Somewhere along the path of growing up the roles of caregiver changes. Not sure when it began to happen, maybe when dad asked us to help mom clear the table, or maybe earlier when we were asked to put our toys away. Before we knew it we were drying dishes and sweeping up dad's workshop. Doing these little things made us aware of things around us, like at a friend's house we got water in a store bought glass made for drinking, at home we drank from little jelly jars with flowers painted on them. Money was for really important things, and little jelly jars worked just as well as a big store bought glass.
Dad cutting our hair was another thing. We climbed up onto the table-saw in the basement and sat on a box that wobbled, to get a haircut from dad. We were sure everyone in church stared at us. Dad really cut hair short. It was hard looking at your hair in the dustpan and putting it into the trash barrel, even worse was the next morning when, brushing your teeth, you say yourself in the bathroom mirror. At least I had my little Frank Sinatra hat to cover my head walking to church.
Part of growing up was, after church, getting a dollar to go to Shab's Store to buy 7 rolls for Sunday breakfast. After breakfast we sat on the front porch to see who was going to the later mass and who was going to St. George's Church, which was in the other direction. Only half built then, St George's was something for kids to ponder. There were the grand stairs that went nowhere. They held their services in the basement. Three Catholic Churches within a block of our house also gave us something to think about.
My granddad helped build St. Joe's Church, where we went on Sundays. There were classrooms on the first floor and two behind the Sacristy. I loved the feel of the benches which were so smooth, and loved sitting right away and sliding down to make room for the rest of the family. Mom said I was going to wear out the seat of my trousers and said not to slide and, “Act like a gentleman.” Everyone wore their finest, women in fancy hats and in the colorful summer dresses. I loved looking at the way these dresses revealed the form of each lady and watching them walk up the aisle to receive the sacrament was a treat. The nuns later made it a sinful treat that we needed to confuse . White gloves and hats are gone now, but when I was a little kid, women did not enter the church without them. I did not know it at the time that I was studying for when I would be an artist.
Mom expressed herself by making clothes and I believe every lady in the neighborhood made their own dresses. Every now and then mom made a shirt for my brothers, and all I got was hand-me-downs and more chores... Chores mom did when we were littler became ours, and making clothes was her form of painting. Us doing all those things she used to do freed her up for her love.
All these are life's little things that create how I see, think, and express myself. I love the bright colors of my youth and try to apply them to my paintings. The lady who stood in front of me at church as a child is now the model who poses before me telling me who she is and about her memories and dreams. I look for subjects that take me backwards and forwards at the same time. I can not help but revisit my youth when painting. Those sermons, those sins of dreams, being Catholic, all are in my brushes, on my palette. Those hand-me-down shirts and jam jars come out on canvas. A pot made by one model is holding a plant given me by another reminds me of mom's windowsill plants. I mix the past with the present - and then I paint.
