For Barbara
It is hard to sum up a person with something as limited as words. If only I could give you a feeling, hand it to you across the table and say, "This. This is what she was like," and you would nod your head and understand.
On Thursday, a woman died.
I refer to her as my "godmother" but neither of us was particularly religious. It was more that she was a good example and encouraged me and led me to the right paths--- right paths that had nothing to do with God, but with love and art. (She would argue with me, probably, that they are the same.)
Barbara was one of my mother's closest friends. She lived in Ohio, in the same small house on the corner of a farm since before I was born. For the last twenty or so years of her life, she shared that home with her partner Eileen, as well as with any number of lost and wandering people who needed her help.
Barbara was an artist; she had no favorite medium, it seemed, because she did it all. She wrote, directed and starred in "Refrigerator Box Operas" in her backyard, weaving complicated narratives and creating entire scenes for the large groups of friends she gathered for her art parties. She was a talented photographer; she had an instinct for portraits that captured the complicated depth of an individual. Her house was full of things she'd drawn and painted. If a scrap of paper found its way onto her desk, Barbara would doodle on it--- frequently beautiful, fat, naked women with prominent vaginas. From origami, journal-making, bookbinding, interior decorating, to sewing, music, jewelry-making, printmaking, it seemed that anything she tried, she conquered.
Barbara took a photograph of my mother that made her look like she belonged in Vogue. I found it in Barbara's bedroom one of the last times we visited; I looked up at a wall I thought I'd seen a thousand times before and there was my mother, thirty years younger and absolutely stunning. My favorite photo of myself as a baby wasn't taken in a studio--- it is a tight portrait in black and white, taken as I sat and drooled on myself on Barbara's couch. Her photographs said something real. She abhorred airbrushing and loved things that were grotesque. Her living room wall was covered in portraits that looked so real they might begin speaking to you (sadly, Barbara's days of guiding acid trips were long over by the time I came of age, so I never had that particular experience!)
A trip to Barbara's house was almost always magical. There was always some new interesting thing to discover, like new pretty glass things tucked onto a crowded shelf or drawings I hadn't noticed before hung on the side of the bathroom sink. And there were almost always presents to be granted. When I was very small, it was the punching balloons that were hidden on her bookcase. As I grew up, it was art supplies. She was obsessed with fancy paper; luckily a discount store nearby fed her habit. If I tired of the adults' conversation, she was quick to set me up in her office with things to draw with. Frequently the visit ended with gifts: pens, charcoal, and so much paper. (Barbara loved excess and frequently overbought, I think so she could give it away.) Her home was a refuge of art and love, for many.
I needed that retreat ten years ago. The first time I went to college, I was far from home but close to where Barbara lived. My mother would drive in once or twice a month, and we'd spend the weekend at Barbara's house. I'd usually hide in her bedroom and try to decompress. We'd smoke a joint and talk about movies and I would forget how lost I was. I was flailing, and her home was a sanctuary to me. Looking back, I think those weekends of quiet and family quite literally kept me alive in the darkest period of my life.
Several years ago I showed her photos I took of my girlfriend at the time. She looked at them and pronounced them technically deft, but said that she could tell this girl was not the one. I was offended because I wanted to believe differently at the time, but she was right. She was frequently right (ALWAYS RIGHT, if you asked her, because the woman was stubborn) and let her thoughts be known as law.
When I came out at fourteen, my mother wasn't particularly worried. I told her I'd been scared of her reaction, since it wasn't like we knew any gay people, and she said, "Except for Barbara and Eileen." I hadn't even thought of them, by that time a couple for a dozen years, because they weren't "gay". They were just family. I know that part of the reason I'm gay is genetic, but I am sure it didn't hurt that one of the most healthy, stable relationships I saw was between two women. From a very young age I saw the love between Barbara, flamboyant and loud, and Eileen, the strong quiet type, and I wanted to have that. I marveled that they fit so well as a couple, as if they had been made for each other.
