Weather worn from having just returned from our trip touring the badlands, black hills and scenic by ways of South Dakota setting up a one woman exhibit was something I would have preferred came a few days later, but to live fully, sometimes schedules cross and you press on. Hands full of a stack of paintings from my travels of the US and abroad I begin to place carefully on the tables provided as to not scratch the surface. Several more trips to the truck and all the work is now inside and I can construct a pleasing arrangement. This space is more than adequate as I look around the Post Memorial Library which houses many of my favorite art reference books I poured over in college while my infant son lay sleeping beside me. What a nice retreat for a young mother from the busy world outside its dark mahogany furnishings. As our son grew and matured we would continue to go the reference library prior to the children’s story hour, he would sit on my lap or beside me and look at the art of the masters contained in these beautifully maintained old relics and new editions. He was fascinated with the tissue contained between some of the pages as I reminded him these were very special books and should be treated with respect for these aren’t just pictures they are ideas captured in paint reflecting the times in which the artist lived. We continued going to the library for many more years after our daughter was born. This process of taking time to explain, experience and connect with our children continued throughout their youth and into adulthood is something that I wouldn’t trade for anything as it helped shape who they are as individuals. They too have been afforded the luxury and responsibility of travel for it has opened their eyes to this great world in which we are caretakers, and learned while equal in the eyes of god not everyone has been afforded the same opportunity and many have suffered poverty, homelessness, sickness, violence, heartache, war and injury at the hand of another but its possible to retain the ability to rise above adverse conditions and make the most of it.
Everyone has a story to tell, some more heart wrenching than others, those who have risen from the ashes and spread their wings choose not to share their story for it is a grim reminder of the fragile nature of our being- fear of returning to that state, denial, in a word. Others still, shout it from the mountain tops in effort to change injustice or as a coping mechanism, others still use it from “ rags to riches” story of success and a personal marketing ploy. I believe the work one does should stand on its own not on the shoulders of what lies behind them. I have had the pleasure of knowing these people and their exposed or untold story first hand as well as being one who didn’t wear their story on their shoulder for all to see. Those who truly know me, say, share your story- but I keep it close, protecting it like a mother would a child. It is my story….told only to a handful of people, but strangely feel compelled to share after many years of nurturing alone.
My maiden name, I carry on my paintings is of that of my biological mother with whom I was estranged for more than 25 years- this is the only part of her I could have so I held it close. Unable to care for me as a child I was taken into foster care at the age of 10 where I remained until I graduated from high school. At the time of being torn , literally from my mother I didn’t recognize it was truly what saved me from a life of uncertainty and impoverishment . Safe and well fed in my new home, adjustment was still difficult and a little foreign. Mounds of food presented at dinner were soon consumed when daily fair previous was bread butter and sugar sandwiches which lead to malnutrition effecting my overall appearance. Many trips to the dentist in the first year of being in foster care remedied a mouth full of cavities uncared for in my first 10 years. A drastic haircut brought my hair in check as it was long and lifeless, not much could be done however for the circles under my eyes except the introduction of makeup I had to wait respectfully till I was 12 to use. This all was very new to me, being cared for , rather than the care taker – I felt at ease as I settled in after the first year. My biological mother did what she could but being chronically ill afforded her little time to be the mother she had hoped and left her unable to get or keep a job rendering us homeless and undernourished both physically and spiritually. Feeling helpless, blame must be cast, and unfortunately it fell upon my shoulders- changing my perception forever. My foster mother noticed I bore the weight of the world and did what she could to re-educate me, allowing blame to fall to the ground for it wasn’t truly mine- while owning up to those things I did have power of. Abandoned apartment buildings, motel rooms, moving busses and cars, truck stops, bars and libraries were the safe havens I knew and still feel a certain nostalgia for. When my husband and I were dating slowly I revealed some of the conditions in which I lived as a child before being taken into the system. Not everything made its way forward into my conscious mind at once of course, but when we were returning from a day trip, looking for a place to eat, he pulled into a Churches Chicken, parking lot, I burst into tears. Dumbfounded, he turned off the car and asked what was wrong- sobbing I couldn’t answer , I said through the tears “ I can’t eat here”, he asked why , wondering what would elicit such a response – All I said was , “go , Lets Go” , when we were well away from the restaurant, I told him the story behind this certain chain of restaurants. “We ate here, when I was a kid,” was all I said, puzzled, he said, ok? Why is that a problem? I said, “ we didn’t eat in the dining room”, again he paused, waiting for me to go on. Shamed, I said, “we got left over chicken out of the dumpster.” Steve and I have been married 25 years, and we have never eaten there. Even today with all the comforts of a nice home, full pantry, successful and kind husband, well adjusted children, medical insurance, college education, vacations, successful business and gallery these reminders of where I came from linger close whispering , “ There, but the grace of God, go I”. So when we enjoy some of the niceties of life like exhibiting new work, enjoying a nice meal, a long cup of coffee, splurging on a painting to add to our growing collection, travel to far off places, or arrive at an opening fresh and bright eyed , it stands to reason – Things are not always as they seem.
No comments:
Post a Comment