I’ve been thinking, lately, about my dad. He died two years ago in August, from Alzheimer’s, so it was, as they say, a long goodbye. Still, I found his ultimate loss unacceptable. The truth is I got a kick out of my dad, even when he was so utterly changed. As I’ve written before, his spark was still alive, his funny charming innate self. The hard edges were softened. Again, I don’t want to make Alzheimer’s sound like I recommend it; it was wrenching to witness, especially when he was scared and confused. But knowing how poorly he felt didn’t make it easier to lose him. Maybe that’s selfish of me, to still want him around, even when he was suffering. 

I used to paint with my dad. He got me into watercolors, and encouraged me to keep a sketchbook with me at all times, especially when I traveled. We took a watercolor class together at the Brooklyn Museum of Art, probably ten years ago? Just before he was diagnosed. For years, whenever we saw each other, he would give me what he called “extras” of art supplies I like to imagine he purchased with me in mind: fancy paints and brushes, even fancier paper. And I got really into it. I didn’t think I was painting for him, exactly, but it was a conversation we were having: I would show him my sketchbook and works in progress whenever I visited, and I would point out whatever it was I had attempted to do, and he would tell me whether or not he thought I pulled it off. He wasn’t exactly brimming with compliments; that was never his style. But just hearing him say that, yes, he could see how I had achieved a certain effect, or to see his face light up when he checked out my sketchbook—that was the equivalent of high praise from Dave Bradley. It was not always easy to connect with my dad, so this opportunity wasn’t one I was going to pass up. He encouraged me, and I loved his encouragement. He asked my advice on his own work, and I cherished the opportunity to be helpful to him. He loved painting, and so I did, too.