Reflection of the art of Marquise Grace by Ann M. Pratt, Director, Dominican Center for Justice Resources  

Upon first glance, I thought that the canvas was on fire. Tongues of fire cascading down the page. Upon second glance, I thought no not fire, blood, rivets of blood pouring from hearts broken. Upon yet another glance I thought perhaps it was neither fire nor blood instead the tears of thousands who mourn the lives of these innocents whose journey brought them to an unwelcoming line in the sand. Brought to this place so that they might have the chance at living in a space that affirms their humanity. 

Who are these children who inhabit this canvas? Small, big, brave, strong, frightened, lonely, dead? Each tiny body enfolded in what appears at first sight to be miniaturized prison jumpsuits. Orange and encasing each child with a uniformity, perhaps with the hope that the onlooker will not notice that these are children. Removing their individuality, just another way to pretend that this is ordinary, acceptable, forgivable. 

My eyes begin to inhale their individuality. Look, children in the upper right of this montage. Suspended on a shelf…. someone must have put them there. Did someone notice that they had some particular vulnerability? Does this mean that there is someone in this epic cataclysmic space who perhaps offers care and comfort? Look who stands before these waifs, a caped superhero who though not much older than the waifs, places their need above his own and finds for them a measure of protection. 

My eyes wonder to the lower left of the tableau, three children one small, protectively encased by two who are bigger. These children have no faces. Perhaps the weight of their pain has melted their faces into nothingness. They are denied even the possibility of signaling their humanity. Wait, wait, the bigger two appear to be signaling. Their fingers held high in the near universal sign for peace. Who do they suppose might notice that they come in peace? 

Aside the three, stands alone girl with a bow in her hair. Her left hand raised above her head, pointer finger directing us to what? Look, look she seems to say. Look at what? The words on the page? Somebody please pay attention. These are important words. 

Directly in the middle of the bottom of the page what is that? The end of the story. A boy child hunches over the figure of another laying facedown. Hard to tell, girl, boy, infant, toddler, preschool???  What isn’t hard to tell is that this small one appears to have no life left in them. There is no sign of movement, no life spark. Is this the end of the tale? The pointed finger has been ignored, the peace signs gone unrecognized, the superhero unable to protect…. but wait, in front of the lifeless image lays a huge pair of boots…. are the boots waiting for someone big enough to fill them? Perhaps WE can fill them and take seriously the pointed finger, the signs of peace, the superhero’s cape?