Deep, Bog, Night, by Fred H. C. Liang
I bought this painting by Fred Liang last year after my mother died. It was part of a gorgeous show of Liang’s work at Bernie Toale’s gallery in the South End of Boston. From the minute I saw it, I felt as though I had found the perfect repository for my newly acquired funereal sensibilities.
The image here is painfully inadequate; Liang is known primarily as a printmaker, so his layering of the paint is actually more reminiscent of a wood engraving, with elegaic lines reflecting the cross grain of wood and the surgical exactness that can be etched into that hard surface. There is an underpainting of reticulated white lines that is also hard to see in this image, as if the nappy velvet of the dominant black forms is still jockeying for dominance. Perhaps the white substrate is in fact another way to see death (a concept in several Asian traditions) and the black is more representational of what we know as the terrestrially material. And a small patch of mint green in the lower right quadrant (which is not delectable at all in this reproduction), subtly threads itself between the black and the white, offering another anchor of a completely different order.
To be truthful, assignation of significance for any of these forms doesn’t really matter to me. This painting, hanging close at hand and in my sights every day, is an ongoing source of mystery and awe. And every time I look into it I feel I am giving death a pass, offering it some familiarity in a life that, until recently, had little congress with its irrevocability.
My friend Bonnie’s service yesterday was just what she had outlined for herself over a year ago. She asked 4 of her friends, myself included, to speak on her behalf. Her husband Gerald also took a moment at the end to offer up his final adieu to his wife of nearly 50 years. As seems to be my experience with these memorials in the past, a few hours spent in communal remembrance of someone you love brings its own sense of completion. I came back home exhausted, but I did feel as if some arcs in me had completed their designated paths. Bonnie’s arc, one that spanned so many years of my life, has another home now.
A note for my readers who knew Bonnie, some of whom were not able to attend the service: Anyone who would like a copy of my tribute to her, please email me.
This is a beautiful post and one I want to keep thinking about, especially this part: “And every time I look into it I feel I am giving death a pass, offering it some familiarity in a life that, until recently, had little congress with its irrevocability.” I don’t quite know what to do with this really, but I know I’ll be sitting with it for a while, so thank you.
LP, your words mean so much to me. Thanks.
Indeed a beautiful post. You’ve done an astonishing job of friendship, Deborah. All anyone could ask for. Many people instinctively protect themselves from what it really, really is to be with a good friend who is dying. But you stood beside Bonnie at the edge of the abyss, not thinking to withhold yourself even though grief is less awful if one detaches a little beforehand. It’s not all about insulation and self-management, though, is it? I hope that amid grief you can feel the exhilaration, and release, of having done your utmost — and not some lesser thing.
I agree with Elatia. Several years ago I became very involved with the entire family of a dying friend which transformed me in profound ways that stayed with me long after, and left me distanced from those of her friends who had distanced themselves. Also, your description of your connection to this painting is a beautiful testament to the value of owning original art and how it becomes an extension of your very self.
Thank you E and QS. It has been unexpected, how much comfort and reconciliation of Bonnie’s passing has been found with people who did not know her but understand the template we’ve been in. And yes, I feel whole in relationship with her.
Regarding original art: Because I am an artist it can sound insincere to talk about this extension of one’s self too frequently or vociferously. But that is what happens when you find a connection. I can’t imagine this last year of my life without this painting. It has been a companion to me every day I have been in my home. Yeoman’s work, just by hanging next to my desk.