My father was discharged from the Nursing home today. I spent all day yesterday helping my mother convert the den into a nursing room for him. It is complete with a bed that has all the features of the one at the nursing home. To make room for the bed I had to haul away an old hide-a-bed. I had attempted to hire movers to haul the heavy couch out and help us move the bed in but the day was getting late and we needed to get the room ready. I ended up unscrewing the metal bed frame from the couch frame and muscling each of them down a flight of stairs off the front porch and across the walkway and up into the bed of my pickup truck. There was nobody available to help so somehow I managed. Stress brings out herculean strength when we need it.
My mom and I went to the store to buy new sheets and some finishing touches like a teddy bear and huge valentine card to welcome him home.
My dad had spent the last month confused about where he was and why he couldn’t be at home. Some days he thought he was home but just down in the basement. Today he didn’t want to go home at first. I’m not sure if he fully understood what was happening. When my mom and I removed our mask he grew calm and gradually got excited about going home. While we waited for the nurse to make copies of his discharge papers he was acting like a little kid trying to get out of the room in the wheelchair and rummaging through every drawer or piece of paper in nervous excitement to go home.
I had planned to take a scenic route home so he could see some of the beautiful landscape of the Palouse but the need to get to a bathroom prevented that. He was unsteady at first but managed to make it up the ten stairs to reach the main floor of my parents split level home.
Within a couple of hours he seemed calm and happy to be home. His foggy memory seemed to clear a bit. It was good to see him happy. It was good to see my mom handling it well and it was good to know nursing would be coming tomorrow.
All of these experiences led me to think about memories. I was thinking about how important objects and sounds are to reconnecting to a memory of place and people. I thought about an exhibit I was in back in 2018 where I had created an installation piece of a memory board and a video that included voice mail recordings of my mother and my brother who I haven’t heard from in 7 years.
My voicemail is perpetually full and unable to take more messages because I hold on to special ones for as long as possible. When I hear a message from someone special I don’t want to delete it. I cherish the sound of their voice. I can remember voices long after the people are gone. I need to do a better job of downloading the recordings rather than finally giving in and deleting them.
We think of photography as being our memory machine. The value of a photograph increases over time as the details of our memory fade. The photograph shows every little detail and help us recall. Objects do this too. I keep a junk drawer full of memorabilia. When it get’s too full I transfer it to a box thinking that I’ll do something with it some day. For this exhibit I pulled out a box and lovingly arranged various fragments into a narrative structure. A birth announcement next to my best friend’s father’s obituary. Notes from a marriage counselor next to a card containing a note of affection. In an envelope with my grandmother’s handwriting lies a vile of Mt. Vesuvius ash from an eruption in the 1800’s. Nobody knew it was there but me.
I was inspired to do a memory board installation by an exhibit of Trompe-l’œil paintings at the Philadelphia art museum. The paintings could fool the eye into thinking you were staring at the actual objects. I also thought of a still life lecture given by a colleague named Lark Gilmer-Smothermon. She described the still life like a potluck dinner where you can combine objects from a wide range of experiences to create a whole new narrative.
Memories never remain accurate. They are subject to interpretation and reinterpretation over time. The meanings of the experience change as we evolve. Memory is the story we tell ourselves about our past as a way of making sense out of our current condition.
Making art is a good surrogate for sense making. My mother is making sense of this challenging time by working on a series of images in a coloring book. Her father made sense out of his experiences in world war II by taking up painting. I try to make sense by writing and assembling collages of objects and montage videos featuring fragments of voices.
I don’t think the art is about escapism. I think art is about deepening the experience to get to the wonder that is each moment. I cherished my time with my parents this weekend even though it was difficult.
In fact as I wrote this last sentence I received a call from my mother who is panicked now. I have told her to call 911 and I am now heading back to her house to take her to the hospital. The ambulance has arrived and they are now transporting him.
The end is always near. It just gets closer and closer without our noticing. I think art helps us understand this and cherish it.
To be continued…
Kindest Regards,
Ira