An Artist's Voice    About    Links    Contact

Rend

In the early hours, I met a hooded figure, it was death and he said: "I have not come for you."

Death touched my life when three people near me died in the same year.

One of them was my lover's sister. I knew she had been ill for some time with breast cancer. She had a husband and four children, the oldest being eleven or twelve years old. I was told that she was ready to die, and that she would like to meet with me.

The day was gray with wet clouds. The bedroom was dark (light hurt her eyes) and she seemed recessed in the bed far away among the pillows. Feeling uncomfortable, I sat on the bed and waited on her need. I couldn’t hold her hand because she felt too much pain when she was touched. She told me that though she didn’t know me well my art was wonderful. She described the painting Denouement--the light in it and the beauty of the lovers in it. She told me, "No matter how difficult life can be for you, you must always paint."

She died two days later.

Denouement, 1987, oil on linen, 54x78"

Young Man in Green, 1983, oil on linen, 34x40"

The other person was a friend from New York. Peter posed for several drawings and this painting with an enthusiasm and intensity I had never experienced before. He was my best friend’s lover and he became her husband. I once went up to their brownstone apartment, and I was buzzed in; the apartment door was open though no one was there to greet me. I heard giggling and laughter coming inexplicably from a closet. They were in the closet, naked and enclosed in one oversized white dress shirt. He died a gruesome death from his battle with a brain aneurysm. He struggled with three or four weeks of seizures until the swell of the blood destroyed his brain, and ended his life.

Rothko, No. 14

The last of the three, and the closest to me, was my grandmother. She was a no nonsense, stylish, hard-working Canadian turned American; and she loved paintings. Her library was filled with art books about Delacroix, Michelangelo, da Vinci, etc. But, she did not love all kinds of paintings. When I was in my teens I remember her ranting about a Rothko spread in a national magazine. She said, "This stuff is just like when the house painter applies different colored test squares. And he asks, "Lady, which one do you want?"" Her comment was accompanied by a confident, wickedly humorous look.

Later, when I was making my first trip to Italy, she asked me to place a rose on Michelangelo’s tomb.

These were wonderful people. When they died, I felt nothing.

I was afraid that there is something terribly wrong with me, and, if I did not awaken my mourning, I might be living the rest of my life in a state of gray mediocrity, never honoring the passionate and loving people that touched me while they lived. I decided I would do art therapy, which meant drawing themes about these losses.

I began my first query with Louis, a model that posed for a life-drawing class I taught.  During a break I pulled him aside and explained that I wanted to draw a series on death and mourning and would he pose for one of the pieces. He looked visibly shaken and seemed to back away from me. He told me that he could not answer me now but he would think about it.

A week later, we sat down for coffee during the break . He told me that he would model for me, but he needed to tell me something relevant to the project. He said, "Five years ago to this week, my father shot my mother and then he shot himself."

Louis came to model and I began my art therapy.

Rend (Louis), 1992, charcoal of Rives BFK, 24x30"

Aside from Louis, the project consisted of 14 or 15 other models. All the models brought to the project their particular experiences of loss, and contributed their vulnerability, insights, and ability for bodily expression. By the time the series was finished I had gone through my mourning as assuredly as the people of the Mediterranean rend the space surrounding their dead.

Laid Away, 1992-98, charcoal on Rives BFK, 18x30"

A postscript to this story is that several months later a dear friend called me long distance and told me that his father had died, and he went on to discuss some other issues. Instead of feeling uncomfortable, I felt at peace, relaxed, and empathetic enough to sit back and listen very carefully and even hear what was said between the words as my friend talked to me about life.

Michael Newberry
New York, January 2007

Comments Welcomed