Catalog of the Remembered

Much of my artwork has been influenced by my mother, who was an educator and a storyteller. She was an immigrant single mother to me, an only-child in Brooklyn, NY. It was the two of us in a one-bedroom apartment for most of my childhood. 

Over the years, long after I left for college, she filled the apartment with bags of clothing and copius amounts of paper products for fear of running out. She was very conscious about her clothing choices, especially since she moved to the States and had to leave many of her fashionable things behind. Each piece was an expression of her personality.

Mother-daughter relationships can be as contentious as can be, especially living in tight quarters. But, I was my mother's confidant and she was my touchstone—in both revelry and in contention.

In 2018, my mother died as I held her hand at her bedside. Witnessing her death was a profound gift, and an honor to be present for her.  

I still feel like I am forgetting to call her.

My Father was very proud of his Ukrainian heritage. When the recent war began, he purchased iron on flags and inexpensive tshirts and polo shirts and wore them everywhere. 

At one-years-old, his family was forced to escape as WW II had started, his home was about to be reclaimed by communists and his family sent to Siberia. He lived for several years in a German displaced person’s camp until finally arriving in the US at the age of seven. My dad grew up in the Hudson Avenue area in the city of Rochester and attended Benjamin Franklin High School where he played soccer, basketball, ran track and met his soul mate, the women who would become his life partner for 60 years. My father was liberal in his very core and in all aspects of his life. He was a lifelong learner of politics and history and could often be found yelling at the TV to correct what was incorrectly being broadcast. Family and friends always knew that dinners would include lively discussions of history and little-known anecdotes. But his greatest love was his family. We all laughed, loved and travelled together.

He was one-of-a-kind, lived life colorfully and generously and by his own rules. He will be missed but his memory and spirit will live on in those who cherish the sporting world, diversity, community and inclusion.

My mom was the emotional intelligence of our family. I thought I knew how much she did for all of us, but in her absence, I understand now how much more she did than I realized. She celebrated all of us and made us feel important with personalized expressions of her love. She could tell, just by my voice, when something was wrong.

I will carry so much of her with me and will continue to honor her by being a person that incorporates all of her best parts:  thoughtfulness, care and concern, putting others before myself, and helping people when and where I can.

My mom was VERY crafty. She knitted socks, shawls, sweaters, mittens, scarves and hats. She did cross-stitch, beading work, and made personalized cards to send to her family and friends. Her signature craft was handmade Christmas ornaments. If you were given something made by my mom, you knew you were someone special. 

The pair of socks that I am offering for this art installation was made by her and worn by her. 

John was my stepdad, but in every way that counts he was my Dad. We never saw much of a distinction and he would introduce me to people as his son. He was a cool guy who would regularly call other people “cool” or “cool cats.” But the truth was, he was the one that was truly cool; fun and funny, intense and a little crazy. He was the dad that was always pushing it a little too far in all the right ways. 

Wearing leather jackets probably extended from motorcycling. Leather jackets seemed the only ones he felt comfortable in. I can’t remember him wearing anything else. They matched him in many ways - durable, strong, protective, and, of course, cool. I’ve always loved them too. If I got a new jacket he would always notice and comment. “Looking slick, Craig.”

A few months before he passed, out of the blue, he dropped off one of his jackets. He told me that he didn’t need it anymore. "I really only wear the one," he said. I accepted, somewhat reluctantly. It wasn’t 100% my style and or fit. But, John was insistent. I accepted and the jacket went into the front closet, somewhat forgotten. I’ve thought a lot about the jacket since his passing. Did he know? Was it intentional? Was there more significance to the exchange? I’ll never know, but the jacket has new meaning to me. It is a reminder of Dad, of the love we shared, and what a truly cool guy he was.

This is a scarf that is decorated with a ram and a butterfly. I picked up this scarf from the thrift store because I was drawn to it, before I became pregnant with Kin. 

