A Fair to Remember

A couple of weeks ago I went to The Armory Show even though it meant I had to go all the way to the far West Side. This is a large art fair in NYC with galleries from all over the world. And in a couple of weeks the IFPDA (International Fine Print Dealers Association) will take place. This year was the first year I had no one to talk to about the art.

My father was/is an avid art collector from the time he was in his 20s, and he loved going to the art fairs. When I went to a fair with him, I would have to abandon him almost immediately so he could talk to the many gallerists, buyers, and other art lovers who have formed their own world. Sometimes I would weave through the crowd looking for him so I could ask his opinion about a print. He was rarely enthusiastic. My taste is quite prosaic—whereas he would see something miraculous in a work I could not understand or appreciate. Occasionally he would buy me a piece by an artist I liked. Always a delightful surprise, as much for the work itself as because he had acknowledged my own taste.

When I got back to my Dad’s apartment after the fair, I wanted to tell him about the show, but I knew I wouldn’t get much, if any, response given his mental status. Since he spends nearly 24 hours a day in bed and had been staring at the same two pieces of art for several months, I changed out the pieces but, unfortunately, I was told he was quite upset and asked to take them down. Was that because of the work itself–innocuous pretty Provincetown prints? Or because they reminded him of how important this particular collection had been to him at one point and it was provoking some kind of memory or feeling that he didn’t want to have? Or perhaps any change right now is disturbing.

Talking with him about art was a way to connect with him—he really wasn’t interested in much else. And if art was not a part of our lives, then our lives weren’t interesting. But now he doesn’t talk about art at all. When both my parents were alive and I was in the city, my days were filled with theater, art, restaurants, friends, shopping. All the while thinking that I needed to impress my parents that night at dinner with what I had done that day. The more the better. That was how they rolled, especially my Dad. I couldn’t tell him that I had rewatched six episodes of Will and Grace while playing Words with Friends and eating Chinese food in bed.

I had a desire to impress him, to be what he wanted me to be. I always felt that I fell short in every way. But while the last few years have been extremely difficult as I dealt with the declining health of first my mother and now my father, there has been some kind of redemption. The only criteria by which I was judged was how good a daughter I was—what I was doing with my life didn’t seem to matter as much as that I was taking care of them. And he often told me he was glad I was his daughter.

The other day my brother Jed and I were in my father’s room and after we reassured him about various things he said, “I’m so glad you’re my children.” I said, “Well isn’t that one of the reasons people have kids—to take care of them when they’re older?” To my surprise, he said “No—you have them so you can enjoy them in your lifetime.” Admittedly, he’s not “all there” right now (though I have seen significant improvement in the last couple of weeks), but after all the tumultuous years in the past, when we consistently disappointed and angered each other, these are the words I hope that I will remember.