IN MY MOTHER’S HOME

I have been in south Philly many times before,. Not Philadelphia or south Philadelphia, but south Philly; that is what it has always been, and always will be. I am visiting my cousin Danny who lives on S. 12th st., just blocks away from his childhood home. Usually when I visit we sit around the kitchen table and drink red wine and eat cheese, peppers, bread, and other goodies until it’s time for dinner, which is always pasta, salad, and a variety of “side dishes”. (As far as I’m concerned, with pasta, there is no need for anything else, except some sausage, meatballs, or other gravy meat.)

But tonight I wanted to take Danny & Linda out to dinner, preferably to one of the restaurants with singing waiters, and so we walked the two blocks to Franco & Luigi’s place. There, in the intimacy of their dinning room, we enjoyed both the mouth watering food and the joyful sound of Italian songs...and for all of the times I have been here, tonight was a special evening for me. I was aware, as never before, that this was the place where my mother was born and raised, this neighborhood was her “hometown”. I was in my mother’s home, and my experience here was to pay homage to her.

My mother was born in this city in December of 1917. We always celebrated her birthday on Christmas eve, and it wasn’t until after her death that we learned it was actually on the 16th of the month. Her father, who she never knew, died when she was 2 years old, leaving her mother with 5 children. My grandmother soon remarried to a widower with 5 children, and shortly thereafter they had 2 more of their own. Because of the lack of space and resources, my mother, at age 12, and three older brothers moved into an apartment of their own where she assumed the role of cook and housekeeper for her siblings. she spoke little of this time in her life, and much of what I have learned came to me second hand from family stories told by others. When I learned enough to ask her questions about her early years she would reflect on that time with an obvious fondness for a life that was as good as it was difficult. (I am mindful of her tendency to protect me from life’s unpleasantries.) I saw the smiles, not the tears, when she would talk about uncle Sammy and uncle Alfred with a filial affection that I will never know.

That apartment is within one block of where Danny and Linda live...I pass it many times in my visits to them. Also within one block is uncle Sammy’s house and the houses where uncle Alfred, uncle Tommy, and grand mom and aunt Eleanor lived. I remember clearly the childhood visits to the city, the sights, the sounds, and especially the smells of grand mom’s kitchen.

Tonight, more than any other time here, I feel surrounded by my mother, her history and her stories connecting me to this place as never before. Oh how I long to honor her; to acknowledge all that she has given to me. Tonight is one small celebration of her. I want my life to be a celebration of her. (7-18-04)

Graduation from Medical school...1965





Before she was my mom

WHAT IF ?!

I was 11 or 12 years old when we shot our neighbor in the ass. Some explanation is needed here.

My father was not a hunter, but we did have a shotgun and a bolt action 22 on the farm. The 22 was used primarily to shoot rats in the chicken coops when we were cleaning out the chicken shit. It was a summer day and my cousin was visiting for a few days. We decided it would be fun to do some target shooting with the 22 and stuck some tin can lids on the door of the outhouse for our targets. The outhouse, unused for years, sat adjacent to one of the barn sheds which was sided with corrugated tin. I honestly don’t remember if we asked permission to do this, but it is extremely unlikely that my mother or father would have given us permission if we did ask. Neither Walter or I were aware of the power and range of the 22. Because of the way the buildings were located we were shooting at an angle that allowed the 22 longs to go through the outhouse, through 2 tin walls of the shed, and through a field and our vineyards, to reach the small cluster of homes situated about 150 - 200 yards away.

I don’t know how many rounds we shot before we heard someone yelling at us from one of the houses. After that everything is lost, or repressed in my memory. Apparently one of our shots hit a pregnant neighbor as she was hanging clothes to dry. To everyone’s immense good fortune the bullet literally grazed her buttocks. The local doctor came to the house and declared she was fine, though understandably frightened and angry, anger that paled beside that of my parents. Afterwards, all I can remember is Walter and I standing by the window in my bedroom, scared beyond anything I had known, not knowing what we had done and what was ahead for us. To this day, I still get an emptiness in the pit of my stomach when I think about this, and how so many lives could have been devastated by just a few inches difference in that bullets trajectory. I can only begin to imagine what my mother and father were feeling and thinking. Fortunately this occurred around 1950, before litigation became a social sport.

PROGRESS MEASURED IN STACKS

All of the framed pieces have been cataloged, and as you will see, separated into stacks by medium. Of course now I have to figure out what to do with them, and I am confident that I'll come up with a solution. Maybe the time has come for a major clearance sale!

Next on the agenda is to record all of the unframed, matted pieces that are tucked away in file drawers and bins. It is amazing how much can be accumulated over 30 years.


