This is a post about dead artists and writers, kind of, though it won’t seem to be at first because it’s kind of and kind of not.
Walked out of one flu/cold and right into another. At least H.o.p. came down with another one, wham, and this time he felt painfully bad at the beginning. Last cold he was upbeat. This time he was sobbing at first as he trailed Kleenex. I’m not a person who can clean up hundreds of wadded tissues, no matter how often I wash my hands, without getting a bug myself so am waiting to get socked next.
But the reason I bother to write this is simply intro to the conversation we had tonight.
I wasn’t feeling so hot and had been without sleep for over 24 hours as he had been unable to sleep and then was waking every couple of hours with the cold bothering him, though Vicks Vaporub and eucalyptus and the humidifer and Tylenol and massaging his sinuses were helping greatly. (Excuse me while I blow my nose.) I was sorting through piles and piles of H.o.p.’s papers (excuse me while I blow my nose again) now that I’ve got another two bookcases packed in here that I’ve already filled up (excuse me while I blow my nose again and this time immediately again) and could use at least two more but at least I’ve got someplace to put all the fake Tupperware containers holding all the paints and pens and markers and crayons and school supplies and paper and this and and that and (excuse me while I blow my nose again) and more paper etc. etc. and our multiplying notebooks and try to make room for the next onslaught of books and art projects. (Gotta get those two other bookcases–we could actually use four more as I’ve still got one bookcase that is literally dissolving and upheld with books as support and two low handmade ones that need to be replaced with space-making tall ones. You can’t beat $59 at Ikea for a big bookcase but will have to hold off on any more which is fine, because it’s great to be able to at least reach the closet door in here, in front of which I’d been stacking all the fake Tupperware art supply containers.) Like you want to hear all this but I’m blowing my nose again and I can’t hear you sighing…
(In case you didn’t notice, the bookcases have nothing to do with anything in this post. I’m just showing them off. See? Aren’t they nice?)
Anyway, H.o.p. is one of those kids who reflects on the past and when he’s not feeling good and wants to feel better things will come to his mind that may have delighted him ages ago. He was feeling better tonight and was wanting to feel even better and cozier and he was aware I was cranky and tired. He asked for a movie that he’s not seen in ages and I looked for it then remembered it had worn out long ago and been thrown out. So he then asked to see a website he used to love to visit when he was two and three years of age. It’s a mix of art that I accept as good and new age art that I look upon as being bad art and has songs to go with each piece that are made-for-computer snyth honestly bad reworks of Bach, Pachebal, Enya etcetera. But it doesn’t matter. H.o.p. loved that website when he was two and three, a website I’d come upon because of a very brief internet acquaintance I’d made with a woman, I don’t even remember how but it was through some list I’d joined that promptly dissolved, and this was her website so I had visited it occasionally when I probably wouldn’t have otherwise, because she was a nice woman, and H.o.p. had fallen in love with two images there. One a painting of a baby floating in space looking at a star, and that famous photo of the earth taken from the moon. It has been two years since we’ve been to that website, at least, but he remembered it tonight and said, “Do you remember the webpage where the baby was flying in the air, please don’t tell me you don’t,” and I knew immediately what he wanted and dug up the link out of an ancient stash of bookmarks of his.
We started with the baby floating in space picture and talked this time about it at length. He wanted to know what it “meant” which wasn’t something he was asking at two and three or the last time we visited. So we talked about multiple and possible meanings. Then he wanted to go through each picture, and as we went through we talked about the artists and what the pictures may mean and the music and what music successfully fit with the pics and what didn’t. A lot of different ideas in the pictures and so we talked about the idea of Tao and of the I Ching and he loved an image called “Atomic Buddha” and was curious about the Dali images. We’ve not talked too much about Dali yet. H.o.p. has always liked Max Ernst and Magritte, he drug around a book of Max Ernst a full two years from when he was two to four years of age. Tonight he was asking about Dali, which he’s not shown interest in before. One of Dali’s famous Christ on the cross paintings.
“Is Dali dead?”
A couple of years ago this was traumatic for H.o.p., that all these artists and musicians and authors he enjoyed were dead. Certainly he sees and hears and reads tons of things by living people but he always manages to ask if they’re alive or dead if they happen to be dead.
“Yes, he’s dead.”
“What a rip!” H.o.p. said and laughed.
Another picture. “Is that artist still alive?”
“Nope, dead.”
“What a rip!” laughed H.o.p. And I laughed too and he liked that and it became the running joke of the night. Still, he was delighted when, as to a new age painting (mediocre), he learned that the artist was yes likely alive, and he was all, “Can I meet them?”
I don’t know how many kids wonder, from the age of five, what artists or musicians or authors are alive or dead. But when H.o.p. began asking me about this several years ago it really meant something to him and was bothersome that he was looking at and enjoying works by all these dead people. Like Beatrix Potter. When he was five, I think the last person he asked if they were alive or dead was Beatrix Potter. After learning Beatrix Potter was dead too, he didn’t ask about who was alive or dead for a long while.
Marty’s been out of town a lot on gigs recently and is going to be out and back in and out and back in some more and H.o.p. soaks up all the time he can with him, every moment an opportunity, and for some reason H.o.p. had him in bed reading Sartre’s “No Exit” to him. Don’t ask me. I don’t know. I walked in to find the scene of H.o.p. snuggled up with his dad, tissues stuck in each nostril, begging for “No Exit” to be continued to be read to him.
“Is he dead?” H.o.p. then asked, as soon as mom was in sight.
“”Yes, H.o.p, he’s dead.”
“What a rip!” H.o.p. said and looked to his dad for a laugh.
“Y’know, a lot of artists and authors and musicians are alive, you just don’t happen to ask me about them,” I reminded him.
“Like the person who painted the picture of the green hand with the light in the middle of the hand? Tell dad about that one.” Yes, another new agey picture I didn’t like but H.o.p. had liked it and we had discussed why he liked it and why I didn’t and he’s confident enough in his tastes that he’s going to like it regardless.
“And you know the woman who wrote the Harry Potter books is alive,” I reminded him. Because H.o.p., like so many, is a Harry Potter fan though we’ve not introduced him to the latest books and movie as it would be too much for him. Sorry, but though H.o.p. may like fantasy horror, a truly atmospheric scene in which someone chops off their hand and tosses it into the pot to help bring evil to life would freak him out. Way bit much for an eight-year-old and he trusted us when we told him the latest movie wasn’t something he would want to see.
Just like he trusts me to ferret out what’s good or not when he Googles for clips of homemade movies of dragons and Godzilla and robots. He is aware there’s stuff that’s too old for him for one reason or another (he doesn’t want to be scared out of his boots) and if he sees a still he likes he’ll ask me to watch it. Because you never know if something that looks good will turn out to not be for an eight-year-old.
“You know what they say, ladies first!” he says, and dashes from the room while I watch it. If I say, “It’s fine,” he runs back in to watch. If I say, “No, not fine,” he comes back in and sometimes he wants to know why and other times he doesn’t.
Sitting here getting more and more congested and suddenly I’ve a craving for really good chocolate with a lime filling. I had a Godiva once that was billed as having a key lime filling. That’s what I want. I want it like crazy.
Vitamin C craving. Yeah. Kerchoo. But I want specifically that Godiva chocolate with the key lime filling.
Oh well.
Anyway, that’s all. Now H.o.p. can joke about dead artist, musicians and authors, when he couldn’t at five.
“Are they alive?”
“Nope.”
“What a rip!”
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