The daily dose of art DRAWING THROUGH LIFE

A life can be remembered in so many ways - I enjoy recalling moments and events stored in the drawings piled high in dusty portfolios throughout my studio.

A Porch on Van Buren Street

A long weekend retreat

ER "stuff"

THE KITCHEN

Taking the time to remember on this quiet Thanksgiving morning.

mom

 

 

 

 

THE KITCHEN

Looking back, the room that appeared so large to my young eyes was probably 10-12 feet wide and maybe 14 feet in length.  Entering the house from the back door, no one ever used the front door; you passed through a small combination mudroom-laundry to reach the kitchen.  On the right was a small phone desk followed by the kitchen table.  On the left was an entrance to the dining room, the refrigerator, and the beginning of the cabinets, which wrapped around the far end of the room, interrupted by the sink, and ending with the stove against the wall on the right.  The table could seat 6 people comfortably, and 8-10 intimately.

The dining room was used for large gatherings on holidays and other festive occasions, but all other meals and entertaining took place in the kitchen.  I cannot remember guests being entertained in the living room… ever.  We listened to the large freestanding radio there, before a TV replaced it in 1948.  I remember lying on the floor in front of the radio, listening to the Lone Ranger at 7:30 on Thursday evenings.  At the end of each day, after shedding his coveralls and boots, my father would sit in the living room reading the evening paper until my mother called him for diner, at least 2-3 times before he would come.  I would be remiss if I did not mention the many epic battles I fought with the bad guys, either flying off the sofa as superman (dish towel tightly secured around my neck) or as Roy Rogers, taking on the crooks behind the large Maple chair.

But it was the kitchen where our lives happened, where we shared 3 meals every day, often with assorted family and friends, where the working day started and ended, where farm business was conducted, homework completed, and phone calls made and answered.  Company rarely made it past the kitchen.  Coffee was offered within the first few minutes, often even before coats and hats were removed, and everyone settled in around the table.  Some how there was always enough room.  The stream of visitors included nearby aunts and uncles, neighbors, friends, out of town relatives, and my friends and classmates.

My parents, Jo and Duke to some, aunt Jo and uncle Duke to others, and on rare occasions, Mr. and Mrs. Renzulli, had a very special gift; they made everyone feel loved and welcomed.  First time visitors ceased being strangers within minutes, and by the time they left they were family.  It didn’t matter who it was; there were no pretenses and no apologies.  Everyone was treated the same.  Their warmth and hospitality were genuine. Graciousness, generosity, and goodness were woven into the fabric of their character. That was what they were, and guests received more than food and wine when they sat at our kitchen table.

Thinking about all of this now, I’ve come to realize that despite their limited education and sophistication, they each possessed a deep sense of self confidence in who they were, giving them a mantel of humble nobility.  In the first eighteen years of my life I experienced their love and generosity, their commitment to family, their kindness to others, their willingness to share and to forgive, and their gentle outlook on life; I witnessed it all in our kitchen, around the kitchen table, drinking coffee, sipping wine, or sharing a meal.

My parents were not religious.  My mother never spoke about matters of faith, and my father would not hesitate to tell you he was an atheist.  I think he was really more anti-cleric than anti God, and simply had no use for the church.  But in the life they lived, grounded in love and caring for everyone, I saw the nobility of the human spirit, and if there is a God, He was in our kitchen.

L to P  Walter, aunt Edith, aunt Mary, Marx, uncle Fatty, mom

, all have died except Marx

MEMORIES - THE THREAD OF LIFE

Our memories are like a thread that runs through our life, providing an element of continuity and enabling us to carry the past with us as we make our way through the years.  If our lives were books, memories would be the table of contents, directing us to a particular place and time. 

It was only after I reached adulthood that I realized how fortunate I was to have the parents and family that I did, and as a result, with very few exceptions, I have only good memories.  Not everyone has been so fortunate, and I wonder how people deal with the pain and sorrow of bad memories as they make their way in life.  Can they coexist with happiness and better circumstances, or do they have to be repressed and forgotten. 

Memories can help us understand whom we are, by showing us where we have been, revealing how the person we are has unfolded from what we were.  They enable us to see the past with the wisdom of gathered years, often revising our impressions and allowing us to see what we may have  missed the first time around.

I cherish my memories, holding them fast and close to me, even more as the years accumulate (something they inevitably do).  I’m aware that the very old seem to go back into time, reliving the distant past.  That gives me comfort; I look forward to pulling up long forgotten stories.

MEMORIES

It seems to be universal, the older we get the more we want to remember out past, and the events and circumstances that helped create who we are.  Memories become increasingly important, and we cherish them, albeit selectively.  Psychologists are quick to remind us that our memories have been filtered by time, and cannot be taken as literal historic truths.  My feeling about this is “so what”.  Filtered, selective, or whatever, their importance to my understanding of who I am cannot be denied, and they will always remain a vital part of my journey.

 

I recently joined two facebook groups that are devoted to sharing memories of growing up in Wilmington Delaware.  It is obvious from the comments and photos posted that the memories are cherished stories, and like dominoes, each story elicits another, as old memories are shaken loose. I was 30 years old when we moved to Wilmington in 1969 and lived in the city for 17 years. But some of the most intense and life changing years of my life occurred in that city when I recognized that I wanted to pursue a life in art as much as I did in medicine.

I don’t have memories of buying candy as a child at Govatos, or shopping with my mother at Wilmington Dry; but I have memories of how I walked the streets downtown with my camera and sketchbook, fascinated by Govatos, Wilmington Dry, and the architecture of local shops and businesses.  I remember the delight in painting these places and the response of people who saw them.  My memories of Wilmington are in my artwork.  Each painting reminds me of a place, a time, and often someone long forgotten, and when I share them on these groups, they often evoke similar memories in others.  And that pleases me.

The Little Man

When I was a young boy, perhaps 4 or 5 years old, my mother would occasionally give me a treat; It was always something special because of what it was, but peven more because it was unexpected and unrelated to anything I did (or did not do) or to any holiday or celebration.  It could be a candy bar or pack of gum, but more often than not it was something related to art, crayons, a coloring book, and even a set of watercolor paints.  She always told me that a little man had brought them for me.  Although I never met the little man, he became an important person in my young life.

I was not aware of him gradually disappearing from my life, and do not remember ever asking about him.  He simply quietly withdrew, or so I thought, and although I may have forgotten him, he never forgot me.  That little man gave me so much more than an occasionally special treat; quietly and without my awareness, the gifts continued, gifts that would remain with me for the rest of my life, enabling me to find my way through all the years that followed.

The little man was very remarkable; wise beyond the limited education I know he had.  He had the uncanny ability to see people as they really were, to understand them and be sensitive to their needs and their failings.  He was devoted to me, loving me as only a parent can love, but wise enough to trust me, and allow me to go out into the world to become what I was intended to be.  He never asked for anything in return, and wanted only for me to be happy.

The Little Man left me, on a gray December day in 1991, but her gifts to me, and to others in her life, have endured endlessly.