September 23, 2020
An Evacuee’s List
I grew up looking at my mother’s lists — left on post-its, taped to the refrigerator, or found underfoot sometime after their enigmatic instructions had been dispatched. My experience of her as an artist is bound up with my memory of her lists, dadaist assemblages in my mind’s eye.
I shared this image with fellow students in a photography class recently. The photo was met with yelps and consternation: Meds and ducks together? Why is the cigarette crossed out? Beer in parentheses? Ok Calendar, Whaaaaaat.
It turns out: last month’s Walbridge Fire came quite close to my parents’ home and farm, the land where I grew up. Thus my folks came to stay with me in Petaluma (how odd and sweet to host one’s parents as evacuees!). One morning they evaded the sheriff and returned home for a few items. My mother made a list beforehand, which she kept misplacing in various pockets and purses. I took a photo of it before she left.
Several of the items listed seem to be about a meal (toms; garlic; hint – this is what the ducks were fated for) but are intermingled with objects that point to some other necessity: air purifiers, photo albums, baby books. And the cigarette? That crossed-out pictogram is actually a foam roller; sorry to ruin the mystique.
The person making this list, who happens to be my mother, who happens to be an artist, is doing a strange sort of multi-tasking, simultaneously preparing for the evening’s meal while retrieving possessions in case her home burns down.
And this, my friends, is the world we seem to be living in. Let’s not forget to remember our toms & garlic & beer in parentheses.