54 Comments

I think between these two it all came down to their natures. Jack was naturally generous and inclined to be forgiving. My father was defensive and insecure. And an alcoholic. That compounded everything else

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Rona, this is stunning. Honest, generous, nuanced, brilliant. It’s so easy to see one’s parents in a harsh light, to paint them in broad strokes with a knife. You’ve shown us that genuine friendship can survive and flourish for reasons we may not understand, but can honor and respect. Brava.

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Thank you, Mary. Jack's devotion still puzzles me, as it did his wife. Neither of us could accept such behavior. Some people have a rare gift for friendship, Jack was one. I don't have to understand. It's enough to marvel.

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"A wave of grief—not for my father but for the man he couldn’t be." Pow!

And what an interesting reflection on friendships. Amazing!

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It's so often the way, isn't it? Thank you, Jill.

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Like marriage, friendship is rarely 50-50. Love fills in the gaps and evens or equalizes the relationship if it’s truly marriage or a true friendship. You have painted the latter so brilliantly, Rona.

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Love fills in the gaps if we are able to be loving in the face of disappointment or outright abuse. Not everyone can do it. I have mixed feelings about Jack's art but I'm in awe of his gifts as a friend.

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Actually, on reflection, this reminded me that after my parents died (three months apart), i became curious about what made their marriage work, because they were really terribly different personalities. In particular, my father loved to have fun and my mother was very serious and I wondered why that didn't irritate him – and vice versa. I wrote to an old family friend, who had known them both for decades and she wrote back that she would be happy to write and explore this with me. But she never did! All she did was to put me on her Christmas list and she was a very social person, so I got endless Christmas cards and pictures. But no explanation. And then she died.

Then, two years or so ago, out of the blue, an Australian woman was writing a biography of one of the more famous Australian writers, who as a young woman had been working for my dad (as a secretary, although I know he was trying to upgrade her as he thought she was too bright for that). And it turned out, much to my surprise, she had a two year affair with him, which ended only when my mother found out. She kept a diary (beware writers!!) and all was revealed. I wrote about this in my post on 'Our Many Layered Selves'. But she also said he had had other affairs which made me wonder whether one of the possible candidates was the old family friend, herself a very attractive woman.

You at least were able to satisfy your curiosity. Mine remains not wholly satisfied.

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I just read your post and left a comment there. When I read that she was an esteemed novelist, I thought "Could it be...?" Lo and behold, she wrote one of my books of a lifetime.

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Both of your posts were intriguing! I guessed it too, was glad to see it confirmed. What amazing stories.

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How interesting. I suspect you're right about the old family friend. I will look for that post.

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This is outstanding, Rona. An intense novel on human friendship and art compressed into a beautiful essay. Stunning. You deserve all the plaudits for this.

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Jeffrey, thanks so much.

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Each Sunday, I hold back on reading your entry to relish and savor each delicious morsel, never to be disappointed.

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How heart-warming. I am honored.

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My god, this essay.

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Thank you, and welcome to Amazement Seeker.

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You cut through to the essentials of so much about art and reciprocity of attention, among other things. Wonderful essay, thank you.

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I believe it must be the length of the relationship your father and Jack had that allowed such grace. Artists can be volatile and very competitive but perhaps only a long term, understanding friendship can endure poor treatment. Maybe Jack allowed your father his tantrums because they led such different lives. If Jack also had had a family and made the “sacrifices” (time, money, emotion) he might have responded very differently. I’ve only experienced harsh criticism a couple of times and they were both from visual artists who were known for their intensity. While it was hurtful, these were not long term friends but more art colleagues in an association I belonged to. One can only imagine the emotional rollercoaster you endured. The older I get, the more I treasure true friendships. There's no time for anything less. Thank you for sharing this.

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Rona you have stirred some depths here. At the moment I sit across the room from my husband. He chose a standard career over art, and is an extraordinary musician. He plays flamenco guitar. We left Hawaii so he could be with his people in Albuquerque. Life conspired with Covid to interrupt what plans we had to bring his music forward. He knows the old time artists here, all of them on the far edge of public display. His interface with performance has been tiny. Each time he plays, it is phenomenal. The space is transformed in the way only magnificent musicians can bring about. There is something within him that stands in the way of becoming vulnerable perhaps. We have discussed it. He cannot stand it when he plays and people talk. Yet if he had pursued a path of actual concerts, that ought not to have been a factor.

I write this because it is what comes to mind when I see your father with whatever amber colored liquid might have been at his elbow while he toiled in the attic and watched his dreams unfold through the hands of his friend. It might be somewhat the opposite of what you sense as to his fatherhood. Your mother sent him on his way, yet look at his daughters. What father would not be overwhelmed with pride? He certainly contributed more than his sperm.

Aloha, my friend.

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Gail, I feel for your husband, and all musicians whose performances are treated as mere background for conversation.

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As Linnesby said, yes. What a profoundly beautiful essay about friendship. I needed this today, contemplating my entry for the CBC creative non-fiction contest where I plan to write about my father. You've nudged me to go a lot deeper. If I can have even a vestige of this beauty I will have hit a new stride in my writing. I also want to take up your final challenge on friendship. Many thanks for this Rona. Written as only you can.

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Thank you, my friend. See you in Toronto one of these days.

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Unfortunately the April trip has been cancelled but hopefully soon!

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A lovely piece with so much to ponder. Thanks for sharing. 💙

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Grateful to be in your thoughts today, Sue.

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Such a powerful reflection on their friendship, Rona. Thanks for sharing.

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Glad you enjoyed it, James.

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So many interesting relationships here— your father and Jack, you and your father, and then others coming in and out of the piece. And such big themes of art, family, and friendship. You wrote about it all so clearly, while respecting the unknowable too. Thanks for this.

My father was an artist too and he really couldn’t sustain any long term friendships with other artists. Too much envy and competition, I think. Maybe it’s all the more complicated when it’s so hard to achieve — or even define— success in the art world.

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The more elusive the spoils, the greater the potential for bitter competition. Gauguin was a catastrophic pseudo-friend to Van Gogh, who revered him. I'm glad to meet you here and look forward to exploring your own writing on related themes.

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Wonderful portrayal of two men. Two sides of the same coin

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Had ‘t thought of it this way, but yes.

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I love how you write into the gaps, Rona! Wonderful essay. I think to some degree our parents will always remain a mystery to us. That painting of your father’s reminds me of Thomas Hart Benton and other artists of the ‘30s..

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Yes, a mystery. And after they’re gone, the mystery remains.

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I wonder if many friendships between artistic people share some of these characteristics. Certainly, envy and the uneven trajectories of artistic lives seem to be intertwined. Thanks for sharing this.

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Well, Gauguin failed Van Gogh at a critical moment in their friendship, and later regretted it. Katherine Mansfield had a prickly friendship with Virginia Woolf, who said that Mansfield’s was “the only writing I have ever been jealous of.” However, I don’t think either was openly cruel to the other.Hemingway dissed Fitzgerald’s work to others in their circle and continued to attack his friend after Fitzgerald’s death. There must be lots of other examples.

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