My sister Deborah hung her first solo show in the gallery at the Newark Arts Alliance in Delaware.
The opening was Friday night, and there was plenty of support from family and friends. She’s called the show “Quite a Pear”, and she and her husband Mark made all of the food—from chutney to Cinnamon Pie Bars—using pears as a key ingredient. Mark, an unsung hero on the dobro, also provided the music.
Then there was the art. Deborah describes the show as “exploring the ripe metaphors of pears through visual images paired with the poetry of language,” and it was certainly all that. I was especially thrilled to see the progress she’s made in her mastery of technique. Especially in her mixed media paintings, which use elements that she’s returned to often enough that they're familiar—now treated in fresh and skillful ways.
What I can’t put into words is the feeling that came over me as I gazed around the room, its white walls awash in gorgeous colors and lush shapes. Pride? (As in, “Well yes, she’s my sister.”) Delight? (“What a beautiful show!”) Relief? (“She sold quite a few pieces in just one night!”) Amazement? (“Wow, she must have busted her butt to create so many new pieces!”)
Or maybe it was Love. Love for the sister with whom I’ve been paired in a long-running artistic tug-of-war—and have now found peace.
Maybe it was all of these things, plus a dollop of Lucky. Lucky to have a sister who is an artist and writer. Who connects with my artist and writer self. And with whom I can share openly—and celebrate wildly—our considerable gifts.