After I had my miscarriage and Kin’s remains left my body via medication-induced labor, I found the scarf again—the ram took on new meaning because if Kin had lived they would have been born under the astrological sign Aries (the Ram). As I grieved Kin’s loss from my life, they took the form of a butterfly in my art and my writing. And the scarf containing both the ram and the butterfly became very significant to me. It is a cherished item that makes me think of my lost child, who is always with me in my heart. 

Parenting my two other children after losing Kin is very challenging at times because I feel like there is someone missing. But Kin is a little spirit who walks with me always.  

My maternal grandmother and I had many things in common and I chose to spend summers in Florida with her and my grandpa from ages 10–16. I never thought of her as poor but I think she actually was. But she worked hard, managed money very well, was kind to people, loved dressing up for church or special occasions and was very pretty. 

I can tell many stories about our summers together and the ways she showed her love for me. And when I look at these pearls, I can "see her" all dressed up, ready for church, nails polished, make-up perfect, hat, gloves and purse in hand, ready to go! 

We are both breast cancer survivors and her bravery, as I remember that time, was a huge inspiration to me.

This god-child was truly a child of God whose earthly years brought love to all with whom she interacted. Her tragic death brought heartache and with it awareness of the depth of her goodness. A young mother of a 2 and 3 year old, she was a nurse practitioner giving to the underserved. 

Her husband was the love of her life, her giving so manifest in their relationship. Her mother chose a butterfly as a symbol at Ellen's birth. Butterflies are often in my life and visit me as never before. They bring her joy and beauty to the present moment, serving as a reminder that happiness is like a butterfly...as Hawthorne says, just beyond our grasp but in stillness may settle upon us. 

This dress was hand sewn by my great grandmother in the late 30s, as a gift to her daughter Margaret. My grandmother, Margaret, gave it to me when I was in my 20s. Margaret was an artist but mostly stopped creating works when she had her six children. She continually encouraged her children and grandchildren and great grandchildren to experience the arts in all ways - to make, to dance, to appreciate, to support, to question, to study. I knew her to note colors and color relationships in the everyday. When I wear this nearly ninety year old dress made by my great grandmother I always hear Margaret’s voice in my head, “oh but isn’t that green dress beautiful against the orange sofa!”

My father was a carpenter, so almost every item of clothing I inherited from him has holes, rips, or paint stains. The t-shirt I've chosen was "new" when he died, yet it already has the familiar holes around the neckline. The only clothes he had without rips and stains were the ones he wore in hospice care.

Through inheriting his clothing, I found out that we were the same size. We barely knew each other, yet we share the same stature and the refusal to believe an item is ever truly beyond use or repair. 

My dad was a force. He was magical, brilliant, and funny. He was an amazing cook. He had a keen sense of smell (could pick out ingredients by taste/smell in a dish, then go home and recreate it). He collected pipes, fancy shoes, and ties, but also drove a beat up old pick-up truck. He loved art, jazz, and fashion. He had multiple guns, hunted deer and knew how to gut them. We loved to go to baseball games, and I'd ask questions about his playing days in high school. 

He was an administrator, educator, extremely compassionate boss, and a fierce ally for Deaf and hard-of-hearing students. He learned ASL in his late 20s so he could communicate with his students. He learned car maintenance from his Italian American, war veteran father, who he adored. He worked hard and long hours. 

Sometimes it felt like he gave the best of himself to his coworkers, but he was always there for his family, and always so proud of us. He thought my mom was the cutest person in the world. Their relationship taught me how to love. 

He taught me how to be strong, laugh at myself, work hard, be a good friend, treat people with respect, be curious, buy sandwiches for homeless people outside Starbucks, make a mean lasagna and mixed fruit pie, tell a good story.

Tori was a beautiful soul and had many cherished qualities. She was a ski patroller and white water rafting guide. The piece of clothing for this show is a jacket from her work on the ski mountain in Santa Fe.  She could be fearless. Before she became a river rafting guide, she and her brother, Cole, were on a chartered rafting trip on the Taos box in New Mexico. Their raft flipped and Tori was pinned under the raft for what seemed like minutes to Cole. She came up coughing and gasping and crying. It was an experience that would have traumatized most. But not Tori. Two years later she was a rafting guide herself on the exact same river. Tori was nurturing and caring. She wanted nothing more than to heal, help, and support others - professionally as an EMT, as a PA, as ski patroller, or personally as an aunt, sister, cousin, daughter, granddaughter.   She was too young to die and I desperately wish I could have convinced her how wonderful she was and help her heal from what plagued her. She was a cornerstone of our family. We all miss her dearly.

