Saturday, May 20, 2023: In Massachusetts, the class of 1973 marks 50 years since our college graduation—without me. Sunday, May 21, 2023: In Virginia, as our church celebrates the Ascension, the choir is one alto short; the flute microphone is off; the woman behind the music stand is missing. Monday, May 22, 2023: In New Jersey, my husband and I savor the weekend celebrations of my daughter’s and our granddaughter’s birthdays. Proof of priorities.
We loved this doctor, his big gray eyes steadying us through so many crises, new metasteses, ever shorter prognoses, new chemoes and radiation schedules. This time we were there because of a new pain, in R’s neck. Was it cancer or something else, and anything else would have been preferable at this point. While usually it took scans, somehow this time the oncologist was able to figure it out with a biopsy. He had the microscope out in the hall right outside his office.
“Come look!” He called out from the hallway.
“You can actually see the cancer cells!” He was clearly excited that they were so visible, like he had spotted a hard to see star through a telescope. R, looking faint, politely declined, but I obliged, mainly to please this kind doctor who was always there for us.
“See those red ones all bunched up on the side? Those are cancer cells, like regular cells but reproducing way too fast.” I had thought cancer cells would look ghastly, inky black splotches, not these bright healthy little berry bunches, whose main flaw, apparantly, was overproduction. Nevertheless there they were, proof of the source of his new pain.
I knew I was an artist, and this was going to be the center of my life from age 9. A space to explore this reality was also available to me and I began to understand its role as well. My studio has always been my safe space where I affirm my identity, it is the crucible of my life force. However, while pursuing the many investigations I engage in there, which are manifested in a language of images, I always come away from my studio with niggling thoughts and doubts about what I am doing and why. That is why when I enter my studio once again, I am seeking proof of the authenticity of my pursuit and that I am on the right path in my creative actions and decisions. Some days “there it is” others it is not. The proof of the pudding is at age 85 I continue this pursuit.
Once a week, after school, we would come home to find 4 freshly baked pies sitting out on our one hundred year old dining table. Apple for Denny, Lemon Meringue for Judy, Cherry for Dave and plain Lemon for me.
Proof that we were in our Mother’s thoughts that day.
Start with half a tab, he recommended. The concert’s mid-summer festival-like atmosphere was easy-going, fun, and full of communal spirit. Outdoor showers, DIY food stalls, and drugs for all tastes. Waiting for the acid to kick in, I had a beer then a whippet and water. As the only girl in our group, I wanted to prove I could handle it all. I took the second half. Their concerts are designed to enhance the psychedelic experience, a seasoned friend commented as the world melted into a kaleidoscope of sounds, colors, and faces. Music echoed through the field – but, suddenly, so did my friends. I was seeing and hearing them in loops. It was frightening. Was I stuck in the trip? What if I were old and trapped in my memories of youth? I had to act. Summoning the band leader in my mind, I argued with him at length until I arrived at the philosophical proof that I could change my fate – and my state. And just like that, I was free, my mind clear. All that was left was to wait for the concert to end and for my friends to sober up so they could drive me home.
May 23, 2023·edited May 23, 2023Liked by M Tamara Cutler
It was a dream side gig for a baseball lover, even if it was a little dubious. For two seasons, I walked the stretch from my apartment in Silverlake down Sunset Boulevard to Chavez Ravine, home of the Los Angeles Dodgers. There, I’d join a motley crew hired to give away free Dodgers tee-shirts in the stadium concourse throughout the game. The shirt was in exchange for filling out a credit card application. It was the early 2000’s, an era of financial mania. Our team was paid per application which encouraged a no-holds-barred approach to the sign-up process. The occasional fake name, sometimes a false address, no identification, no problem. No proof necessary was the order of the day. A win-win situation for us and the fans. It felt like we were sticking it to the big banks, a little subversion ala Tyler Durden in “Fight Club”. The work shift would last the length of the ballgame. Getting paid to watch all 81 home games. It was the best. The closest I ever came to my childhood dream of earning a fortune as a pro ball player.
Once my dad said ‘I love you’ on the phone. I was so startled, I don’t think I said anything back. I was already pressing ‘end call’ I think; it was too late.
Years later, he and his girlfriend told me about a silly game they played, where she would dare him to do things. ‘Once I dared him to say I love you to his sister,’ she said. ‘And he was all embarrassed because they don’t normally say things like that, and he said it!’
There was a brief flash in my dad’s eyes that made me wonder… is he remembering the real story? That it was me, not his sister? Or am I imagining it, and remembering it, wrong?
Then last year, I was looking through my old emails from my nana. One of the emails had a message from my dad in it. (He didn’t have his own email address). He ended it, Love you, Dad.
Keepsakes and souveniers. I was a collector of so many. Proof that I had accomplished, been recognised, seen and done wonderful things. Relocating to another country, an island, required extreme editing. The things that made the cut often amuse myself and my husband. There is one binder of newspaper clippings and some magazines with articles about my art but the wooden plaques and plastic trophies from the early years were left behind. Professional affirmation took a back seat to personal experiences and connections. The Reservoir Dogs dolls that my mother and I worked on together were a must. Our names are printed right there on the water damaged boxes. How many kids get to do that with their mom? Dad's chemistry beakers and old ice skates. The bisqueware pitcher mother made at the community college featuring dead game. Grandma Bordner's creepy life sized doll and mantle clock that strikes 13. The cast Dr. Fred made of my teeth. At the time of selection and packing they were perhaps a fanciful whim but, in lonely times, they've been valuable proof that I do have a history and an unbreakable collection of memories with loved ones.
