photo by Shaela Cook

It was never a part of my plan, never something that even factored into my life-changing decision to “pursue my bliss”, to consider what people would think about the inherent uncertainty of the act. It never occurred to me to wonder if people would scoff, or mutter about the rashness of the decision…and I was startled when I, a person known for putting everything I do through the filter of “But what will other people think?“, realized I didn’t care about that. But it surprised me even more when I started wondering what, if anything, the people in my life who have passed would think of my decision, and of my art. What would my brother John, who passed away 20 years ago, think of all this?

It may sound silly, even to those who believe there is life after this one. I’m still undecided on that, but we can all agree that people’s memories live on in the ones who loved them the most. And it’s that constant presence I’m talking about.

It’s not infrequent that I fantasize what life would be like if my big brother was still alive. It wasn’t uncommon, shortly after he passed, for me to mistake strangers for him, maybe a trick of my mind to convince myself that it was all an elaborate ruse, that he was actually in some witness protection program. He passed away so many years ago, but it’s not the anniversaries that have made me think of him the most. It was when I reached the age that he was when he died, when I felt like I was moving through the space he had already been. I was pensive, methodical…John was charismatic, spontaneous. So what would he say about my current decision? I can only speculate, but he was a blacksmith too: he played drums in a band. I feel he would have been quietly supportive.

In doing a little research for this post, I discovered that there’s not a lot of information about the awareness of the dead being manifest in one’s personal art. The most significant intersection between death and art seems to be the Day of the Dead rituals in Mexico and elsewhere in Latin America. But there’s no guidebook for how to honor the ones who have passed, through your art.

Does my fascination with the morose, my moribund sense of humor come from that place of grieving, so long ago? Are my more abstract paintings (not the ones on the Etsy shop) and art that reference the afterlife inspired by this formative event? I have one piece I made out of an X-ray and lightbox, and some redacted text, called “V****a M****s Is Okay”; when I acquired the X-ray film, I was delighted and horrified to realize that the film belonged to a living patient. Her reason for getting the X-rays taken was included, and luckily the outcome was good news. But there has to be a reason that I chose to tell her story with art, maybe her persistence to live inspired me to create.

I think I’ll always hear my brother’s voice in my mind, guiding me, maybe even chiding me, to do better, but always to be what I was born to be: an artist. The first album I ever owned was the “Crowded House” cassette he gave me, and I always think of him when “Don’t Dream It’s Over” comes on while I’m painting. My art is the sum of all that I know, all the people who I love, whether they are here or not. And maybe that’s the best guarantee of immortality I can give them; for them to live on in not just the memories of me, but to live on in the art I create. It’s the least I can do, the smallest tribute I, the limited living, can think to give.