I Want to Make You Smile!

"Smile!", My father in his kitchen in Philadelphia, 1979.

In 1979, I was on summer vacation at my father's house down in Phillie. He lived in the same house where I had spent the first six years of my life with him, my Mom, my sister, Eliza and our two dogs, Abygail and Maxine.

He never left and he died there. He worked less than two miles away, a morning walk in the summer months. He worked the same job for most of his 67 years. When he wasn't working, he was out in his urban garden, growing carrots, watermelons and his prized tomatoes. The cherry tree of my youth had lived and died and came back to live several generations. He taught me that birds ate the seeds of the cherries and then pooped them on the earth and so, began another tree.

He spent his free time alone, drinking and reading several pulp fiction books a week. He had a girlfriend who conveniently lived in California. His life was simple; some might say dysfunctional too.

That summer, we had gotten into a fight. I had teased him with what, I can't remember. I had taken the game too far. I pulled out my camera.

"Dad, please smile! I'm taking your picture."

Once, my camera had the power to my father and everyone else smile.

There is so much to say about the relationship between my father and me, a far distant relationship, from New Rochelle, New York to Philadelphia, sheltering me with a sense of security, one of which I did not feel or share in my mother's home. There is so much to say...

I loved him. I loved him across, a cheap kitchen table, me on one side reading the comics and him on the other reading and smoking Pall Malls.

And I wonder why now, I have decided to write about it. Is it because I found a photograph of my father, scowling with arms crossed, in a manila envelope or is it because on the opening of my group show at Mazzeo Gallery, my mother's second husband, Peter arrived.

There is so much to say between these empty spaces between words. There are thousands of unsaid words. This is a bookmark in storage which these days is a receptacle of stuttered and garrulous words streaming through my brain rapid fire. I could write for days on end if I let myself. I could divulge ever pathology. But, not tonight.

I hadn't seen Peter in 12 years since my mother's funeral. Before that I hadn't seen him for another 12 years.

At the funeral, I remember him well-dressed and poised. My friend's mother remarked later that my own father appeared tired and gray. I wanted to shoot her in the head for her insensitivity.

Peter got up in front of the mourners and spoke an reverent eulogy...still strong in my memory and weak in this shell of a recount.

Thank you Peter for coming to my show. Thank you for your recognition. I always wanted that. God bless you too.