I wasn’t going to post any words here about losing my wife last month to Alzheimer’s Disease - it felt too personal for publication - but two things changed my mind. First was the fact that she played THE lead supporting role in my life as an artist, and, like my father (who I wrote about last November after he left us), if I’m going to write about my creative life, she must be acknowledged and honored. Second was my son Ethan’s honest, raw and heartfelt eulogy at her funeral. Both have given me the inspiration to put these words down and pray for catharsis.
I met Stina in 1973 at a youth group camping trip in Maine. I was fifteen years old. She was sixteen, a class ahead of me in high school, and from another town. We only saw each other once a week in the beginning (I didn’t have a driver’s license) and our relationship probably shouldn’t have lasted, given the obstacles. But, instead it flourished and very quickly we realized how important we were to each other. We dated through college, got married and started a life together.
From the day I met her, Stina was my most ardent supporter and that didn’t change once we got married. She put up with the makeshift studio space I carved out of our already cramped apartments. She listened to me ramble on about art for hours. She sat patiently for drawings and paintings and attended events that I’m sure often puzzled her. And she supported me financially in the early years of our marriage while I stumbled around trying to craft a career path. She never wavered in her belief that we would find a way, together, to build a happy life.
In 2002 we built an addition onto our home in Lakeville in order to take in her dad, who was suffering from age-related dementia. We designed the space to be elder-friendly with a walk-in shower, wide doorways, etc. and I always assumed the ground floor of the addition would become his garage. Meeting with the contractor, though, Stina surprised me by designating the space to be my new studio. At the time I was pretty dissatisfied with my day job in the corporate world and wasn’t making much art on the side. She simply looked at me and said, “You need to paint.” I still paint there, twenty-two years later.
One facet of Stina’s influence on me artistically was her beautiful fabric work. She always pooh-poohed her work and was embarrassed when I referred to her as a fabric artist, insisting that she simply followed directions and patterns, which is bullshit. We all use “templates” of some sort when we set out to create. It’s what we do with the patterns and foundations that make the magic. Stina’s sense of color balance and tone was effortless - I watched her choose fabrics (and yarn, floss, backings, etc.) many times - and she always ended up with compelling combinations.
I’ve said too many goodbyes in the last five years - both my parents and my sister, but this one, obviously, is hard. The grief I’m processing can be overwhelming. It can be sweet and hurtful at the same time, and the concept of a future without my lovely girl often scares me. But, I’m doing what everyone who experiences a traumatic loss does: the best I can. There’s no playbook or outline to follow, despite the Hallmark movies and pop-psychology books. You simply have to be emotionally nimble and do what you can to fill the emptiness that sits in your heart. For now, I have to be content with the comforting quilt of love she wrapped around me and the sacred space she placed me within. I will always love her.