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I grew up in a small town in Wisconsin,
built on seven bluffs, overlooking the shores of Lake Michigan. In
the center of town, on the highest bluff, stands a small gothic
revival church adorned with Stations of the Cross dioramas and
littered with sculptures and images of the saints.
St. Mary’s centerpiece is a bloody, limp, life-sized plaster Christ
on a full sized cross.
I spent an hour with him each Sunday.
At home, I was surrounded by cards,
necklaces and books which were bestowed upon me by the church and my
relatives during rites of passage and holy days. Each came, like a
baseball card, with a brief description of each saint’s requisite
miracle and, usually, details concerning their horrible death.
I was fascinated by the juxtaposition
of the real and the ideal.
As an adult, I am similarly interested
in examining the iconography of the family as evidenced through
images gleaned from my parent’s photo albums. The pages, which
display snapshots made by prescription (birthdays, vacations and
holidays), deviate significantly from my memory.
Recent drawings focus on these images
of my family and attempt to ascertain, through the veil of memory,
that which is real.
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