Keepsakes remind us of history’s moments and treasures. Consider what Napoleon had attached to his fob on Elba. Consider what Huck Finn had tucked away on his adventures along the Mississippi. Consider what the thousands lost on the Titanic. Consider what you keep for memory. We all attach keepsakes to our present to remind us of our past.
I have made thousands of portraits. The portraits are my portals into my past. Each frame is a keepsake. They remind me of a life once lived. They rekindle my memory of others. Each archival page is filled with transparencies, keepsakes. Once a week I open a page to remember scenes that have breathed life into my decades as a photographer.
I no longer make portraits. But portraits are my tiny humble kinship with Giorgio Vasari and others. I don’t write to write. I write to remember. My memory of photographing the Abstract Expressionist Edward Dugmore remains a precious visual keepsake.
Edward Dugmore in his studio
One afternoon in 1993, I arrived at his New York studio. Before I could breathe hello I realized exactly what my photographs were to look like. It was one of those “aha” moments that rarely happen. When it does, I become like a surgeon preparing for surgery. The artist’ studio was my operating room. I make sure all the tools were properly spread out. I would begin my purposeful investigation into Dugmore’s life. Once he was comfortable with me I turn on my lights.
In those days, turning on my lights was like a drug rush. All of my senses were heightened exponentially. All of the shapes and shadows formed the essential canvas.
So many times my subjects would wonder why I was so happy. They obviously didn’t envision what I did. To them this was home. To me I was painting on a canvas.
Over the next few weeks I would visit the Dugmore’s. I brought tests from the shoot, and of course the final image.
During these visits, Edith Dugmore would share most of the conversation. Edward would stir around the studio. Edith would suggest that he wasn’t always “here”.
She shared a recurring issue in their lives. Edward was losing his memory. Alzheimer’s was affecting their lives. She told me a story about leaving Edward at home.
The Dugmore’s had a country home. They would visit often for long periods of time. Edward could paint there, they could live in the quietude. One fall day, she spent the afternoon away with friends. She forgot that she left the keys to the car at home. She always feared that he would see them and drive off by himself.
That day, an anxious Edward feeling like an existentialist Nathaniel Hawthorne, stirred to spread his wings amid the rosy dawn colors of the day. Edward raced the car through a Frederick Church fiery fall canvas. Edward’s eyes blazed through the psychedelic beauty. The time slipped by until a dead end lay ahead.
He stared straight ahead for minutes, that were actually hours. He didn’t know where he was as day shifted into night. Frozen in time, his mind alighted with fear, he realized he was lost. The colors vanished. Night surrounded him. Fear became panic.
A local sherif knocked on his car window. Edith had called for the authorities earlier in the day. Almost 12 hours had passed from the beginning of the search. Edward had lost his way. His hands remained gripped to the steering wheel until Edith arrived to lessen his fears.
As Edith shared the story, I looked over at Edward and asked her how does he paint.
She said, “we think he paints what he remembers. While his mind has diminished we feel there is still a hint of euphoria from another time”.
I watched the artist in his studio for sometime. As I packed up my equipment, I watched the ghost of a man slip through my canvas.
