting. She looks a bit peeved, in fact. If you look closely you can tell that she’s very obviously gritting her teeth. Her gray hair is barely concealing the piece of cotton stuffed into her ear. Her hands are clenched into fists around her delicate lace hankie. I’m willing to bet her toes were curled up inside her shoes as well. It’s clear that young James had learned to whistle.

This poor woman must have agreed to sit for her dear son to paint her portrait and as soon as she sat down, he began absent-mindedly whistling. She tried to pay his whistling no mind. She tried to direct her thoughts to her lovely flower garden and her menu for that evening’s meal. She tried in vain to say her ABC’s backwards in an effort to ignore the irritating sound. She failed.

As she sat, the shrill sound permeated her thoughts and scratched down her spine like fingernails on a blackboard. Her right eye began to twitch. She cleared her throat several times in an effort to distract James and cease his whistling. No luck. James whistled on.

What this lovely and important painting does not show is the face contorted in frustration and fury that finally erupted from this serene woman. When she could take it no more, she turned to her son and between clenched teeth snapped, “STOP THAT WHISTLING THIS MINUTE”. Of course, young James who was completely unaware that he had been whistling at all, stared at her agog. Finally, with an exaggerated eye roll, he resumes his painting…and inane whistling.

In reality, the actual name of this painting was ‘A Whistler’s Mother’ but over the years, the ‘A’ was dropped. When Mrs. Whistler passed away, James changed the name to simply ‘Whistler’s Mother’ in an effort to keep his whistling habit hidden.

It occurs to me that there is much that is not always known about the art we enjoy. But a mother knows.

Copyright 2004 Jill Jacks-Tate