Oil pastels, clay mono types, watercolors, and prints


pastels and acrylic


more acrylics


and more


watercolors and prints

Hidden in this very neat mess are several mixed media pieces.

I have a confession to make...I am thoroughly enjoying doing this!! It is great busy work and a welcomed diversion from the intense painting of the last few months.

THE MOTHER OF ALL INVENTORIES

Well, perhaps that is a slight exaggeration, but not by much. I've decided to start this new year by cataloging each and every bit of art in my studio and gallery. I've made noise in this blog before about the overcrowding I live with...I sell a lot of art, but it seems I paint more than I sell, and the result is no big surprise. In spite of my efforts to maintain accurate records, a computer crash a few years ago, plus a bit of sloppiness, has left me with a growing discrepancy between my records and my actual inventory. That is about to change.

The first step...get everything out where it could be seen and recorded. This meant emptying all of the storage bins, some of which have not been disturbed for years.


Before

After






With all of the framed art out in the open I began measuring and recording, cataloging the art my the media.

I gotta admit...it's kinda scary.

IT WAS A GOOD YEAR

Tuscan sunset...photo by Robert Miller

For me 2010 was dominated by a single theme...Italy. Compressed between months of planning and months of creating art work was the wonderful month of May in Bologna, Italy. It was an experience I never imagined would happen. Oh, I thought about a trip like this from time to time, but always dismissed it as unrealistic and unaffordable until Patience, in all of her wisdom, told me there was no reason why I couldn’t do it and that I should do it. That was all it took. Now, to be truthful, I had been talking about 2 weeks at an artists retreat and not a month on my own in a small apartment which is what it eventually evolved into.

Your have undoubtedly heard enough from me about my experiences and have seen the countless photos and paintings I’ve been posting on facebook, on my blog, and in these letters. They were the obvious and highly visible results of such a journey, easy to share. Some of what I have “learned” from the experience is less obvious and not as easy to describe...but I would like to try, and it has to do with age.

I celebrated my 71st birthday in Italy...in Ferrara with the Rigosi family. For more than a year I had been struggling with being 70 years old, not so much from a physical stand point, although there have certainly been some changes, but more from an emotional and psychological one. The endless “some days” were no longer there, and for the first time I became acutely aware of the limitations I faced regarding future endeavors. In retrospect, most disabling and damaging to my spirits was the the tendency to judge and evaluate everything I did or was planning to do within the context of my age. I no longer simply imagined myself doing something, creating, traveling, or whatever; instead it was a 70 year old man doing or attempting to do these things, as if being 70 made me different. I also found myself wondering what others thought, or would think, about me, my work, and my age.

I recognized the foolishness of this kind of thinking knowing it was demoralizing as well as irrational and tried, with only limited success, to avoid it as I was preparing for my trip. To my great delight, once I arrived and settled into my apartment in Bologna, all such thoughts about my age vanished...well...maybe they surfaced while I was walking up the long hillside to San Luca, or the next day when I climbed the 500 steps in the Torre Asinelli, but only then. I don’t know if it was navigating an unfamiliar environment, managing the solitude, or something else entirely, but at some point during the second half of that trip I realized that I ceased thinking about my age; it no longer was a factor in terms of what I could or could not do. And it has remained that way ever since.

So, where shall I go to deal with 80?

SHAME ON US

SHAME

Shame is what I feel right now I am ashamed of our country. For 8 years our soldiers have been killed and maimed serving us in war and we have had to contribute NOTHING.
Our government, right and left, has not had the balls to ask us to pay for this war. Instead the only people suffering and making sacrifices are the soldiers and their families.

I cannot imagine that most Americans would not be willing to pay a “war tax” to do their part and share the burdens of these years of combat. It doesn’t matter if you agree or disagree with the conflict...all that matters is that fellow Americans are bearing the full brunt of the war, with no help from the rest of us.

Those yellow “support our troops” ribbons aren’t worth shit! We should ALL be taxed to pay for this war and for the incredible help our soldiers need.

BEFORE THE PAINT

there was pencil, pen, and ink. In my year end browsing through old portfolios and files I've found these old drawings, done before I began exploring color, first with markers and later with watercolor.


tree done with sepia pen

pen, brush, and ink.



pen and ink



pencil drawing...9th St. Market in Philly

I enjoy looking back on old work, seeing how my art has evolved. There are things I can do now that were not possible in those early years, but there was a freedom and freshness then that is easily lost in the more elaborate studio paintings. It was fun to see some of this recaptured in the clay drawings from the Italian experience.