Roll 17

This one came with a slice of humble pie. Some sort of changing bag accident (I think) when I moved my arms around ruined several frames. And when you only get 10 of them, that hurts.

This was mostly shots of my son and sister in her studio. Only one of those survived, plus a shot of my brother in law's mushroom garden.

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A failed attempt at saving one frame. Bah. Be-more-careful-Ed. Sheesh.

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Thanks much everyone.

Yes, that big press in the one image is a lithographic one. I think. Her art is all printing, etching, embossing, etc. Not that I really understand that field at all.

She has a web site here.

It was gratifying to know I had an artistic sibling when I first met her in 1995. I had always had an itch for it myself, but I am obviously not quite an artist. Having her come along reinforced that for me, and probably had a lot to do with my embarking on this long and painful quest to find an art for myself.

What I like about that first image, by the way, is how her art contains so many genetic symbols, and here my kid draws what could be seen as similar shapes on the paper she taped to the wall for him. The thing that drives her art will also drive them as they become adults, and as I've said elsewhere I think the connection between them will be an important one because they will understand each other in a way I cannot. I found this revelation interesting in that I have figured that ethnicity and culture would be the "big issue," but the more I think about it, the more I realize that adoption is probably a far greater influence.

 

She teaches photography, among other things. A few of her photographs hang in my house. She spent some time in Ireland back in the late 90s and got some great stuff.

Most of it was shot with a Pentax SF10 she inherited from me. That camera had a very long service life before it was finally stolen. Who would steal an old film camera worth about $50 is beyond me, but whatever.

So far as I am concerned, there is no clarity and purpose in what I am doing thus far. I am just poking around really. I haven't found the right direction to go in yet. It is still very much the case I will come up with a photograph I absolutely love. I will think yeah! It's exactly what I was trying to do. But exactly one person likes it. Me. :biggrin: What this tells me is that I can express to myself just fine. I need to be able to do that to others before anyone can begin to think of me as an artist.

 

Actually that is good advice so far as I can tell.

I am fortunate in that through my sister, I have learned directly about the issues that adoption creates in the adopted. When she and I finally met and became close, I even had a hard time understanding why her family would find me threatening or that she would have had anything but gratitude for them. I was of course happy to have her in my life, but my first thought was hey, they went to the trouble of taking care of you.

I have also seen this in Korean adoptees, absorbing whatever I can find coming from them.

Funny how nobody tries to teach you this stuff before you adopt.

Anyway, I still believe it can work out, or at least I will die trying.

 

My family's history is very complex and mostly heartbreaking.

You have to understand that the story involves things such as mental illness, shame, homelessness, abuse and death. You name it. And coming from several directions.

But the gist of this corner of it is, I met her at my mother's funeral in late 1995. I had found out she existed a few years before that. She was standing at the door to an old Catholic church in Philly wearing a blue pants suit and combat boots. I knew we would get along at the sight of her.

She was going to an art school and living in downtown Philly. I've never met a more rugged person when it comes to the very hard edge of our civilization.

I was stunned at that time, having only a month earlier deciding to see my mother again after more than 25 years. That would have been hard enough as it was, but she died before I arrived.

It became surreal after that. I remember sitting in a Catholic halfway house for mentally ill women, sitting at a table with some dozen women, all chain smoking, and all thinking I was my mother's brother because I look so utterly like she did. Even the social workers and nuns that I met at her funeral couldn't stop staring at me. Here was a version of Mary, but not under the wet blanket of thorazine. Maybe the wet blanket of guilt, though.

In walks Janet and her family. Very quiet. They knew my mother over the years after I was taken away from her.

Then over the few years after that we got to know each other. She moved out here and lived in Oakland and Berkeley, then went off to graduate school and now teaching art in Tacoma.


Yeah, it would make a good book. Now if I could just write...

PS, we can keep all this between "us." (hello world) Janet doesn't really make these things public. I on the other hand am an open book sort of person. So I keep most of my family out of it, but I mostly let it all hang out.

 

Hah, right after she strangles me for talking about her so much.

 

To give you an idea how complex, here is a summary of my siblings:

Two brothers, two sisters, same parents. All alive. I am the second oldest.
One sister, one brother, same mother. I have not met the brother. Both taken from my mother and adopted.
Three step sisters. Lived with them for my early to mid teens. One dead.
One sister, same father. Lived with her in my teens.
One sister, adopted by my father and step mother, the daughter of one of my step sisters.

:biggrin: