The Artist’s Gift

Last week, with the Walter Anderson Museum Gala approaching, I returned to the wire to create an offering for the Gala auction. My fingers were stiff and reluctant – unaccustomed to the unruly stuff after such a long break. It was difficult to still my dancer’s body long enough to wrest some form from resistant matter. Yet my hands did remember and connected with some mental image of my artist father. His trade mark hat came first and, of course, the nose. Broad shoulders and large hands followed and immediately suggested some kind of offering. The theme of the Gala was Fleurs de Vie, so flowers hovered invisibly for future manifesting. Due to various other obligations, my father’s upper torso hung suspended by a long umbilicus above my wire-working basket for several days.  He seemed unperturbed by the wait, and when I returned, his further formation happened with ease. The stand was quickly done and the figure attached. Yet it was the flowers and the paintbrush, sprouting and blooming from the artist’s fingers, that made the gift complete. My father’s gift – and my own.

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