Reclaimed Girlhood: Reconciling Grief Through Art
My family’s cottage in Goshen, NH
Last weekend, my family took a trip to our cottage in Goshen, New Hampshire. My grandpa built it in 1954 with his bare hands. I stopped at the “Old Man’s Junk” shop that popped up at the end of the street a few years ago. It’s the same place where I found half of my dollhouse collection, when the idea for infinitlovalie was first forming. This time, I came across an old jewelry box that struck a chord and hummed all through me. I remembered that my dad bought me a jewelry box when I was a kid. It hadn’t fit quite right; it wasn’t my style, but I tried so hard to fit inside of it. Like I should be the type of girl that would have a jewelry box like that. I should be the type of girl that Dad wants me to be.
The night before we left for this trip, I had gotten a phone call from a doctor at the Institute of Living in Hartford, letting me know that my dad was in the hospital again. I haven’t spoken to him since the last time he was there - an intentional boundary that feels counterintuitive, but I know is necessary. It’s complex and hard and draining and so so sad, and most of the time, I try not to think about it.
Jewelry box I picked up at “Old Man’s Junk,” along with photographs of my childhood.
1996, Mount Sunapee, NH
Today, I spent the morning painting a dollhouse and staring at this jewelry box. A dear friend of mine popped her head into the studio, and we got into a very absorbing, inspiring conversation about what jewelry boxes mean to girls; how they hold expectation of who we’re supposed to grow up into. We talked about my dad and how I want to reconcile my anger, guilt and grief, and make an object that my childhood self would have cherished. We went through these old family photos I had at my studio, discussed the idea of transferring them onto fabric, and imagined all the many different ways I could incorporate them into this jewelry box. We got chills, we teared up a little, we laughed, we had a great hug, and we said goodbye. Then I very impulsively drove to Best Buy and bought a printer.
I grabbed all the old family photo albums I could find, and huddled away for the rest of the day, scanning and scanning. And the photographs span decades, a vast array of color tone and haircuts and clothing styles. Some were placed in thick floral albums, on yellowing sheets of card stock with sticky backing and translucent plastic on top. Others were thrown loose into primary colored CVS photo envelopes. A few are scrapbooked, with the utmost care. And they’re all beautiful and weird and joyous. There’s photos of my parents that I’ve never seen before, when they were teenagers or young adults, and I wonder who they were. And I see myself in them.
Today’s workspace
This afternoon, I got a letter in the mail from my dad, return address: I.O.L., Donnelly, 3 South. It’s a unit that I’ve been hospitalized on before. The envelope sits, unopened next to a photograph from the 90’s, of him holding up a birthday cake for me and my brother in the kitchen at the old house. He looks so carefree. And I forgive him in my own way. And I love him dearly. And I don’t know if I can open that door today.
As I dive into this work - to keep busy, to distract, to reconcile, to mend, to protect, and to love - I open myself to the idea of forgiveness coexisting with self-preservation. And I remember that we are all only human after all.
