art – European Trophy Wife no More

I’d never call myself an art connoisseur, but I am an art lover. I appreciate the colors and textures and perspectives of art, but I know little about styles and periods. I’ve been to the Louvre and Museé d’Orsay in Paris, the Picasso museum in Barcelona, and the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam. I’ve been swept into the paintings of Klimt, mesmerized by the sparkling glass of Chihuly, and held by the physical power of sculptures by Michaelangelo. But I’ve never been more captivated than when I visited the local art installation of Walter Zimmerman here in Rochester, NY.

I met Walter at the retirement party of a friend recently. He was both a delightful raconteur and a rapt audience as we shared our experiences traveling Europe and navigating society–both here and abroad. With hubris and humor, Walter revealed pieces of his life with his husband and his artistic journey. I left the encounter wanting more time and conversation with him, so I was thrilled when our mutual friend invited me to the opening of Walter’s art exhibit.

Walter’s art is made primarily from discarded or found objects. This particular compilation portrayed the period his parents placed him in an orphanage as a child. The pieces, displayed on what I perceived as the progression of those days in shunning, do not draw the eye because of their beauty, but because of the emotions they elicit. Not only are the portrayals masterful, causing me to feel shock and tension and pain, but knowing they are created from items no one desired, akin to how Walter likely felt in that orphanage, further magnified those reactions.

The mixed media pieces, with titles describing episodes of Walter’s young life, progress in color from white through a raw orange and reddish color, to bronze, settling on the hardness of silver, then flesh tone. I thought of my own seasons of suffering as I gazed at what I interpreted as exposed sinew through ripped tissue. It reminded me of the fresh pain and inflammation in a wound, mending (on the surface) to a scaly reddish scab, to a rigid scar, then to fresh skin. That progression of healing a torment applies to the inner heart as well as the outer skin.

In a conversation with my hairstylist (who is also educated as an artist, specializing in ceramics), I told Jordan I felt compelled to write about Zimmerman’s art, but I feared my feelings about the pieces were not what the artist intended. Jordan’s answer was simple:

The artist cannot, nor does he wish, to dictate what others see when they view his creations. His hope is that you feel SOMEthing.

And feel something I did. I FELT pain, I CRIED tears, my heart ACHED.

So I’ll be fidgety as the artist reads my words about his composition. Then I’ll make my way back to Union Place Coffee Roasters to experience Walter Zimmerman’s compilation again. I’ll have a cup of coffee and linger, hoping to chat more with Walter about his art and his life. After all, even though I’m not an art connoisseur, I am an art lover.

“Your story is always more important than mine…If my work generates personally intimate meaning, then it’s doing its work.”
Walter Zimmerman, interview, Transparent Conversations, Museum of Glass, 2021

P.S. We did meet for coffee, and will again!

Walter Zimmerman’s installation continues to be on display at Union Place Coffee Roasters, 900 Jefferson Road, Rochester, NY until the end of January 2024.

Her life did not appear noteworthy or remarkable. She married young and had three babies, a girly little staircase. Housekeeping was not her forte, though directing her daughters to clean was. She was a poor cook, yet she always had a dinner of sorts on the table. She had dreams, but never shared them…

When my mother was nearing her last days (so we thought), I left our home in Europe to gather with my sister and her husband and our kids in West Virginia, though my dear husband had to stay back for work. Mother’s wish was to remain in her home with her beloved and somewhat anti-social feline companion, so she held court in her bedroom as my loving big sister and I cheerfully (well…somewhat cheerfully) met her every need.

Suddenly, our Mother wanted to tell every story she’d ever heard as a child…from her grandfather having an affair in the home as his wife lay dying, to the love that grandfather put into building a home in a proper and stately area of the town, to the great (great-great to me)uncle who wrote postcards and letters in near Shakespearean style. She had our kids running to the basement to find bits of her life, making them promise to drive by the house on Pearcy Street she knew as her childhood home (stolen from her and her parents by a deceitful aunt and uncle), and encouraging them to view the beautiful high school she and my dad, and we three girls, called our alma mater.

We found a photo of the beloved home in my mother’s many boxes of pictures/memorabilia. It sits on my mantle with a chotsky for company.

And two months later, in the actual week before my mom left this earth (it was the longest death scene in the history of drama–typical of my mother to stretch it out), the hospice nurse spoke with her about her condition after she asked, “What is wrong with me? I’m not ready to leave.” John asked this question, “What is it you feel you’ve left undone?”

Mother animatedly said she wished she had travelled, had cooked the recipes she’d saved, had spent more time reading and making art.

I guess I didn’t know my mother. I never took the time to ask her that question.

I did remember that when my sisters and I were kids, Mother went off to an art class one night a week. She returned so energized each week, telling us what she had learned; when they practiced the human form, there were nude models in the class, a fact that kept us kids giggling, gasping, and gawking at our “boring” mother.

My kids are artistic–creative and talented in so many ways–some of which they inherit from their skillful father. I know and see the tapestry of family woven into the fiber of each of us, and all my children were blessed to receive the thread of artistic talent from my mom, the easy chuckle from my dad, the love of games from my little sister (and big one) and their dad’s dad, and the joy of family from both sides of the clan.

Art is our memory of love. The most an artist can do through their work is say, let me show you what I have seen, what I have loved, and perhaps you will see it and love it too.

– Annie Bevan, Art Quotes.

Because of finding my mom’s sketches, which she proudly signed for each of the kids, I now want to have art created by people I love and care about. For Christmas last year, I asked my kids for a composition made by each of them–unwrapping and seeing the gifts and giftedness was a delight, and they now hang in our family room next to a watercolor by a dear friend and former neighbor.

While Nate didn’t draw something for me this time, this is typical of Nate’s distinctive cartoon style art, and he and his wife and the other kids pitched in for a family photo shoot!

I can’t help but think of my mother…the longer she’s gone (it’s only been a year now) and I find the remnants of her life as I clean out yet another box brought from her home, I see her as more special, more remarkable. Oh, I still remember the hardest parts of her, and some of the long-healed hurts, but those too fade as I recall her softening in old age, becoming more loving and more forgiving. When I see the best bits of her in my children, my older sister, and her brothers, I see her life was more than noteworthy…it was a masterpiece…

What is it you feel you’ve left undone?