the wisdom of collective memory
Can I tell you a story?
Two and a half years ago, I moved in with my parents. A lot has changed in that time. Most notably, my mother’s health has continued to decline. That’s why I’m there. It happens slowly, but when I pull back and take the long view? phew. It’s a lot.
In 2022 I meditated on the state of this with a series of watercolor paintings I called “how do you hold a memory?” A series of 80+ paintings of stones, rocks, and pebbles taking different arrangements, in different colors. You see, stones have longevity. Think of Stonehenge. or even mountains. They tell a story of time that stretches out before we were here, and long after we leave the planet. The cairns of Ireland, and the handbuilt stone altars of the Hebrew scriptures also influenced this series: humans use stones to mark significance and to create a tangible anchor for an otherwise ethereal memory.
What is left when only the stones remain? This was my question, as my mother’s memory slowly morphs into something different than it was even six months ago.
I was listening to this song in preparation for an upcoming body of work, and I was punched in the gut by the line “we only have what we remember.” There has to be more than that, I thought, when memory is so fickle. I pulled out these watercolor pieces. There needed to be more to this story.
I got to work, cutting new stones from old paper in my scrap box. I added these collage bits to a few of the paintings. Remembering how music is so beneficial to those with Alzheimer’s disease, I used 100-year-old sheet music on a few of the larger paintings.
These pieces from my scrap box bring other collections, other paintings into this meditative work on memory. They are fragments, yes, but as I worked, I began to experience the healing in this second iteration of this process. I understood the wisdom of collective memory.
This summer I volunteered in the local care home, making art with residents and school-aged kids. Two elder women sitting together re-discovered that they are cousins. I wonder how many times they have had that moment together. Hearing them talk about the things they remembered, listing names, was a testimony to the power of collective memory. I added what I knew (as one of the women used to be my neighbor), and the story got another layer.
These reworked pieces are part of my story, but they are part of the larger story of my family and my community. I will be adding them to the shop for the Small Business Saturday holiday release, and I invite you to share in the making of another collective memory by adding them to your home.
