There is something uniquely painful about losing the person, and then, not just any physical reminders but creative work in which their animating spirit has been preserved. I have been really moved by these essays. There is also the pathos of lost artwork, even if it is by an artist one hasn't met. I recall my late mother, in the midst of her Swedish death cleaning, shipping off her collection of original paintings by Canadian Ojibway artist Benjamin Chee Chee to a gallery in Toronto, which had agreed to sell them for her. The gallery owner died soon after, and everything he owned "disappeared." She could not track down an executor, an attorney, or any contact. Was an 80 year old woman going to pursue this further from another country? Maybe I will come across these paintings somewhere, someday.
Thank you for this response and that story. Rona Maynard told a similar story about a gallery owner absconding with her father's work. In my research I'm always equally amazed by how much survives and how much is lost -- and it seems pretty random which is which.
Victoria, I love the self-portrait of your father. It feels so modern, so anticipatory of the work of younger artists to follow. As I read, I kept thinking, Where is the Boy in Chair? But that's who you continue to look for in this wonderful memoir. A possible title?
Portraiture fascinates me, especially self-portraiture. I love this missing jewel for the play of pattern and the sweet perplexity of the expression. You held my attention and have many layers to excavate. Glad we met here, thanks to Jeffrey. And I’m grateful for the shoutout.
A beautiful essay, Victoria. I really felt how it must be to mourn not only your father but also his missing works. So much grief! I hope that fascinating self-portrait turns up some day.
There is something uniquely painful about losing the person, and then, not just any physical reminders but creative work in which their animating spirit has been preserved. I have been really moved by these essays. There is also the pathos of lost artwork, even if it is by an artist one hasn't met. I recall my late mother, in the midst of her Swedish death cleaning, shipping off her collection of original paintings by Canadian Ojibway artist Benjamin Chee Chee to a gallery in Toronto, which had agreed to sell them for her. The gallery owner died soon after, and everything he owned "disappeared." She could not track down an executor, an attorney, or any contact. Was an 80 year old woman going to pursue this further from another country? Maybe I will come across these paintings somewhere, someday.
Thank you for this response and that story. Rona Maynard told a similar story about a gallery owner absconding with her father's work. In my research I'm always equally amazed by how much survives and how much is lost -- and it seems pretty random which is which.
Victoria, I love the self-portrait of your father. It feels so modern, so anticipatory of the work of younger artists to follow. As I read, I kept thinking, Where is the Boy in Chair? But that's who you continue to look for in this wonderful memoir. A possible title?
Thanks! I love that self portrait too. And its descriptive title is mine, not my father's. Maybe I will re-use it, as you suggest.
Really touched that you mentioned me here, Victoria. That white footprint is really poignant. ✨
I agree-- and glad to be in conversation!
Portraiture fascinates me, especially self-portraiture. I love this missing jewel for the play of pattern and the sweet perplexity of the expression. You held my attention and have many layers to excavate. Glad we met here, thanks to Jeffrey. And I’m grateful for the shoutout.
Yes. Pattern and perplexity— I love that description.
A beautiful essay, Victoria. I really felt how it must be to mourn not only your father but also his missing works. So much grief! I hope that fascinating self-portrait turns up some day.
Me too. Thanks for reading these, Jeffrey. (moved my response to the correct reply. Sigh)