I SURVIVED THREE MILE ISLAND

"The Three Mile Island accident of 1979 was the most significant accident in the American commercial nuclear power generating industry. 

Although 25,000 people lived within five miles of the site at the time of the accident, no identifiable injuries due to radiation occurred, and the government report (Kemeny Commission Report) concluded that there will be no cases of cancer, or number of cases will be so small that it will never be possible to detect them. The same conclusion applies to the other possible health effects." Wikipedia

Me and my family lived about 65 miles east of the site; both my parents died of cancer. I survived Three Mile Island - I think.

COMMA

comma: indicating pause

* a piece from a 1994 series of nudes that I painted

 

BLUES IN RED OXIDE

Mississippi John Hurt

July 3, 1893 - November 2, 1966

I wanted to do a monochromatic painting, so I painted this 4'x6' piece of Mississippi John Hurt from a black and white image I came across. What I love about his music is the warmth and gentleness that comes across in his vocals and fingerpicking. He and Elizabeth Cotten (with her unique "cotten picking" style) were cut from a similar cloth - both found mass audiences late in life - both had a quiet, expressive dignity to their music - both were impressive and extraordinary without affectation.

GETTING PAST THE "F U" IN "FORGIVE YOU"

I woke up thinking about my father and this poem.

"How Do We Forgive Our Fathers?"

"How do we forgive our fathers? Maybe in a dream. Do we forgive our fathers for leaving us too often, or forever, when we were little? Maybe for scaring us with unexpected rage, or making us nervous because there never seemed to be any rage there at all? Do we forgive our fathers for marrying, or not marrying, our mothers? And shall we forgive them for their excesses of warmth or coldness? Shall we forgive them for pushing, or leaning? For shutting doors or speaking through walls? For never speaking, or never being silent? Do we forgive our fathers in our age, or in theirs? Or in their deaths, saying it to them or not saying it. If we forgive our fathers, what is left?"  Dick Lourie

*this is an illustration from my cancer memoir, "Car Dealer's Daughter"

PERSEVERANCE

I made this sculpture with "perseverance" in mind: maintaining a purpose in spite of difficulty, obstacles, or discouragement. Sometimes the only thing left to do is the impossible; never give up - you never know what waits for you on the other side of difficulty.

"A rock pile ceases to be a rock pile the moment a single man contemplates it, bearing within him the image of a cathedral."  Antoine de Saint-Exupery

MANY OYSTERS - FEW PEARLS

"MANY OYSTERS - FEW PEARLS"  by Toni Wolf

Snowflakes fell in dime size pieces of frozen lace; a million sparkly filigreed coins blanketed and muffled everything under bolts of winter tatting. There were few footprints for a city sidewalk. It was hours past the time most folks had gone to bed, and minutes before most bars would be letting out - that still time of night when evening seems to be holding its breath.

I had just gotten off work from washing dishes at a downtown bar and restaurant, and hadn't wanted my shift drink. The air was crisp but comfortable, and though my ears glowed pink, there was no real need for a hat. I had fashioned my scarf in a few loose loops around my neck; drawing breaths of frosted air through wool soon formed a moist pocket at my chin - cupping and curling the smells of stale food grease and cigarette smoke up my nose.

Snowflakes swirled - playing tricks on me by rising up as well as falling down. These small refracted crystals, dancing against street lamps decorated in twinkling Christmas lights, made me question where quantum left off and relativity began. It had been a year since I graduated from art school, and wouldn't be much longer before I'd make a pact with myself to never work a standard job again; I hadn't gone to art school to wash dishes.

*The opening three paragraphs to "Many Oysters - Few Pearls."

RED BECOMES YOU

"Red Becomes You" 23"x30"

One holiday visit home to Pennsylvania, I was chatting with my mother at the kitchen table. She asked how my painting was going. Our talk turned into me sharing my frustrations around wanting to do a series of figurative paintings, but not having access to a model. "I'll be your model!" Just like that, she offered to pose for a sitting. I ended up painting a series of portraits of her. She was six years into having Non Hodgkin's Lymphoma at the time. This piece hangs in my apartment -- up high -- watching over me. There's just a hint of a smile; maybe only I can see it because it's familiar to me. I miss you Mom and have thought of you so many times since then my memories are worn.

POCKETS FULL OF SHELLS

One of last things my mother said to me before she died in April of 2001 was to "Notice the little things Toni." I rolled those words around in my head as I took long nature walks everyday that Spring, Summer, and Fall. I gathered pockets full of shells, leaves, stones, and twigs - not knowing at the time what I might do with them. I had no desire to paint - the actual distance between the brush and the canvass felt cavernous - too far removed from the urge I had to actually get my hands into the materials. One day, out of the blue, I decided to reproduce some birch bark I had collected - just to see if I could do it. That led to an entire series of sculptures I called my "nature studies." I "noticed the little things" - those pockets full of nature I had been collecting would be the "models" for sculptures. Those fallow three seasons marked the downtime I needed to gather the seeds for the next couple years of work.