Dad was an artist and a poet. Vacation and travel were when Dad made most of his sketches. He usually worked in colored pencil and sometimes in watercolor. I have fond memories of sketching with him on rainy days at the beach. Special family milestones were marked with rhyming verses written longhand on yellow legal pads. Sometimes the rhymes worked and sometimes they didn’t. Some poems were poignant and others were corny. And they all came from a place of love and caring. I didn’t fully appreciate that until later.

In 2019 I interviewed both of my parents over Thanksgiving as part of the Great American Listen. This is a recording of my Dad telling me what he thought happened when we die. Years later, after his death, his words inspired a large body of work and an installation titled, "The Great Beyond." I am also a writer and artist and am currently pursuing an interdisciplinary MFA . There is so much that I wish I could share with him.

To me, this writing is what makes my grandfather immortal. I feel that I have been tasked with sharing his memories and keeping them alive in the world. I am who I am because of him (and my grandmother) and much of that is contained in the pages. 

And yet, his writing is not him; it is his selected memory of what he wants to be remembered for. There is so much more to a person that can get obscured over time. Seeing his handwriting, his particular misspellings as he sounds out English words with Italian pronunciations, those elements are almost more meaningful to me than the writing itself. I see so much of myself in his diaries - the compulsion to document, to ensure that we will not be forgotten, the certainty of the importance of everyday life. 

When I read his words, I can hear his voice again. I can ask him the questions that I was too young to ask when he passed.

Jon was almost 5 years older than me, but we shared the connection of twins. At 18, Jon moved to Seattle, a second home for me at times. Jon was an X-Ray technician, a flight attendant for Pan Am, got his teaching degree from U of Washington, and minored in dance. He also became a massage therapist. 

Jon truly lived life out loud. He was funny, energetic, talented, bull-headed, generous to a fault, and a dedicated friend. 

Jon chose a holistic path to treat his AIDS. He lived many more years than some. This was before the AIDS cocktail was developed. Everyone has “Jon stories”. His Madison Park neighbors still talk about him. Jon never developed the skin lesions associated with AIDS. His skin and eyes were pure and clear at his death. As his friend, Tai, said “He died with the smile of the Buddha on his face.”. I have so many of Jon's things, including the AIDS quilt we all made. I wouldn’t know what one item to pick, so I chose his Haiku; his final words.

These curtains were throughout my grandparent's house. In doorways, and on windows. I think my grandmother made them. That house holds so many memories of peace and calm and caring. A place filled with pretty trinkets and soft fabrics—my grandmother collected a lot of things and created a comfortable space for me to grow and explore my creativity. 

My father worked in advertising for several major agencies. He played the piano by ear, and had a good sense of humor. My parents' separation sowed a lot of negative energy in me, and I live with that still. 

The photo viewer shows my father as a young adult with proud parents. The blazer he later had in life, and reminds of my most recent memories of him prior to his terminal illness. 

During WWII my father served his country as a Dental Surgeon. Towards the end of his life my dad shared a little about his time in the army with me. His hospital unit was almost overrun by the Germans during the Battle of the Bulge. His tent mate at the time did not survive that attack. I know he saw the suffering and devastation of war, like many of his generation who chose not to talk about it. 

But what he did tell me is that when it was time for pistol training and practice, he apparently got a friend to sign in for him. He told me that during his entire time serving in the army, he ultimately never fired a gun. It makes me proud to know my father served our country when it was needed and was able to do his duty without ever firing a gun or taking a life.

While he never deeply discussed or celebrated his time serving in WWII, he never tossed his uniform jacket. In his own stoic way I think he was proud to have served. I think that's why when it was time to clean out my parents house, I chose to keep the jacket as a reminder of him and how he lived his life.

