PARENTS' LIVING ROOM
By William Mansfield
This drawing depicts my parents' living room, viewed from the bedroom. The space opened out through the bedroom into the living room, and the door to the right led into the kitchen. On the wall is a pastel portrait of me with my Mother. It was drawn in August 1963 by a family friend, an artist who was visiting my parents in their apartment in New Orleans where they lived at the time. I was 9 months old when the portrait was created.
The artist who drew the portrait was very talented, and I struggled to replicate the portrait in this drawing, as a picture within a picture. But it was important for me to include it. The light from the living room cast a shadow through the doors to the bedroom, which cut through the middle of the portrait and visually separated me from my Mother. My image was on the shadow side, while my Mother’s face was on the light side, partially obscured by glare off the glass in the picture frame.
This light and shadow became a powerful symbol of how I felt about losing my Mother. The light glaring on the frame glass partially obscured her face, making her appear ghostly and distant. My own child face was partially obscured by the shadow, and emerged looking crying and distraught. The shadow cut through the portrait directly between my Mothers face and mine, and to me it represented the shadow of death, separating us forever. Although I was a 47 year old man when my Mother passed away, I could feel the 9 month old boy in the portrait, trying to reach his Mother who was obscured by the glare in the glass, fading farther and farther away.
The desk in the foreground was used by both of my parents as their writing desk, and this is where they wrote their many letters to family and friends, as well as more practical issues like paying bills and taxes. My Father also wrote memoirs late in his life. In particular he focused in on his late teens and 20s, when he left home and rode the rails as a hobo. He was one of an army of young men during the Great Depression who roamed the country, hopping freight trains and looking for any work they could find. In his later life he seemed to romanticize this era as a time when he was young and free, and he wrote extensively about it, and illustrated his writings with many paintings and drawings.
My Mother wrote me very regular letters, at least once a week. At times I took these letters for granted, because they were so regular, and often very similar. I would sometimes skim over them and not read them carefully, especially if I was busy with work or something else, which is something I now regret. When I got the call that she had passed away, one of the first things I did was check my mailbox to see if there was one more letter that she may have written and mailed before she died. I continued to check my mailbox every day for a couple of weeks, hoping to see
one last letter, but there never was one.
lick here to edit.
By William Mansfield
This drawing depicts my parents' living room, viewed from the bedroom. The space opened out through the bedroom into the living room, and the door to the right led into the kitchen. On the wall is a pastel portrait of me with my Mother. It was drawn in August 1963 by a family friend, an artist who was visiting my parents in their apartment in New Orleans where they lived at the time. I was 9 months old when the portrait was created.
The artist who drew the portrait was very talented, and I struggled to replicate the portrait in this drawing, as a picture within a picture. But it was important for me to include it. The light from the living room cast a shadow through the doors to the bedroom, which cut through the middle of the portrait and visually separated me from my Mother. My image was on the shadow side, while my Mother’s face was on the light side, partially obscured by glare off the glass in the picture frame.
This light and shadow became a powerful symbol of how I felt about losing my Mother. The light glaring on the frame glass partially obscured her face, making her appear ghostly and distant. My own child face was partially obscured by the shadow, and emerged looking crying and distraught. The shadow cut through the portrait directly between my Mothers face and mine, and to me it represented the shadow of death, separating us forever. Although I was a 47 year old man when my Mother passed away, I could feel the 9 month old boy in the portrait, trying to reach his Mother who was obscured by the glare in the glass, fading farther and farther away.
The desk in the foreground was used by both of my parents as their writing desk, and this is where they wrote their many letters to family and friends, as well as more practical issues like paying bills and taxes. My Father also wrote memoirs late in his life. In particular he focused in on his late teens and 20s, when he left home and rode the rails as a hobo. He was one of an army of young men during the Great Depression who roamed the country, hopping freight trains and looking for any work they could find. In his later life he seemed to romanticize this era as a time when he was young and free, and he wrote extensively about it, and illustrated his writings with many paintings and drawings.
My Mother wrote me very regular letters, at least once a week. At times I took these letters for granted, because they were so regular, and often very similar. I would sometimes skim over them and not read them carefully, especially if I was busy with work or something else, which is something I now regret. When I got the call that she had passed away, one of the first things I did was check my mailbox to see if there was one more letter that she may have written and mailed before she died. I continued to check my mailbox every day for a couple of weeks, hoping to see
one last letter, but there never was one.
lick here to edit.