I started making plans last fall to take Kayla to Ohio to meet Barbara. Her health had been declining and I wanted to make sure that my lesbian art-mother met the love of my life. I imagined Kayla bringing out her ukulele, or showing Barbara one of her paintings, and Barbara raving about how wonderful she was. Barbara would have seen that this one, unlike all the others, encouraged my art and fed my soul with hers, and I think she would have approved.
We didn't make it. I thought we had more time. I told my mother I wish we'd gone, but she said that she thought Barbara was keeping us away. She wouldn't have wanted us to see her weak.
Twenty years ago Barbara had cancer. It was cured, but something went wrong during the radiation treatments and her body was damaged. Over the years her spine and organs deteriorated; this fiercely independent woman ended up in a wheelchair, with a colostomy bag. She was in pain frequently.
Even so, Barbara was the most fucking positive person I've ever known. She made signs that said "Misery is Optional" and hung them all over her house. She sent out a periodical inspirational email to a large mailing list. With Eileen's help, she set up her desk and a long table in the living room so she could continue to create. And she did--perhaps more slowly and less frequently--but she did. When her mobility decreased more and it was hard for her to leave the house, people came to her, and she held court there in her living room. She was a Queen of the Misfit Toys.
I am not sure what else to say. Words. A collection of facts does not add up to a person.
She wore caftans and dyed her hair purple. She had a collection of things that involved skulls and skeletons. She was obsessed with music. Everything about her was larger than life. She radiated light.
I will tell you a story. I think it is the closest thing I can do to make you understand how crucial this woman was to making me the person I am today.
Several years ago, Barbara said she wanted a huge version of a particular photo, so I sent it to her. She sent me a check for $500. I wasn't expecting to be paid, so I asked my mother what I should do. It was far more than the photograph was worth and I thought I should send it back, but my mother told me there was no arguing with Barbara.
It was the first print I ever sold.
Barbara had it framed and gave it a place of honor in her living room.
I felt like a real artist every time I saw it there.
Goodbye, Barbara. If I am very lucky and work very hard, I will live up to the example you set for me; as an artist, a woman, a partner, a guide to those who wander and a force of nature.
Love,
Beth
On Thursday, a woman died.
I refer to her as my "godmother" but neither of us was particularly religious. It was more that she was a good example and encouraged me and led me to the right paths--- right paths that had nothing to do with God, but with love and art. (She would argue with me, probably, that they are the same.)
Barbara was one of my mother's closest friends. She lived in Ohio, in the same small house on the corner of a farm since before I was born. For the last twenty or so years of her life, she shared that home with her partner Eileen, as well as with any number of lost and wandering people who needed her help.
Barbara was an artist; she had no favorite medium, it seemed, because she did it all. She wrote, directed and starred in "Refrigerator Box Operas" in her backyard, weaving complicated narratives and creating entire scenes for the large groups of friends she gathered for her art parties. She was a talented photographer; she had an instinct for portraits that captured the complicated depth of an individual. Her house was full of things she'd drawn and painted. If a scrap of paper found its way onto her desk, Barbara would doodle on it--- frequently beautiful, fat, naked women with prominent vaginas. From origami, journal-making, bookbinding, interior decorating, to sewing, music, jewelry-making, printmaking, it seemed that anything she tried, she conquered.
Barbara took a photograph of my mother that made her look like she belonged in Vogue. I found it in Barbara's bedroom one of the last times we visited; I looked up at a wall I thought I'd seen a thousand times before and there was my mother, thirty years younger and absolutely stunning. My favorite photo of myself as a baby wasn't taken in a studio--- it is a tight portrait in black and white, taken as I sat and drooled on myself on Barbara's couch. Her photographs said something real. She abhorred airbrushing and loved things that were grotesque. Her living room wall was covered in portraits that looked so real they might begin speaking to you (sadly, Barbara's days of guiding acid trips were long over by the time I came of age, so I never had that particular experience!)
