My short story, I AM THE ART DEPARTMENT, was inspired by something someone said to me.
Over three years ago, not long after my father's death in 2011, I drove with a good friend (for moral support, which, as it turns out, I would find myself in dire need of) to the bucolic, rural community college where my dad had taken art classes, dozens of them, in the fifteen years since his retirement to Sonoma County. My mission was fairly straight-forward, or so I thought. I was seeking anyone who might have known my father, sat beside him in classes, taught those classes, posed for students in those classes, even--it seemed well within the realm of reason to me--admired his work. I was in the early stages of developing what would become my art book/memoir about him and was on a mission to gather whatever I could of his life, particularly his life in art.
Over three years ago, not long after my father's death in 2011, I drove with a good friend (for moral support, which, as it turns out, I would find myself in dire need of) to the bucolic, rural community college where my dad had taken art classes, dozens of them, in the fifteen years since his retirement to Sonoma County. My mission was fairly straight-forward, or so I thought. I was seeking anyone who might have known my father, sat beside him in classes, taught those classes, posed for students in those classes, even--it seemed well within the realm of reason to me--admired his work. I was in the early stages of developing what would become my art book/memoir about him and was on a mission to gather whatever I could of his life, particularly his life in art.
In any case, as does the fictional character in my short story, I came to this campus with its redwoods, lush lawns and impressive brick buildings, armed with fliers to post on bulletin boards--two photos of my Dad and my contact information. Like those notices on milk cartons ("Have you seen this person") but I only wanted to talk to people, to gather anecdotes, recollections to add texture to the personal and family reflections that I already had. In addition, I thought an exhibit in the gallery at the college where he had spent so many peaceful hours, would be fitting and appropriate. After repeated attempts to contact the gallery via e-mail and phone calls, I had decided that I should just go in person, just waltz into the gallery and make my request.
I never anticipated the vehement reaction of the gallery Directress. She seemed affronted, taken aback by my every word and gesture. My request to post the silly fliers in the art department office, in the hopes that someone might recognize Dad, prompted her to pull herself up very upright and say something to the effect of, "I've already asked and no one remembers your father. No-one." And then, when I pressed the issue, asking to "maybe, please, just tack up one flier, perhaps near the professors' mail boxes," she said there was no point in doing that, and added, "I am the department," to end the conversation once and for all.
I said nothing, only repeated the phrase over and over in my head as I left the gallery, determined not to forget it.
I never anticipated the vehement reaction of the gallery Directress. She seemed affronted, taken aback by my every word and gesture. My request to post the silly fliers in the art department office, in the hopes that someone might recognize Dad, prompted her to pull herself up very upright and say something to the effect of, "I've already asked and no one remembers your father. No-one." And then, when I pressed the issue, asking to "maybe, please, just tack up one flier, perhaps near the professors' mail boxes," she said there was no point in doing that, and added, "I am the department," to end the conversation once and for all.
I said nothing, only repeated the phrase over and over in my head as I left the gallery, determined not to forget it.
Perhaps it was the irony of it that etched that line in my mind. Dad believed in humility above all else. He hated it when anyone bragged or boasted or took themselves or their accomplishments too seriously. "It's not for us to judge," he would say. From which I understood, from an early age, we don't form our reputations, others do. This woman was the embodiment of all that my father was not. Later I would wonder if she knew that. If perhaps she'd known him, even known him well. My writer's mind could conceive all kinds of scenarios. Perhaps they'd had artistic differences. Perhaps she was a spurned lover. Perhaps any number of things. I'll never know.
One of my hopes had been that through a gallery show on campus, some of the subjects he had painted during his years there would see their images and be pleased, touched perhaps. Some were models, but others might have been friends and colleagues at the school. He spoke of one gentlemen he had painted twice, a chemistry professor on campus, I think he said, a man he liked and admired. Dad said they'd talked of the war--which would have been World War II. This man had been a decorated pilot. Something like that. The conversation is now hazy. I wish I'd taken notes. But that would have been weird. In any case, like my father, I imagine this man is now deceased. I imagine too that his family might want to see these portraits.
One of my hopes had been that through a gallery show on campus, some of the subjects he had painted during his years there would see their images and be pleased, touched perhaps. Some were models, but others might have been friends and colleagues at the school. He spoke of one gentlemen he had painted twice, a chemistry professor on campus, I think he said, a man he liked and admired. Dad said they'd talked of the war--which would have been World War II. This man had been a decorated pilot. Something like that. The conversation is now hazy. I wish I'd taken notes. But that would have been weird. In any case, like my father, I imagine this man is now deceased. I imagine too that his family might want to see these portraits.
There are others. I don't know any of these people. Perhaps they were only models and my father didn't know them either, or they him. But knowing how Dad could sometimes be--quietly charming, especially with attractive young ladies--I can picture him making conversation, asking questions in his disarming way as he painted and I can imagine these models (no longer young) would remember this quiet older man with the strong jaw, unruly salt and pepper hair and competent hands.
I have no proof, but I believe this to be true.
The paintings in this post are from the years my father took classes at Santa Rosa Junior College.
My characterization of this encounter reflects my own recollections of events. I imagine, no, I expect, others would recall the meeting differently, if at all.
I have no proof, but I believe this to be true.
The paintings in this post are from the years my father took classes at Santa Rosa Junior College.
My characterization of this encounter reflects my own recollections of events. I imagine, no, I expect, others would recall the meeting differently, if at all.
  |   |
I AM THE ART DEPARTMENT appears in the Fall 2016 issue of the Still Point Arts Quarterly, a beautifully-designed serial publication that includes portfolios of contemporary artists as well as articles, essays, fiction, and poetry. You can order your copy of the Fall 2016 issue here, or subscribe here.
RSS Feed
