What Stuff

Judith Stern Friedman

speak to years of stories. Dappled gray beard attests to his age. And now he’s left this topper behind to fully face his own mortality. Fedora, cap, or classy beret can’t hold back time from taking its toll, so now he’s moved to go it alone. Is it man against the world or man surrendering to his destined place in it?

These synthetic objects of developed society are aligned paradoxically with nature’s grand accomplishments. Apple, pear, grapes and gourds show their own amazing genius. With vivid, surreal colors and tactile textures, these things are awesome by their very existence: from seed to fruit to tasteful nourishment, they do far more for the soul than fancy shoes or furtive hat. They arouse the senses in every sense: see the passionate orange pumpkin that meets eyes with fire, find comfort in the cool, supple touch of its skin, and discover a remarkable subculture inside of stringy webs and hovering seeds. Silhouettes of busy purple balls huddle together like giggly grade school girls sharing the secret of sweet juice inside. Blooms with their magical means to recreate and leaves with veins that draw roadmaps to nothing leave this observer totally awed.

Piece by piece, natural or manmade, these objects are products of human pursuit. The bugle and bust of a curly-locked girl are icons of our expressive culture. The shapely vessels of glass, brass and tin beg the question: how were they used? For something as simple as syrup on pancakes or something as exotic as oil on a ritual fire? Hat, scarf and small stack of journals, each conceal their personal accounts that come alive with one’s imagination. Yet without the observer, where do they stand? On objective ground, not judged, not ranked, inanimate, inactive, occupying space in a stark, white room.

You call it a still life — but this menagerie is far from still. Its objects are a striking set of contrasts: natural and faux, weathered and cultured, free form and conforming. From the unfamiliar lines of a tin man’s oilcan to the undulating curves of a perfect peach, the grouping’s silhouette is like a moving landscape. Rough, soft, old, new, dark, light, stark, busy, the colors and textures spark a range of curiosities — but these tangible shapes only touch on the movement. The real motion comes from our own imaginations that put living, breathing stories to these inanimate things.

Take the withering wax of three old candles, whose virgin wicks have never seen light. Like three aging spinsters of great expectations, their bent-over bodies preserve some dignity perched in a three-arm fancy brass candelabrum. The shorter, fatter cream one in the center seems content with its unfinished lot, while the taller, white skinnies seem to wilt in despair. Their marks bear the nicks of life in a drawer, exposed on and off to celebration, but void of the chance to fully glow.

In opposition to the seasoned threesome, pristine ruby pumps show promise and accomplishment … or do they? Unworn, unscuffed. No wrinkles in the upper. No bends in the sole. Perhaps they were meant to match the gown of a high-society debutant not yet ready to assume the role. She defies the demands of acting demure, smiling when sad, socializing though alone. She’ll have none of these fussy shoes! She’d rather run barefoot through a field of grass. Success, status, pure indulgence abandoned for more meaningful pursuits.

And whose is the hat of sleek tan suede? It must belong to a man of worldly ways, traveled, weathered, gracefully aging. His deep thoughtful eyes in the shadows of the brim gauge the world with a wrinkled brow. Lines in his face