The Artist
Remembering Tom - 8th in a 30 piece series
My dad was a detail oriented man, as evidenced by his profession of choice, mechanical engineering, and his artistic expression with calligraphy and colored pencil drawings. When I was 11, Dad and I took art lessons with a local artist, Jeanne Lanchance, in the basement of her home on the west side of Manchester. I enjoyed drawing, learning, and especially the weekly time with my dad. I remember us learning alongside each other with the half dozen or so adults in the art studio, all drawing still scenes of vases, flowers, and pieces of fruit. As my skills developed, I drew a portrait of my father, which hangs in my home now. The first piece he created in class, after his still scene practices, was a starfish on a seashell. Its an image that became even more special to me years later when I learned the Starfish story, about a little girl who, when seeing loads of starfish drying on the beach at high tide, ran about collecting them and tossing them into the sea.
I decided one of the things I can do to honor my dad is to remember the artist in me - to give her space for writing, drawing, painting, cooking, dancing – whatever way she wants to be expressed.
While we were taking the class, I had a 5th grade project on birds. My brother Todd and I were spending every other weekend with my dad at his tiny apartment. I remember one weekend, when my project was almost due, I sat at his kitchen table and spent the whole weekend drawing all kinds of bird species, and patiently coloring them in with colored pencil, just like my dad. I had a couple of books from the library and I carefully copied each bird, adding as much detail as I could, then labeling it and describing its habitat, nesting practices and favorite foods. There must have been 10 or 12 pages with a different local species on each page. I was exceptionally proud and so was my dad.
When the project was returned to me, I was shocked. I don’t remember the number grade, but there were many points that I did not receive or that were deducted. The teacher had written something like “not your work” and didn’t give me any credit for the art and drawings which was a large percentage of the grade. I told her it was my work and she said it must have been traced. I wanted to throw up. I didn’t like her before that and then I hated her. I don’t remember ever telling anyone at home, but I do remember telling myself that I certainly could not or would not be an artist.
A few months after my dad’s death, I was on a retreat in New Mexico. We were painting mandalas. I took my time and dove into the project. I had done some art work leading up to it, but not anything as intentional, planned or detailed. It was exceptionally therapeutic to allow the artist in me to free herself a bit. On the way home I carried the piece in my arms as it was too big for the suitcase. A woman approached me in the security line and said “ahh, you’re an artist, beautiful”. In that moment I remembered the birds, and the story I had told myself about not being an artist. I decided one of the things I can do to honor my dad is to remember the artist in me - to give her space for writing, drawing, painting, cooking, dancing – whatever way she wants to be expressed.
I am grateful for the pieces he created and gave to us. They are few and therefore they are precious.
My dad only drew a few pieces in his life, considering his talent and his time on earth. When I look at his art, in some ways I feel he never reached his full potential. I wonder what held him back, why he didn’t draw more, and what stories he told himself that weren’t true. I wonder where he got them, who gave them to him and if he had even considered what may have held him back. I do remember talking with him about his art on occasion and asking him to do more and asking him why he didn’t. His drawing board was in the shed, or he hadn’t gotten around to it. Sometimes he would say “I don’t know why I don’t draw more, I should.” I know later in his life, it was probably pain that prevented him from drawing.
I am grateful for the pieces he created and gave to us. They are few and therefore they are precious. My dad kept the backdrop of his colored pencil drawings crisp and clean, his piece rising off the white paper as if the object itself was right there in front of you. He drew my sister’s first pointe shoes, a pair of work boots for my brother, a lovely sunflower that hangs in my sister Caily’s kitchen and his most prized work, an antique oil lamp that hangs at the Heermansmith Farm in Coventry, VT. My dad’s friend, Jack, gifted or sold (not sure which) the oil lamp to my dad, and my dad gifted him this true to size drawing. It is so detailed and accurate, from across the room people really thought they were looking at a lamp hanging. His photography was also fabulous - blue ribbon worthy. One of my many projects at the moment is photographing all of the drawings and printing them on quilt squares to eventually add them to quilts for my dad’s five grandchildren - preserving his art forever.