The last art pieces of Dot Chast

 

Mom (with green shirt) at retrospective of her work

Heart breaking
to see so many
of mom’s paintings, pastels, and monotypes
still lingering in an almost empty house
and destined for the trash heap, for the town dump.
Our houses, bursting with beloved pieces of Mom’s art,
can hold no more, galleries took a few to remember her by,
friends have their favorites, and these, orphaned
and abandoned, break my heart.
It is as if another person is dying, has died,
and this is time for her burial.
 
Some of the oils are 60 years old.
Some, like The House on Schoharie Turnpike, are realistic
and hold the aura of life lived and passed.
Some are collage-like monotype which
hold the pieces of a life lived, mazes escaped,
and ideas sparked in a spirit-led soul.
Some are ink, some watercolor, some
framed self-hooked rugs, some acrylic.
Half are framed with glass, half are boxed prints.
And all of the more than 500 pieces of art
are destined for the trash heap, for the town dump.
 
Understand, these—the experiments, too—are art,
not childish scribblings.  Even mom’s experiments
with form and medium have the boldness of intention
rather than a hesitating hand and stroke.  She taught
pastel and paint with a “choose a color, make a mark”
technique that brought out the best in her students.
She taught pencil drawing of real scenes by showing
how texture reveals shape, how perspective gives
depth.  She showed me the joy of printmaking
from wood and linoleum and potatoes, from
etched blocks on her printing press.
 
We save digital images of the dying body of work,
recording name, medium, dimensions, and catalog number.
It is our last kiss and gift to our mom.  We saw her delight
In her work.  We saw her art studio expand from basement
to bedroom, living room, and kitchen.  Pastel marks up
the wall-to-wall carpet, but, oddly, no paint mars the walls.
Empty hangers will be the only evidence left when we are done.
For we must finish.  The house must embrace new owners
for the sake of the neighborhood.  The body—measured and
photographed—must be buried, while the small collections
in people’s houses carry on her name:  Dot Chast, artist.

 

For Sherry's prompt "SOLASTALGIA" at What's Going On? 

 

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