Handed Down

In grade school, a friend of mine-- the son of an investment banker-- once asked me, “So, do you guys sit around at dinner time and talk about colors?” My father was an artist and painter and after I thought about it a moment I answered, “Actually, yes.” My friend was incredulous. In his family's dinner table they spoke of fiscal earnings and blue chip stocks. In my home we discussed composition and color, sunsets, shadow and light. And for as long as I can remember, I watched my father clean his paintbrushes-- sometimes two at a time-- by putting a dab of mild soap or turpentine in the palm of his hand, and gently swirling the soft horsehair tips in tiny circles against his life lines as the paint ran through his fingers and washed tranquilly down the drain; like a monk gently cleansing his stigmata.

Growing up, Dad took us to museums; the Frick, Met and Gardner were among is faves. He introduced us to Impressionism-- U.S. and abroad-- the Hudson River School and the Post Impressionists in their wake. He confided how Homer treated his women and how most of the rest of those guys were sort of nuts. He explained the difference between Monet and Manet and told us how Mary Cassatt had been under appreciated. He pointed out Degas’ renegade composition, Whistler’s quiet grace and marveled at the exquisite luminescence of Renoir’s skin and the masterful folds in Sargent’s silks. “Look at that!” Dad would exclaim under his breath, his hand mirroring the movement of the long shadows thrown off by a certain Spanish dancer, “How did he do that?!” Then Dad would shake his head in reverence and awe and look a little bit longer; even though he’d seen the painting a thousand times. Even though he could paint that beautifully himself. His own talent was something he always questioned; it was a fact he would die not knowing. But I knew.

When he died last year, not only did his life end quickly, but the paintings he painted stopped as abruptly. There would be no more forthcoming just as I would learn no more tricks from the man who’d taught me about spackle and varnish, spray paint and grout. And so what was once a flow of information is now a body of information, passed down for me to do with as I wish.

Almost immediately the reorganizing of memories took place, filing the unpleasant away behind the generous; deep in storage, hard to reach. And for some reason, now that he’s gone, I find I’m more aware of the legacy he’s left me, and in turn more cognizant of him. On Saturday mornings I fill the house with Brandenburg and Miles Davis, and take my Mom to hear anyone named Pizzarelli. I re-grouted my own tub and mow my own lawn, and stop to watch the rest of any movie starring Peter Sellers, or Cyd Charisse. I honor my father through Ernie Kovacs. But I don’t think I’d ever thought about how much I’d actually learned from him. This was just all part of life.

Last June, I ended up at the National Portrait Gallery in D.C. with a man I’d just met. We were fellow guests who’d convened for a weekend baby shower and were both looking for something to do to kill time before our flights left. Meandering quietly through the gallery together I piped up occasionally to point out this or that about a painting or artist I recognized. “You know a lot about art,” he said, “were you an art major?” I paused, embarrassed, knowing how little I actually know. “No,” I replied, “My dad was an artist. He taught me.” And as if on queue, I walked around a corner, found myself face to face with a Mary Cassatt, and cried.

This is just the sort of thing that happens in the first year after someone we love dies, this unexpected surge of remembrance, and I was able to duck into another room and recover, quickly and quietly, before this stranger could think that I was sort of nuts. Now I can pass on what I’ve learned calmly, still amassing Dad’s legacy as it unfolds.

Recently I found myself on my knees at a low sink with a kindergartner who volunteered to help me wash the paintbrushes. “I want to be an artist,” she said, “I really love to paint.”
“You do?” I replied, delighted. “We’ll then you’re going to need to know how to wash your brushes,” I said brightly and turned on the water. “Open your hand, and let me show you how.”

Root Problem

Just yesterday I had a root canal. Cozied into the naugahyde chair, ipod set to shuffle; I thought to myself, this is heaven compared to working on my divorce. Reclined back, eyes closed, I tried to relax; losing myself in the dulcet tones of my endodontist leaning into my upper right molar (number three) with her full body weight, grinding away at my tooth, it sounded as if a small, mechanical ferret was being throttled next to my head. And as the squealing and screeching echoed in the space under my right frontal lobe-- weeeeeeeeerrrrreeeeeeeee-- I did my best to focus on Bix Biderbeck's lilting melody, relieved not to be reading over the latest draft of my property settlement agreement for questions or comments to my attorney. It felt like a vacation.

The encumbrance brought on by the festering discomfort and ensuing removal of a person from one's life who leans on ones last nerve is an emotional discomfort to be sure. The constant throbbing brought on by the lists and sub-lists of what must be located, recorded, reviewed, transferred, re-assigned and remembered; split, packed, stored and negotiated results in a throbbing that can take months to die down. Whereas the actual discomfort I was in from my tooth being gnawed at by the electrified prosthetic of the chipper sadist hovering above me-- the festering sort of pain, which is caused by the removal of an actual nerve-- had a finite resolution. I knew that the throbbing would end. My divorce proceedings, however, linger on.

The endodontist finally wheeled her chair back, finishing with a flourish and what I thought to be a smattering of applause from my lower molars. The office lady handed me a xeroxed hand-out which gave me directions for home pain management-- the option of vicadin crisply crossed out. I considered the vast oeuvre of pain management I’d used in the last two years as an average divorcing spouse. The obvious balm—therapy—was a given. But I’ve also sampled Benadryl (only a half) for sleeping, and The Onion and YouTube for quick laughs; church for forgiveness, yoga and CoDA for letting go, and babysitting for the explicit use of movie house escape. My mother has taken me shopping, my father gave me hugs, and for a while-- over the winter-- I ate a sleeve of Mallomars every night before bed. Yummy. And if I thought that taking 3 ibuprohin and 1 Tylenol every 5-6 hours for the last two years would have eased my pain, I would have mainlined the stuff. But that was all that was prescribed for my root canal; so simple, unfussy and clean. I cursed the office lady for not taking out the vicadin line from the hand-out altogether. Must we be reminded of what we could have had?

Stepping into the sun’s hot glare wif a smollen mowf, I was thankful that my divorce, at least, didn’t smell like my root canal. The inescapable odor of vibrating metal on burning enamel had nestled into my nasal passages as I lay helpless in the chair, it’s tinge teasing my nostrils with the suggestion of decay; pervasive like the smell of sawdust, but without the comfort. Breathing fresh air again as I walked to my car, I cleared out my nose, ears and lungs as I wondered about my eventual divorce decree’s odor. Would it smell like passing lilacs? Like morning’s buttered toast? Probably not. But it will smell like victory.