A trip to Barbara's house was almost always magical. There was always some new interesting thing to discover, like new pretty glass things tucked onto a crowded shelf or drawings I hadn't noticed before hung on the side of the bathroom sink. And there were almost always presents to be granted. When I was very small, it was the punching balloons that were hidden on her bookcase. As I grew up, it was art supplies. She was obsessed with fancy paper; luckily a discount store nearby fed her habit. If I tired of the adults' conversation, she was quick to set me up in her office with things to draw with. Frequently the visit ended with gifts: pens, charcoal, and so much paper. (Barbara loved excess and frequently overbought, I think so she could give it away.) Her home was a refuge of art and love, for many.
I needed that retreat ten years ago. The first time I went to college, I was far from home but close to where Barbara lived. My mother would drive in once or twice a month, and we'd spend the weekend at Barbara's house. I'd usually hide in her bedroom and try to decompress. We'd smoke a joint and talk about movies and I would forget how lost I was. I was flailing, and her home was a sanctuary to me. Looking back, I think those weekends of quiet and family quite literally kept me alive in the darkest period of my life.
Several years ago I showed her photos I took of my girlfriend at the time. She looked at them and pronounced them technically deft, but said that she could tell this girl was not the one. I was offended because I wanted to believe differently at the time, but she was right. She was frequently right (ALWAYS RIGHT, if you asked her, because the woman was stubborn) and let her thoughts be known as law.
When I came out at fourteen, my mother wasn't particularly worried. I told her I'd been scared of her reaction, since it wasn't like we knew any gay people, and she said, "Except for Barbara and Eileen." I hadn't even thought of them, by that time a couple for a dozen years, because they weren't "gay". They were just family. I know that part of the reason I'm gay is genetic, but I am sure it didn't hurt that one of the most healthy, stable relationships I saw was between two women. From a very young age I saw the love between Barbara, flamboyant and loud, and Eileen, the strong quiet type, and I wanted to have that. I marveled that they fit so well as a couple, as if they had been made for each other.
I started making plans last fall to take Kayla to Ohio to meet Barbara. Her health had been declining and I wanted to make sure that my lesbian art-mother met the love of my life. I imagined Kayla bringing out her ukulele, or showing Barbara one of her paintings, and Barbara raving about how wonderful she was. Barbara would have seen that this one, unlike all the others, encouraged my art and fed my soul with hers, and I think she would have approved.
We didn't make it. I thought we had more time. I told my mother I wish we'd gone, but she said that she thought Barbara was keeping us away. She wouldn't have wanted us to see her weak.
Twenty years ago Barbara had cancer. It was cured, but something went wrong during the radiation treatments and her body was damaged. Over the years her spine and organs deteriorated; this fiercely independent woman ended up in a wheelchair, with a colostomy bag. She was in pain frequently.
Even so, Barbara was the most fucking positive person I've ever known. She made signs that said "Misery is Optional" and hung them all over her house. She sent out a periodical inspirational email to a large mailing list. With Eileen's help, she set up her desk and a long table in the living room so she could continue to create. And she did--perhaps more slowly and less frequently--but she did. When her mobility decreased more and it was hard for her to leave the house, people came to her, and she held court there in her living room. She was a Queen of the Misfit Toys.
I am not sure what else to say. Words. A collection of facts does not add up to a person.
She wore caftans and dyed her hair purple. She had a collection of things that involved skulls and skeletons. She was obsessed with music. Everything about her was larger than life. She radiated light.
I will tell you a story. I think it is the closest thing I can do to make you understand how crucial this woman was to making me the person I am today.
Several years ago, Barbara said she wanted a huge version of a particular photo, so I sent it to her. She sent me a check for $500. I wasn't expecting to be paid, so I asked my mother what I should do. It was far more than the photograph was worth and I thought I should send it back, but my mother told me there was no arguing with Barbara.
It was the first print I ever sold.
Barbara had it framed and gave it a place of honor in her living room.
I felt like a real artist every time I saw it there.
Goodbye, Barbara. If I am very lucky and work very hard, I will live up to the example you set for me; as an artist, a woman, a partner, a guide to those who wander and a force of nature.
Love,
Beth