Using hand-painted and printed paper and cardboard, I have pieced together disjointed memories from my unusual upbringing to construct small assembled vignettes. Just a single vintage photo of the exterior of the 1904 Arlington, Virginia farmhouse I grew up in survives today, but my mind effortlessly conjures up vivid visual snapshots of the exterior of the historic home and garden, as well as of the décor inside and of everyday objects and events. These fragments are signified by the broken abstract shapes of the paper collage pieces.
My childhood was not ordinary. It was the 60’s, and my parents were loudly progressive and politically active in Virginia. My father, who trained as a lawyer upon returning from military service, was generous to a fault, and met all the stereotypes of a non-conforming bohemian. A descendant of J.M. Barrie, the Scottish writer who created Peter Pan, he was in many ways similarly ill-suited to adult life, and to parenting. He bought a lime-green Cutlass Supreme convertible rather than a traditional family car, and thrived on making our world one of fun and frequent surprises – often to my mother’s dismay. While my mom worked hard as a school teacher to keep us all housed, educated and clothed, my father – when he was home – sang and danced and brought all creatures great and small into our world.
The walls of the house seemed permeable as the boundaries between indoors and outdoors were often blurred. We ate, slept and played on the deep porch that wrapped around three sides of the house, and in the woods on our property. We dug, as I imagined children who lived there before us had, in the small dirt room in our basement. And we spent untold hours high up on the roof looking out over Arlington’s Four Mile Run Valley. Wild animals often joined us inside the house, and we always had an array of domestic pets – usually surprise gifts from my father – outside in pens or on leads.
The woods featured a human scale octagonal-shaped “fort” built as part of the artist John Grazier’s coursework at the Corcoran School of Art. My father came to know the teenage Grazier when he had occasion to get him out of jail, and John then became a regular fixture around our house. Among various other things, he served as a slow, ineffective painter of the house (think Eldin in Murphy Brown), and as the builder of our fort.
Peonies are a recurrent theme through these assemblages. The house was, for many years, a peony farm. Flowers grown on the property were sold at Blackistone Florist in Washington, DC. Images of the 100- year-old oak trees, hollies and peonies that bordered the property still inhabit an important place in my brain, and in my heart. And I still feel calmed by visions of the large painting of a graceful Victorian-era lady picking lilies that hung on the wall across from my seat at the dining room table.
Returning home from school, I remember each day holding some new surprise. My father bartered legal services for goods. We obtained antique furniture and carpets, valuable artwork, yardwork, and food, often instead of money he was owed. Once I came home to find dozens of jars of honey and oysters on the kitchen counter. We couldn’t always pay the mortgage, but there was at times a “gracious sufficiency” of foods to eat.
We had to quickly sell and leave our home when I turned 18 following a series of unfortunate events. This sudden disruption of life as I knew it left me nostalgic about the beauty and quirks of growing up in the house, and memories of how our family functioned differently than others I knew. These collages are my attempt to share some of those reminiscences.
Opening Reception:
Saturday, September 9th
4-6 pm
First Friday:
Friday, September 1st
6-8 pm
Third Thursday:
Friday, September 21st
5-6 pm
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Saturday, September 23rd
4-6pm
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