I've just finished reading three books-each wildly different in style, written across two decades, yet strangely connected. One was written 20

years ago, the others within the past two years, but all explored the same haunting theme: how one irrevocable act can ripple through lives, leaving a wake of harm, and how memories and perspectives shape our understanding of those moments.

It got me thinking.

Memories are never one thing. They're not photographs, frozen and unchanging. They're more like paintings-each one filtered through the artist's mood, their skill, their chosen colours. Imagine a single still life: a vase of flowers, a piece of fruit, a tipped-over wine glass. One artist paints it in soft, golden light, each detail glowing with warmth. Another paints it in stark black and white, emphasizing the shadows. A third exaggerates, making the fruit look almost grotesque, while a fourth reduces the whole scene to abstraction.

Now, imagine those paintings are memories.

No two will ever be the same, even if they capture the same moment. What you see is not what I see. What I recall is not what you recall. And here's the twist: these differences don't just reflect who we are-they shape how we make sense of the world.

Take those books I mentioned. In each story, a single act-whether a lie, a betrayal, or an impulsive decision-created irrevocable harm. But the weight of those acts? It depended entirely on whose story you believed. For one character, the choice seemed justified. For another, it was unforgivable.
That's the human condition, isn't it? No one has a monopoly on the truth, because truth itself is shaped by perspective. And memories? They're slippery, shifting things, coloured by time, emotion, and our need to make sense of the past.

The act of painting-or remembering-is a choice, too. What do we highlight? What do we blur out? What do we erase altogether? I've come to realize that just as there are no perfect paintings, there are no perfect memories. There's only what we create-and what we choose to carry forward.
This brings me to a bigger question, one the books wrestled with too: What about second chances? If our memories are flawed, if they're just versions of the truth, how do we decide who deserves redemption?

It's complicated.

But maybe it's not about agreeing on one truth. Maybe it's about holding space for the gallery of memories-the warm, the stark, the exaggerated, the abstract-and trying to see the humanity in them all.
So, what do we do with our own still lifes? Do we repaint them? Learn to live with them? Or, maybe, just maybe, leave space on the wall for someone else's painting-one we don't entirely understand but might, in time, come to accept?

I'd love to hear your thoughts. How do you approach the imperfections in memory, in art, in life?

Warmly, Marion

https://www.marionevamy.com

https://www.redartgallery.ca

p.s. The books, in case you're interested are:

Vanishing Acts by Jodi Piccoult

The Berry Pickers by Amanda Peters and How to Read a Book by Monica Wood. I can highly recommend all three!