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.”