Saturday, May 20, 2023: In Massachusetts, the class of 1973 marks 50 years since our college graduation—without me. Sunday, May 21, 2023: In Virginia, as our church celebrates the Ascension, the choir is one alto short; the flute microphone is off; the woman behind the music stand is missing. Monday, May 22, 2023: In New Jersey, my husband and I savor the weekend celebrations of my daughter’s and our granddaughter’s birthdays. Proof of priorities.
We loved this doctor, his big gray eyes steadying us through so many crises, new metasteses, ever shorter prognoses, new chemoes and radiation schedules. This time we were there because of a new pain, in R’s neck. Was it cancer or something else, and anything else would have been preferable at this point. While usually it took scans, somehow this time the oncologist was able to figure it out with a biopsy. He had the microscope out in the hall right outside his office.
“Come look!” He called out from the hallway.
“You can actually see the cancer cells!” He was clearly excited that they were so visible, like he had spotted a hard to see star through a telescope. R, looking faint, politely declined, but I obliged, mainly to please this kind doctor who was always there for us.
“See those red ones all bunched up on the side? Those are cancer cells, like regular cells but reproducing way too fast.” I had thought cancer cells would look ghastly, inky black splotches, not these bright healthy little berry bunches, whose main flaw, apparantly, was overproduction. Nevertheless there they were, proof of the source of his new pain.
I knew I was an artist, and this was going to be the center of my life from age 9. A space to explore this reality was also available to me and I began to understand its role as well. My studio has always been my safe space where I affirm my identity, it is the crucible of my life force. However, while pursuing the many investigations I engage in there, which are manifested in a language of images, I always come away from my studio with niggling thoughts and doubts about what I am doing and why. That is why when I enter my studio once again, I am seeking proof of the authenticity of my pursuit and that I am on the right path in my creative actions and decisions. Some days “there it is” others it is not. The proof of the pudding is at age 85 I continue this pursuit.
Once a week, after school, we would come home to find 4 freshly baked pies sitting out on our one hundred year old dining table. Apple for Denny, Lemon Meringue for Judy, Cherry for Dave and plain Lemon for me.
Proof that we were in our Mother’s thoughts that day.
Proof of our Mother’s love. ♥️
Start with half a tab, he recommended. The concert’s mid-summer festival-like atmosphere was easy-going, fun, and full of communal spirit. Outdoor showers, DIY food stalls, and drugs for all tastes. Waiting for the acid to kick in, I had a beer then a whippet and water. As the only girl in our group, I wanted to prove I could handle it all. I took the second half. Their concerts are designed to enhance the psychedelic experience, a seasoned friend commented as the world melted into a kaleidoscope of sounds, colors, and faces. Music echoed through the field – but, suddenly, so did my friends. I was seeing and hearing them in loops. It was frightening. Was I stuck in the trip? What if I were old and trapped in my memories of youth? I had to act. Summoning the band leader in my mind, I argued with him at length until I arrived at the philosophical proof that I could change my fate – and my state. And just like that, I was free, my mind clear. All that was left was to wait for the concert to end and for my friends to sober up so they could drive me home.
It was a dream side gig for a baseball lover, even if it was a little dubious. For two seasons, I walked the stretch from my apartment in Silverlake down Sunset Boulevard to Chavez Ravine, home of the Los Angeles Dodgers. There, I’d join a motley crew hired to give away free Dodgers tee-shirts in the stadium concourse throughout the game. The shirt was in exchange for filling out a credit card application. It was the early 2000’s, an era of financial mania. Our team was paid per application which encouraged a no-holds-barred approach to the sign-up process. The occasional fake name, sometimes a false address, no identification, no problem. No proof necessary was the order of the day. A win-win situation for us and the fans. It felt like we were sticking it to the big banks, a little subversion ala Tyler Durden in “Fight Club”. The work shift would last the length of the ballgame. Getting paid to watch all 81 home games. It was the best. The closest I ever came to my childhood dream of earning a fortune as a pro ball player.
Once my dad said ‘I love you’ on the phone. I was so startled, I don’t think I said anything back. I was already pressing ‘end call’ I think; it was too late.
Years later, he and his girlfriend told me about a silly game they played, where she would dare him to do things. ‘Once I dared him to say I love you to his sister,’ she said. ‘And he was all embarrassed because they don’t normally say things like that, and he said it!’
There was a brief flash in my dad’s eyes that made me wonder… is he remembering the real story? That it was me, not his sister? Or am I imagining it, and remembering it, wrong?
Then last year, I was looking through my old emails from my nana. One of the emails had a message from my dad in it. (He didn’t have his own email address). He ended it, Love you, Dad.
Proof that I was wrong?
Keepsakes and souveniers. I was a collector of so many. Proof that I had accomplished, been recognised, seen and done wonderful things. Relocating to another country, an island, required extreme editing. The things that made the cut often amuse myself and my husband. There is one binder of newspaper clippings and some magazines with articles about my art but the wooden plaques and plastic trophies from the early years were left behind. Professional affirmation took a back seat to personal experiences and connections. The Reservoir Dogs dolls that my mother and I worked on together were a must. Our names are printed right there on the water damaged boxes. How many kids get to do that with their mom? Dad's chemistry beakers and old ice skates. The bisqueware pitcher mother made at the community college featuring dead game. Grandma Bordner's creepy life sized doll and mantle clock that strikes 13. The cast Dr. Fred made of my teeth. At the time of selection and packing they were perhaps a fanciful whim but, in lonely times, they've been valuable proof that I do have a history and an unbreakable collection of memories with loved ones.