Only a Memory

My grandmother died recently. She lived a good long life and passed away at almost 96 years of age. I was lucky enough to have a grandparent for a very long time.

Recently my mother gave me some old photos that my grandmother had displayed in her house. Though I might be a bit of a nostalgic person, I'd never classify myself as sentimental. I'm not one for keepsakes and when I had opportunities to take some mementos that had belonged to my grandparents, I politely declined. On one hand some old pair of glasses seemed like a poor substitute for the person who wore them. I also felt selfish for even considering such a thing. I'd had a grandparent up until I was thirty seven years old. Growing up, I had friends who never even had grandparents into our teens!?! Here I was a grown man, married with children fortunate enough to have GREAT grandparents. How could you want more than that?

Looking at the photo posted above, though, really struck me the other day. In it are my grandparents standing in front of their house. You can see the beautiful flowers my grandmother was so proud of. You can see the yard that my grandfather toiled over when they'd first moved in, hoeing out rocks, and digging out trees and vines and other bramble so that thick green grass could grow. There is my grandmother in vibrant pink pants. She favored pinks and purples in much of her clothing. They're both smiling, my Pop Pop's arm around her shoulder. It captures so many of my memories of who they were. Of all the old photos I got, this is the one that recalls so much for me. The pictures of them in their youth may be great historical heirlooms, but this one shows the people I knew, in the time I knew them.

But staring at it a few days ago, I realized that it's all gone. The people in the picture are both dead now. The house is gone, torn down by a real estate developer. The flowers are gone. The yard is different now, having been changed for new lots. Everything in that picture is just a memory. In a sense, it's like it never happened. Physically, I can't even prove that it did. If you took the photo away, in a way I actually couldn't.

That's what struck me. I wasn't sad or grieving for the loss or even necessarily reflecting on all the times I spent with the people in that picture and in the place that it captured. It was just strange to realize the nature of this life. We're here. We live. We die. And in the big scheme of things, it's really not that much time. How can it be that we die? How can it be that some people walk this earth and lead such powerful lives, even if they're meaningful to just a few people, like my grandparents were, and then they disappear? Forever. No trace of them left behind. Of course I realize that love goes on and memories remain, but it's just strange that nothing else does. All of life is just a memory. When there's nothing left when it's all over, how can you even prove your worth when you lived?

Don't take this as some suicidal endnote. I'm not getting all existential either in pondering the meaninglessness of life. Sometimes things happen that make us look at the world in ways we had never previously considered. I'm just thinking out loud here.

Sometimes Once Is Just Not Enough

For many years, I had dreamed of going to Paris. It was just one of those places, more than any other place in the world, that I just wanted to see. I knew I would like it. I knew I would enjoy all of the culture and the history. I couldn't wait to see the world famous museums with the world famous collections. I couldn't wait to eat the legendary food. I was thrilled at the chance to walk the streets that so many legends had walked, including Hemingway and Picasso. Almost two years ago, I got that chance and Paris was everything I had hoped it would be. It was, without question, the greatest thing I have ever done alone.

What I find interesting about my trip is that I can't stop thinking about it. It's been a long time now, but I'm surprised at how often I find my mind in a foreign city. And when I do think about it, I'm battered by all of my sensory memories of that time. As vivid as that all is, sometimes it's almost too much.

I just can't believe how much I want to go back. I would've thought that going one time would've kind of checked Paris off my list of life goals, but instead all it did was tell me, "Yes, it's just as great as you dreamed" and now all I want to do is go back. I want to take my family there. Shoot... I want to live there! I want to get a job teaching at an embassy or a military base, just so that I can be a Parisian resident for a time. I just can't seem to get over it at all, and acknowledging it here doesn't seem to make it any better.

Why I Hate Some People

This past weekend I went to see an art exhibit at a local gallery. The show was called "Regime Change Starts at Home" and included the work of Shepard Fairey, who I wrote about in a previous post, and the fascinating sculptures of Al Farrow.

The three pieces by Farrow, which he calls "Reliquaries," were absolutely fascinating. The artist takes gun parts and fashions them into models of religious buildings. I saw a synagogue whose floor was constructed on the metal tops of shotgun shells, whose walls were formed from thousands of beebees, and whose dome was made with bullets. On another piece, the tower of a cathedral was fashioned from pistols whose barrels pointed upwards towards a golden cross. The detail in the models was incredible. The intricate swirl of their designs, all made with artillery parts, were so interesting to look at.

Besides the execution of the construction of the models themselves, I was really amazed by Farrow's concept. Marrying religious images with violent objects is really quite brilliant. It's so inventive. Me... I'd draw a church or make it out of toothpicks and sugar cubes. Maybe you'd think, "Good model," if you saw it and I got the dimensions right. Farrow's sculptures make you do much more than that. They are equally impressive and disturbing at the same time, all because of the materials he chose to construct them out of.

I'm always a bit envious of creative minds like Al Farrow's. There have been so many times that I've seen a piece of art and thought, "Damn. I wish I could've thought of that." Just today I saw something in the newspaper about an artist who paints portraits on suitcases. I once saw a cocktail dress made out of rubber surgical gloves. It was amazing! The people who come up with these things... well, I don't really hate them, but I'm definitely envious.

Below is a link to Al Farrow's work. Check it out and celebrate those who think outside of the box!

http://alfarrow.com/pages/listing_al.php?catlist=Reliquaries