1981

My father would take on various inking and lettering projects, the most notable being a Robinson Crusoe comic. He also had a few students that corresponded with him in order to get his thorough critiques. This is one of the few images that exists of him at his drawing table.

Sinfonia

Who is she? She is a composition, a work of art, a jumble of tiny marks, chugging and enduring until the pen is lifted from the paper and a new line is begun. Her face, at once sensual and stark, has a hint of madness. Her hair is unkempt.

The paper is old and worn, with spots and wrinkles, but she burns her essence into my retinas. Yet her gaze is empty. I can imagine her, standing in front of a Florentine church, catching a man's interest. He is holding a paintbrush and lets his careful eye linger on her longer than she is used to. She hurries away, late to the market.

10 x 10, felt pen on paper.

Cowpoke

It's funny that I didn't notice right away that this cowboy's right arm was drawn in two different places. I was focused on his face and his hand, and wondering what he might have been thinking about.

My father was a master at misdirection, or the art of hiding things in plain sight. He also enjoyed changing placement of objects in the house so you would notice some little joke going on later. Figurines were especially tempting for him. Usually he would place them in some sort of humorous predicament, so that we would happen to notice when walking past.

Best of all when my mother and I spotted something at the same time and my father was in the other side of the room, and we could all enjoy the joke together. More often that not, though, I found myself giggling by myself, sharing the joke with him when he wasn't even there.

8 x 10, ink and watercolor on paper.

Infinite Sky

My parents were married on the eve of World War II. As with most women of that era, my mother remained a virgin until marriage and, because of circumstances, even afterward.

She was head-over-heels in love with my father, and then he was whisked away to storm the beaches of Normandy. They could not be together to consummate their marriage until many months later, and he was off again. More months stretched into years, with visits short and precious. Goodness knows how she was able to stand it.

I think of her in this picture, wondering where he was, sending her love to him across the wide open sky, hoping he felt it, wherever he was at that moment, halfway across the world.

8 x 10, ink and watercolor on paper.

In the Moment

Available as prints and cards in the Cafépress store.

8 x 10, ink on paper.

Not My Mother

I am drawn to this portrait because the woman in it resembles my mother. I imagine she was interesting to my father for the same reason. It is also curious to note that the face looks somewhat detached from the hair, almost as if it is a mask behind held by the hand. I suppose one could write a whole story about this. I wonder what a Polish artist would do with this?

I have seen many terrific Polish posters done for plays and films that exploit such visual ambiguities to bring out a duality of meaning. Masks and faces are very popular for this reason. This one could represent a man's wishful construct of a woman that wasn't really there. I suspect if this were indeed done more fully as a painting exploring these ideas, that a hint of my father's own face could be peeking out from behind the mask...

5 x 7, graphite on paper.

Lena

5 x 7, graphite on paper.

Cleft

I spent many countless quiet moments watching my father draw, and I can see by the thickness and character of the line the certain movement of his hand, a sure flick of the wrist as his hand left the paper momentarily, and he breathed out in quiet triumph of this small, yet infinitely large, accomplishment.

8 x 10, ink and watercolor on paper.

Thank you, Yahoo! Picks

I'm happy to say that "My Father's Hand" has been listed in "Yahoo! Picks" (Sept. 9th) and has been receiving more than 500 visitors a day for the last several days. Of course, if the nice folks at Drawn! hadn't noticed, none of this would have happened. Thank you to everyone who has left a nice comment.

My mom has put two more packets of drawings in the mail, this time some more detailed portraits, so I will be scanning and posting more very soon!

Not Dancing

There is something very peculiar about the feeling of this sketch. The woman is posed as if she might be dancing, but her face seems to be completely expressionless, and in a way, taunting.

My father was a very private man, and kept some very big secrets. For me, she seems to represent some sort of secret he was forced to keep, one that never sat down or kept still, but rather danced provocatively in front of his eyes, unable to give anything to him but a vision of something that could not be.

8 x 10, Ink and watercolor on paper.

Top Hat Bareheaded

Here's another drawing of the man I like to call "Top Hat." I think he's an alter ego of my dad—the happy Santa version that was jolly and dressed for anything!

8 x 10, Ink and watercolor on paper.

Self-Portrait in Pencil

One of my father's self-portraits, done on a page of a 3 x 5 pad. He used to buy these small unobtrusive pads and keep them in his front pocket. He liked to ride the bus during the day and surreptitiously sketch people sitting across from him. At other times, he was his own subject.

3 x 5, pencil on paper.

Waiting

Much of the part of my father's life that I was witness to was spent in quietude. He was always contemplating something, and when it was not a figure model, it was oftentimes a vigorous ant trail crossing my parent's back patio. Oddly enough, I think he related to them more than he did your average person. He spent most of his life in the military, and he liked to remark about how much he admired their organization. He was also fond of science fiction, and had scads of used paperbacks crammed onto homemade shelves in his garage office.

I never knew him to have a job, as he had retired from service by the time I was 6 or 7. When he showed up to live at home in the late 60s, I was frightened, as I didn't recognize him. I don't know that I ever really succeeded in getting to know him, as he worked very hard at being obscure. He answered questions with questions, and kept people off balance with his vaguely off-center remarks. It really wasn't a rewarding experience to make any sort of inquiry at all, and so I kept my distance. He preferred it that way, and I never had a better relationship with him than when I lived in Italy, thousands of miles away. He was a very faithful letter writer. I looked forward to his letters, as they nearly always contained a bit of wisdom from a sage philosopher or two.

And so, this brings me to the title I have given this image, and the part of my life in which I place this woman. She sits quietly, waiting, watching, dreaming, interpreting, trying to understand this man that draws, day in and day out, to pass the time.