I never met my Uncle Jeff, and had never heard his voice before listening to this recording on a cassette from my dad. Although I didn't get to know my uncle personally, I still feel him and try to understand him through stories that my family shares and through pictures and recordings of him.

Bunny was the closest thing to a soulmate I've ever experienced. I met her at the animal shelter when she was a kitten and I was 13 years old, and for fourteen years, she always stayed by my side. 

She and I had a bond that I had never experienced with any other living creature. Every morning, she was there with (albeit, very loud) meows, and every night, she would be by my side. While she was never a huge fan of toys, cat beds, or cat trees, she loved to sleep on the sweaters that I left lying on top of my bed, especially this maroon one, my favorite sweater (that I'm sure constantly smelled like me). 

When I was unexpectedly losing Bunny in June, I wanted to bring her something soft to make her feel like she was at home when she was in the vet hospital. So I, of course, chose to bring in that favorite sweater. She spent her last few days cuddled up with this sweater, and despite the fact that it's now been months since I lost her, I still can't bring myself to wear it. While it was my favorite sweater, it doesn’t feel possible to put it on, knowing that she’ll never be able to sleep on it again.

This vest was a favorite of my husband's because he loved and used pockets.  He was an Episcopal priest and everyday he wore either a shirt or vest with pockets.  In the pockets he carried an index card that he would stop and write thoughts down that he possibly would use the following Sunday in his sermons. Sometimes I'd see him  in the garden with a hoe or on the lawn tractor, stop, pull out the pen and card and write something on it.  On Sunday he may even use the same card as his crib notes as he never read a sermon,  and he would always speak directly to the congregation.  After he died,  I found several of these cards,  especially the last sermon "card"  that he gave on All  Saints Sunday,  2016.  That one is framed and sits on my dresser.

Dick became my stepfather when I was very young; one of my earliest memories is of him teaching me to ski when I was 4 years old. He was a lifelong skier and a volunteer ski patroller at the Buffalo Ski Club. My mom gave me his patrol jacket after he passed away. 

When I was growing up, we went skiing nearly every winter weekend and Dick skied well into his 70's. It was one of his passions, second only to playing music. I did not realize it was my own passion until college, when I lived in a state without snow and found myself longing to ski. I spent my post-college years back to skiing every winter weekend, and now do the same with my own son. I am so thankful Dick taught me this skill and passed along the passion for the sport of downhill skiing. And this memory is not just about the sport, but also finding ways to enjoy the winter weather and spend time in nature, no matter the season. 

His jacket reminds me of this gift he gave me that has shaped so much of my life. In fact, it was on an office ski trip 17 years ago that my wife and I first got to know each other. I'm guessing neither Dick nor myself could have foreseen that serendipitous outcome during those ski lessons so long ago.

Tamia Noemi Betchart

Remembered by Paola Macas Betchart

Tamia ("rain" in the kichwa language) was the name of my second unborn child. We lost her in the first trimester of pregnancy. Our family and friends were all excited. I could feel her growing inside me until one day the sensations stopped and I found blood when I went to the bathroom.

We buried her in our garden. The week-long process was slow and painful and I was ashamed to show my sadness in front of people. How can someone grieve for something so insignificant? I told myself. I felt that with Tamia’s departure all my hopes of having a daughter were gone.

Last year (2022) I was finally able to speak openly about her loss outside of my inner tears. Some wounds never disappear but can be transformed. I won't cry alone anymore. The whole family knows about her and will remember. She is always with us. 

Miscarriages are often minimized and there is no room for mourning and validating the pain. Mothers need the warmth of community to grieve. 

Tamia's death was a catalyst of deep grief and sorrow. It was also the continuation of a journey of reclamation and self acceptance.  When Tamia died, the wound got wide open again—the colonial wound that had been chasing the women of my families for generations came back to life—and I had to do a lot of work that included psychological and spiritual movements to learn from the experience and understand that Tamia's death was actually an opportunity for generational healing and my own rebirth.