chocolate is a verb

colors, flavors, whims and other growing things

gift

LRK to jik 1997In his sculpture, my father returned repeatedly to this form — the object both joined and separate. Reflecting the natural shape of the branching tree, it suggests relationship as well as the individual standing with arms raised in praise or plea.

This small “WINGED FORM,” as he described it in his carefully annotated and illustrated log, was made from two pieces of black walnut “doweled and epoxied together” and affixed to a black walnut base. My father made it for my birthday in 1997. It was one of his last sculptures and it was the last of my birthdays we would celebrate together.

In addition to the “Love — Papa” signature on the bottom, the piece itself is carefully scribed on the four faces of the lower, joined, section: my initials, J and K, on two sides, 97 and his artist’s monogram, a conjoined LRK, on the other two.

It is conceived and crafted and finished with love, infused with memories and embodied with the calm strength of his warm hands. A gift that transcends time and loss.
. . . . .
LRK to jik, 1997, “WINGED FORM,” 10” high, base 3.25” diameter

found poem: surrender

found poem: THE LETTER

found poem: meticulous

found poem: a fine night

found poem: does

found poem: the night

self

DAK self-portrait 12-1967My mother did hundreds of self-portraits. Most were more sketches than paintings, quick studies in ink, pastel, pencil, charcoal. Whatever more ambitious work might be waiting on the easel, she could always turn to the model in the mirror.

Each portrait captures something uniquely Dorothy — feature, gesture, expression, coloration — and they are almost universally unflattering. In these small pieces, she allows us to see the stark, the scrawny, the wrinkled and unposed self who would vanish into a wide smile in front of a camera.

This sketch, made when she was in her mid-50s, is an exception. Quick and sure, it is identifiably Dorothy, but while she is serious, she looks pretty — her hair smoothed, her glasses dramatic, her mouth painted and lush.

How I wish I could step back into that moment to know her brief happiness.

found poem: silver

found Valentine: Love.

found Valentine: filled

found Valentine: romance

found poem: I was

found poem: endorse

found poem: One

found poem: time

found poem: city

found poem: enough

found poem: WATCHING

a missing tile

DAK smoking
I never saw my mother smoke; she quit just before I was born. In this photo, taken late in her pregnancy, Dorothy holds what was perhaps one of her last cigarettes. She looks pensive and calm. She’s wearing polka dots.

I don’t know where the picture was taken, or who took it. I’ve never seen the actual photograph. What I have is a print on plain paper and it’s curious to think that someone else — who, I wonder — has or had the original. Who would have wanted it more than Dorothy herself?

There is so much we don’t know — tiles missing from the mosaic we assemble each morning into our world view. Still, we turn them into a picture, call it complete, think we know what we know. Until we find a missing tile.

I love polka dots.

%d bloggers like this: