Whereas her otherwise quiet daughter took to banging on stratocasters and the like in her advancing years, Mom practiced her silent arts to the end. Photos I’ve sent up to Flickr find her quilting, painting, cultivating, decorating, writing, refurbishing and making gravy with a silent hand.
Just off a stretch of travel, I’ve been looking through blue shades at my next steps, wondering. Today - a day with no one to meet, greet, plan with or consult - I decided to move into the muddy lake, accept the inertia of this place, rather than push at the blues with logic or chin ups. I thought I’d occupy my hands with these old photos of the multi talented artist, my mom.
What struck me (very softly) was the way the day turned into a peaceful class room, my mama the head mistress. Look at this, she said. This is a life, too. Where you write, but never publish. You paint canvasses, doll houses, furniture and landscapes, without review. Make dresses for daughters, blankets for sons and slowly grow wealthy on art.
David Halberstam tells a funny story about two Los Angeles Times titans of the last century, Dorothy (Buff) and Norman Chandler. Among other honors, wife and husband each had a pavilion in their name. The Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. The Norman Chandler Pavilion.
A few months after that ceremony Jack Benny was at a function and saw Norman and Buff walking toward him and turned to a friend and said, ‘Here they come, Mr. and Mrs. Pavilion.’
David Halberstam, The Powers That Be
Mom loved Jack Benny and she would have loved that story. Because neither she nor my father have garnered a dedicated pavilion. But most of the shots of Mom doing art were taken by Dad (whose name is Art) doing Art. He carried her easel and brushes to the field where her artist friends gathered to paint yet another Ohio barn. He lugged her framed canvasses to art shows and engineered the various rug braiding and quilt basting logistics. He was the artist’s husband and nary was heard a discouraging word from him.
I once felt overlooked when Dad sent around an email of his favorite memories; most had to do with far flung place like Israel, where my sister’s family lives. I was the nearby daughter who shared holidays and modest outings with the folks. But today my mother reminds me of another side of things. She has me weeping over my own small sight. Bent over quilts and paints and cooking pots she’s fed us all on the simple act of creation that prospers for the sake of doing, nothing more. She focused on the present unparalleled moment with a mind and will that nobody, save her true fans, will care to brag about. No press releases. No headlines. No buzz no razzle dazzle.
Just Jane, doing Jane. And Art, doing Art.
While scanning and cropping, I skyped my Israeli genealogist sister, for details. When did Mom go to New York? What publisher did she work for? Pam sent me this segment of mom’s memoirs, a fine lumination of Mom’s pure gold:
In 1946 I decided to leave home and try my wings in New York City. A friend from Kodak was there going to college at Hunter and was living at Evangeline House, a girls’ residence run by the Salvation Army. I first roomed with another woman and then got a single room. There was a funny old building at the rear of the newer one and that’s where I roomed first on the third floor. We had breakfast and lunch in the dining room and the food wasn’t bad.
I loved New York. It was a pretty safe place to live in and walk around in and either by myself or with my friend June I explored the city. I went to Chinatown, Little Italy which was close to Evangeline House, the German section called Yorkville and Greenwich Village which was a few blocks north of Evangeline House. I got cheap seats at the theater and in those days they were under $5. I paid $9 to see Ingrid Bergman in a play about Joan of Arc and felt wickedly extravagant, but I had a great orchestra seat. It was fun to walk through the big stores like Saks Fifth Ave., Bergdorf Goodman even if I didn't buy anything as they were expensive. I used to shop at Bloomingdale’s which was cheaper, but still a good store. My favorite dress store was Klein’s on the Square on 14th St. You got real bargains there.
I started out in the Sales Dept. at Doubleday publishers and then moved to the Editorial Dept. It was located in the Time and Life Building at Rockefeller Center and the Sales Dept. overlooked the skating rink. Back then there were newsreel theaters (that was before TV) which you could go to for a half hour or so to catch up on the news. I sometimes read The New York Times on the subway to work. Evangeline House was downtown and Doubleday in midtown so there wasn’t the crush of people on the subway trains that there was on trains coming from the Bronx in the north or Brooklyn and the Long Island towns to the east. The people who lived farther out on Long Island rode the infamous Long Island Railroad which often had delays. The people had a good excuse for being late, but I don’t think it would wash with their bosses, unless the bosses came in on the same train.
One of the girls at Evangeline House told me about a folk dance group that met at the Madison Avenue Presbyterian Church about 72nd Street. I went there one night and met Art.
Jane Sylvia Hewes Weber
Photo by Art Weber
- Susan Weber's blog
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"Leave Behind the Heartbreak"
Where to start? There has been so much written over the past weeks, so many questions posed.
Reader mccn's response in the "Geraniums" post about the subjective and personal meaning of "significant" brought to mind unpublished song lyrics written by our hostess, Susan Weber: "Leave behind the heartbreak, he is not your bible, she is not your pearl, you don't have to live inside their world..."
Often as I accompanied Susan on bass, with background vocals (and silvery harmonica) on this beautiful song, I held back tears as she sang these words and picked the mercurious notes on her guitar.
After one performance a listener came and told Susan how that song helped him deal with depression he was experiencing. Sometimes we don't realize what impact we are having with our art.
In these recent blog posts Susan conjures a confrontation with emptiness, purposelessness, time and opportunity lost. And then she comes to the life story of Jane Hewes Weber, an artist whom I was honored to meet and know all too briefly in her last year.
I reread "The Silent Arts" four times. Susan's description of Jane's life as an artist-mother-wife, and Jane's memoirs on her early days in New York are indeed pure gold. But it is the photographs that really tell about Jane the Artist.
In the photos Jane is always working on something. She actually does art. If not one thing, then another. It is important to her. It is woven right into her life.
I found myself stopping the slide show and examining her water color paintings. Some I knew, having seen them in Art and Jane's house, or on Susan's walls. But some I had never seen before. They were displayed in a photo of an art show in Hudson.
As a water color painter I could appreciate the care and decisions that went into Jane's creation of these works. I was impressed by the variety of subject matter and style. I wished that I could look beyond the borders of the photographs to see what else there was. I wished that I had known her better and longer, and when she was younger.
------------------------
In the 2006 movie "Factory Girl", the actor portraying Andy Warhol says to Edie Sedgewick's mother, "Edie's going to be famous," to which the aristocratic Mrs. Sedgewick replies, "And what is the value in that?"
Warhol responds, "Well, everyone wants to be famous." Mrs. Sedgewick draws back and delivers the ironic (in light of Edie's ultimate fate) line: "I had higher aspirations for Edith."
-------------------------
It doesn't matter to me that Jane wasn't famous, that she didn't show her work in the best galleries of New York and Paris. I feel lucky to get this glimpse of her.
If I could have that effect on another, I might feel that my own life is complete.
__________________
Water Color Visions
Lyrics
Thank you, Walter. Your comments reflect the essence of this soul searching. I think what both of us might be missing is how connection with others through the art we create feeds the art itself. It is all well and good to be Emily Dickenson, roaming contentedly around the wilderness. Her poetry eventually came to the notice of the minions. But I think it not arrogant, self serving or unwise for an artist to seek out her audience in the world beyond her studio. As you say, she may have an impact she's never imagined, and this in turn might spur her onward in her work.
Here are the lyrics to the song you mention.
LEAVE BEHIND THE HEARTBREAK © Susan Weber 10.11.03
Leave behind the heartbreak.
He is not your bible. She is not your pearl.
You don’t need to shine inside their world.
Leave behind the heartbreak.
She is not your hero. He is not your muse.
Harlequins are dancing in your shoes.
(chorus) True love sing into the star fall.
True love dream into the sky.
True love miracle inside you
listening to every word you cry,
listening to every word you cry.
Leave behind the heartbreak.
He is not your father. She is not your bride.
Never mind the beating of your pride.
Leave behind the heartbreak.
She is not your beauty. He is not your smile.
Leave behind the heartbreak for awhile.
(chorus)
(bridge) Leave... leave...
Sweep away the memory down the steps of mourning, out into the day.
Leave behind the heartbreak. Just behind the heartbreak.
Let the heartbreak lead you on your way.
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