Necessary Losses

I kept the Italian Wassily Kadinsky book as well as a translation of Hubert Juin’s study of Pierre Soulages. I simply liked them. Of course, I kept a copy of Janson’s History of Art and my childhood favorite, William Tell drawn by Warja Honegger Lavater. And I had the good sense to keep the first edition of Kiesler’s Inside the Endless House.

But the rest, I let go.

For 30 years after mother’s death I kept her massive collection of art and design books. A few years after she died I did donate several hundred books to the library of the National Museum of Women in the Arts. They were the ones that mentioned women. Most of the books and gallery announcements she kept did not.

So this past week I called a book dealer and let him look at the collection and make me an offer. Time had created many rare and unusual art books in the collection. Resigned, I took it. I had no fight in me.

It was harder sorting through the books than selling them. I could not look at many books before becoming tearful. They brought back memories of flipping through them as child. I learned art history without ever taking a formal class. I developed a critical eye before I ever reached college.

This month has been one of many losses. I lost a piece of my body, friendships, and causes. Nothing I could control; none I could change.

But with the books, I could say, enough is enough. Someone will appreciate them more. Someone will take them out of their boxes and off the shelves. Someone needs them more. Finally, I had something wanted and valued.

This almost never happens.

In Sorrow

[Graphic borrowed from this interesting website, AisleOne]

Resurrection

This morning the front page of the Washington Post's Travel section resurrected a memory from my childhood. An article on Depression era artwork in post offices featured a photo of a mural by Anton Refregier.

Refregier was a Woodstock artist and friend of my parents. I own many of his works. He was always an object of some fascination to me as he spent his summers, in the middle of the Cold War, in the Soviet Union. I never could understand this, but I had some notion that he was some sort of communist. Well, he was until his son died in a motorcycle accident. 

After that, his artwork was filled with images of God, Christ, and the Holy Spirit--and grief. One particularly touching print is in my daughter's room. In pastel colors and simple lines,  the silk screen shows a large hand extending out to protect a young girl holding a daisy.

My daughter, when she turned 10, covered it with a poster of Harry Potter.

Above is one of woodblock prints in my collection. Everything I "own" were gifts to my parents.

The Burial of the Dead

Everyone’s favorite April poem is T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land. It is more about death, however, than springtime hope. Like the beautiful crab apple tree above, the poem memorializes many confusing feelings. Under the tree, which is across the street from my house, my beloved Abyssinian cat is buried. Along with him is buried a friendship that I had hoped would flourish.

Osiris, as he was called, would wake me every morning so that I could let him outside. He spent his days hunting on the grounds of the historic home outside my door. In the evening he would return with some “present.” Often he slept curled up at my side. He was not a cat that would sit on your lap and purr; he was independent and selective with his attentions. Sometimes he purred for me.

When Osiris died one April from a horrible wasting disease, my friends did what they could to console me. They indulged me and conceded to my grief. All except one. And of course it was the one I wanted to hear from most, and the one whose opinion always meant the most to me.

But, as I have warned my daughter, beware the man who does not acknowledge the loss of your cat. He will never care for you, let alone respect you. You will not be remembered. And time proved me right. Never did I receive a birthday note or a nengajo card. He never initiated a conversation and was quick to point out my many mistakes.

Yes, I should have been more guarded, but I work every day alone on issues of apology and torture and rape and genocide. What I do is neither popular nor recognized. I do this because I believe that it is important for man to aspire to his better nature. And it was an irrational exuberance for me to be so charmed to find that rare someone who shared my values and interests.

But “the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, And the dry stone no sound of water.” As it turned out, he said, “sharing values does not make us friends” and knowing me was a professional liability, thus he concluded that “we should stop” being friends. And we did.

I rarely get beyond the first section of The Waste Land. I don’t really understand the details; there is just too much to look up. Does Eliot mention the Starnbergersee because Mad King Ludwig died there or is it just another symbol of Germany and WWI? Who the HECK is Marie? Do hyacinths really symbolize resurrection? Maybe they just cover up the stench from the rot. Stanza after stanza is of death and disillusionment.

Memorials don’t always do the job that they are intended. They mean to symbolize hope and the endurance of the human spirit (and I will write more about this later). Every April the tree outside my home blooms a beautiful pink, memorizing the pain from my two losses. Like Eliot, I feel no hope only defeat and miss even more what is gone.

Yahrzeit

Today is February 19th. Today is the day I reflect upon loss, more than usual. Today, it is 25 years since my mother died barely six months after my father.

Today, I light a candle just like the one above and think about all those I have lost over the years. And I dwell on the memories of ones from the recent year. Some were people who I had lost touch with, one was a second father, and one was not because he died but because he had me die. None could I prevent and all left me wondering of what could have been. And this is what the historian confronts everyday. We are always missing someone.

The Yahrzeit candle only burns for 24 hours