The making of "Mussel Shells and Sea Glass."

I sculpted hundreds of mussel shell "blanks."

I painted hundreds of mussel shell blanks; it was repetitive, methodical, and required attention to detail - just what I needed to occupy my eyes, hands, and brain while working through the grief around my mother. I thought of myself as one of those prisoners who sculpt entire miniature villages out of countless tooth picks or popsicle sticks - because they have nothing but time on their hands, and creativity as their escape.

Here's the end result. It measures 1'x6'.

And here's a close-up of "the little things." 

THE CHARIOT

"Huge wheels and frisky steeds speed the rate at which the driver's willpower can be realized - making the world accessible to anyone ambitious enough to seize the chariot's reins." the Chariot card in the Gendron deck.

This is an illustration from my cancer memoir entitled "Car Dealer's Daughter."

THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS

"It's a poor sort of memory that only works backward." (a quote from Lewis Carroll's "Through the Looking Glass.")

I can see now, looking back to 1985 when I painted this self portrait, what it was that I was looking forward to.

MAGNOLIA BLOOM AND BUD

I grew up with a magnolia tree outside my bedroom window. The window that framed this fragrant beauty had a southern exposure; my other window looked west - up the driveway. My two brothers shared a room on the northern side of the house - their two windows faced west. I've wondered what effect our different vistas may have had on our individual perceptions of morning, the seasons, and bedrooms. They'd wake in a cool, dark cave - no matter the time of year. For me, spring was a pink blush of perfume and hummingbirds. Summer, I'd wake to sunlight dancing to the tune of rustling leaves. Fall was a gilded glow of enchantment, and winter's branches were adorned in frosted lace and cardinals. I don't remember anyone choosing who got which room, but they definitely got ripped off.

I sculpted this life size magnolia branch from wire, plaster, paper, and paint.

  

THE "SHAM" IN SHAMROCK

I believe nature is trying to tell me that "good fortune surrounds me, but to beware of false luck or shams."

THANKS HANK

The list is long - of musicians over the years who have moved me, and helped me to understand what it was I was feeling. In 1970 I was only ten; I had no "man to pick up after," "no egg to fry," but somehow, listening to WFIL, late at night on my single ear-bud transistor radio, Marilyn McCoo had the ability to make me feel her pain. 

As a child, I was a worrier with irritable bowels, and gassy stomach. At night I was a tooth grinder, and sleepwalker - during the day I was painfully shy, and often mistaken for a boy. I turned inward, and upward to my bedroom where I would listen to music, and draw. I didn't understand half of what I listened to, but was intrigued, and felt somehow these bottomless lyrics had been written with me in mind. Joni Mitchell told me that "laughing and crying were the same release," Neil Young "needed a maid," James Taylor was "a walking man," Cat Stevens "listened to the wind of his soul," Rod Stewart felt "no mandolin wind couldn't change a thing," and Nina Simone just "wanted a little sugar in her bowl." I eventually grew to understand these profound lyrics, discovered that drawing and music were one and the same, and that both calmed my nervous heart. 

One musician who has always been a constant - who has helped to validate and shed light on my feelings - is Hank Williams. He wrote plainly, and to the point - letting me know that after pain, there was happiness. Happiness and pain spin like his records. THANKS HANK. 

The above cartoon is from my illustrated cancer memoir called "Car Dealer's Daughter." This image of Hank Williams is an 18"x24" painting I did - just to keep my painting fingers limber and Hank's memory alive on one wall of my apartment. I worked from a 1949 black and white photo included in the "Complete Hank Williams" collection.  

   

GO EDDY!

I did this 3'x6' painting of the infamous Belgian racer Eddy "The Cannibal" Merckx - just for the heck of it, and because I wanted a big 3'x6' painting of Eddy Merckx to stare at.  

Anybody out there interested in having cycling paintings painted?

"CAR DEALER'S DAUGHTER" cover and introduction

"CAR DEALER'S DAUGHTER"  by Toni Wolf

There are limits to the human body, and to human relationships. No matter how hard we try, our bodies and our relationships eventually fail us on some level: our bodies with their mechanical failures, and our relationships with their needs and expectations. This is the story of the last five months of my father's life: the winding down of his deteriorating body during cancer, his resistance to living and dying, and my attempts to care for him during this time.

*an excerpt from my cancer memoir CAR DEALER'S DAUGHTER