Art Matters

Three years ago on Valentines day my mother, six weeks before her 90th birthday, died. It was sudden, but not unexpected. She was done with her evermore restrictive and boring life. I could hear the desperation in her voice the last dozen times I talked to her on the phone from my home on Vancouver Island. I had known somewhere in my heart that when I said goodbye to her on her dark, cold front porch in Toronto in late December, that that would be our last hug. I am strangely proud of my mother for her sudden exit, her last act of defiance. She saw a future of increasing loss of independence and invasive personal care and wanted none of it. So she left us to mourn her and celebrate her courageous and wonderful life.

Mom bequeathed all of her personal “effects” to her three daughters, Kathryn, Madeline, and I. Wow. So much stuff. Clothes, piles and piles of clothes, some brand new, some designer, mostly black. Overflowing bookshelves, from Rex Stout to Marcel Proust. Bags of shoes. And her art collection. Paintings, prints, posters, sculptures, framed mirrors, handmade jewellery, curated by her, part of her, and part of our lives together. We grew up with the paintings, and some of the artists names and their work became part of our family story.

My mother amassed a small collection of works by California Bay Area artists from the 40s, 50s and 60’s when she lived in Berkeley. She bought or was gifted pieces, often from the artist, some of whom were her friends, or from friends or friends of friends. Over the years she added to her compilation, her taste was unique and often surprising.

Growing up in a large religious family during the depression, Mom’s early life was bereft of art, music (except for a piano on which Mom and her sister were taught hymns), books, other than the Bible, and for the most part, joy. When she was able to leave the farm and find independence and friendship as a young adult, she surrounded herself with creative and interesting people. She took advantage of every museum, art gallery and concert available to her. After many challenges and much hard work she received a BA and a MA in Art History from the University of Berkeley, California. She went on to build a career in Toronto teaching art history and the history of costume and design. She loved teaching and was a mentor for many of her students.

Almost everything I know about art, literature, opera and classical music I believe began as a seed that was planted during my first ten years. Mom started taking us to museums and concerts and plays when we were infants, she wanted so much to give us what she was deprived of. We had reams of paper, an easel and paints. We had books galore and listened to opera, jazz, and children’s programs on KPFA, our local PBS radio station. We had crafts, cats and Persian carpets. We were being groomed to be able to appreciate what our parents valued and perceived as the good things in life.

Despite my mother’s hopes and dreams I did not follow in my parents academic footsteps. I hated formal education, or as I saw it, oppression, and left school at fifteen. My mother, although undoubtably disappointed, always supported my adventures and found reason to be proud of me.

After she died, Mom’s house, lived in by her husband, stayed pretty much the same for a couple of years. Her presence was palpable and being surrounded by her things when I visited Toronto was comforting. The last time all three of her daughters were at the house last summer we got busy and emptied closets and drawers and took an inventory of her art collection. And then to decide what to do with our legacy. Although all of us do carry on much of Mom’s style, in our own way, many of the pieces that we grew up with loved just did not fit into our lives. We decided to each choose a painting from her collection. I chose this.

It was an easy choice. This wonderful piece was undoubtedly inspired by the by coal miners strikes in the 1940s. As far as I know Mom did not have a personal connection with McChesney, he was possibly a friend of a friend, or she just liked this piece. I wish I could ask her. Mom always told me that this painting was mine, partly because of a crayon drawing I did at age six. This is the story that became a family legend, most likely part fact and part fiction:

In 1963 we were living in Berkeley where my parents were students at the University. This was during the time of the civil rights movement and growing protests by the Free Speech Movement that took over the campus during these turbulent years. My father, a life long leftist and human rights advocate, joined the marches when his work at the University and domestic commitments allowed. One day he took me along and I rode on his shoulders observing the surrounding unrest. When we returned home my mother was most certainly annoyed at Dad for placing me in danger, but all was forgiven when I produced this drawing of a protester holding a sign with a profound message known only to me, being attacked by the mean guy, who is turn attacked by the little guy. My mother proudly framed it and it ever after hung side by side with the wonderful McChesney painting. Sadly, this deeply moving image of the power and unity of the working class did not lead me to a career as a famous art. I think I peaked too early!

The wonderful, colourful and expressive painting/drawing by McChesney hung for the last 45 years across from Mom’s desk in her cozy office. It now hangs in my living room. It took me a little while to get used to it here. I have always loved it, I think only now I realize how much.