Giving Away Art

Last night I attended the memorial for Lotte Streisinger, which was of course lovely and a warm group of friends, family, and acquaintances. As always, we learned things about her we will try to remember; they fill in the gaps and although it is too late to let her know, they increase our love and admiration of the person, and are gifts to us as we mourn.

My recent history with Lotte is mostly a repeating scene. I would spot her at the Market, heading off with her walker to set what I now understand was a frequent routine: taking a basket to fill with the beauty and bounty of fresh food and whatever else she needed from what we offer at her legacy market. She didn't shop for crafts much, as we all have to collect fewer things in our later years, unless we have a way to pass them on efficiently. But invariably I was with a customer or otherwise involved in my own routine, which on Saturdays is compressed to what absolutely has to be done in a fairly strict time frame. When it is my time to go get food, I have to do it then. So I'd try to keep an eye on her travels, and work it in to say a quick hello. Often I would run after her (she moved fast for a slow walker) and often she'd be leaving as I arrived at her car. I'd vow to do better the next time. Sometimes I didn't want to bother her.

At Holiday Market on what was her last visit, I ran after her and stuffed a tote bag into her basket. I said "It's a present. I don't think you have enough presents." I figured she'd pass it on to someone or at least enjoy it. She so loved other people's creations. Other artisans have told me she would stop and look at their displays and smile. She was a great appreciator. I often characterize what we do at the Market as the artist/appreciator direct relationship. She of course was extremely good at both roles, and has inspired me to collect many works, mostly earrings and bowls of which I have far too many. Need is not the operating value: it's connection. I want the crafter to know I value them, and want them to keep working, and my cash is a path to their success. I refuse discounts and tell them, "Make money."

Alas, I never collected a piece of her pottery. I remember what was surely the last time she came, with a minimal display of pots, and I don't know my reason for not buying one. I'm good at excuses, so I'm sure it was something lame like I have too much stuff or too many bills, or I just didn't think it through. But when I had an essay published in an anthology, (Winter Tales II: Women on the Art of Aging) I gave her a copy of the book and she gifted me a copy of her book. So I have a precious object, and am satisfied, but of course I have my regrets.

She actually invited me over for tea at that time. It was years ago, before I broke my foot, and maybe that was part of my excuse litany for why I did not go. I know I was intimidated, not knowing how friendly and gregarious she was, and I know I have kept it on my list of things to do, as I really wanted to connect with her about the Market in a deeper way, but I didn't follow through. Lesson number 3487 in how making excuses hobbles my life. Sigh.

Now I know she would have made us tea or even maybe a whiskey and we would have had the most wonderful time telling stories and filling me with what I know in my heart is what built me and fed me all of these decades. Her vision for how we live as artisans and humans who love beauty and nature, birds and plants, who closely observe and understand what is real and how we must protect it, her vision was manifested through her careful and diligent work. I was afraid I would cry, but now I know I would have laughed.

When I found out that she is the reason we have John Rose glass work in the Hult, and a bronze umbrella and the flying people at the airport, and a collection of small and profoundly attractive works instead of some expensive and pronounced sculpture, a key piece of my awareness of her legacy emerged. She really is why we have our 4x4s and our 8x8s at the Market and not a department store, why our town has so many craftspeople and so many lives built around us, and why I am here and have thrived here.

Yes, she did this in community and not all by herself, but she brought that vision and calmly set it in place. Her daughters gave the Market a box of her archives and I went through some of it yesterday. We saw some of it at the memorial. She kept in scrapbooks every newspaper reference, every opinion piece, and every photo published about the Market in the beginning. It's quite a treasure. I was dumbstruck how many of the original issues are still our issues almost 50 years later, and how so many of the ways we do things were set in place then, in 1970 to 75, before I got there. I know that her guidance is why. She watched over us.

When it was needed, she went public with letters to the editor. One of the last ones pled to not change the Markets, and it was in reference to our present situation. It made me cry. As the person who has self-appointed to carry this legacy of hers, I felt helpless and knew that I would not be able to make it so. I've worked for years now, decades really, to hold on to our essence and move it forward intact. Every change gets my scrutiny and often I despair that we can't know what the longterm effects of our changes will be. Did we blow it when we got this or that policy or fee? Did we make the right choice about that person or that situation? We can't get it right each time.

I have a collection of little stories about how her strength brought us through. I should maybe have told one or two of them last night, but it was the time to tell real, personal information about her and I didn't have enough. I may have told some of them in here, and maybe along with our 50th I will put together some type of history of how her legacy has butressed us as we have moved through our hardest times.

One of my stories has a dark humor to it. I'll tell it here but you have to promise to laugh. The short version is that I co-sell with the farmers at Tuesday Market, and I take a smaller more flexible display for the shorter day. I try to fit in small spaces so I can locate among them, as I like the friendships and the continuity of that, and I sell tote bags, which people need there. So one morning I was setting up and my whole entire display fell over. I had spread it too wide and the bags and hats are heavy, so with a great metallic crash, it fell flat on the sidewalk in the somewhat narrow aisle. In my horror I looked up, and here came Lotte with her walker. A minute or two of difference, and the headlines would have read "Longtime Member and Officer of Saturday Market Wipes Out Founder."

I know, not funny, but no one did get hurt and I certainly learned a lesson about physics and professionalism, which as a seasoned member I still needed a refresher course about. I thought making a sort-of funny cautionary tale about it was kind of how I do things. Make mistakes, write about them. Maybe she would have laughed with me. I was way too embarrassed at the time to discuss it. But at our tea, we could have...while she encouraged me to put some more berries on my stoneware plate and poured me a little more tea into my handmade cup. It's a dream sequence now.

I know Lotte will stay with me. During Holiday Market, when we had a table display for her, I would run in there and put another little comment in the book. Not enough of them, though. On Sunday nights I went and put away the flowers in a cool place so they'd last, and I took home my copy of her book, and her photo in its frame. I put her in my kitchen for the week and burned a handmade beeswax candle for her. I kept her company that way, singing, washing dishes, just thinking of her and the Market and my life there, and just loving her in a sweet and pure way. She deserved a gentle departure, which I think she experienced.

I should have told that last night, but I try to fight the urge to make things about me. All of my stories are always more about me than about other people. I don't think she was like that. In the notebooks she didn't editorialize. She turned outward where I turn inward. She modeled that for me. The stories others told were about that, particularly those of her grandchildren. Her history shows that. She did what she did for the community and for the world, not for herself, though she lived a life in which she was rich with time and love.

And that is why what she gave us will be a living testament for her for as long as we exist. We come to the Market to take the products of our inward turnings and turn them out. We turn out. The appreciators turn out, and people's needs are met, in all the ways the central plaza promenade and market work for communities around the world. She brought us that and it was exactly what we all wanted, and thank goodness our town took that and ran with it, and continues to.

You can see how many ways that could have happened differently. The quirks of Eugene and surrounding areas are directly from all of the little self-expressions that we feel free to bring out here. It's warmth and life and makes for a lively downtown and an ever-expanding universe of love and peace. We are way more than a Market. She was way more than a potter.

She gave away her heart, and last night many many pieces of her art were piled on a table and all of us politely pawed through them and took a few home to love. They have a life of their own, mostly quick studies, paintings, not all of them skillful, not all of them finished or polished or frameable or even important. What was important was the giving. What was important was the sharing. May we all remember what generosity really is.

May we never cease being inspired by Lotte. I will hold her dear. I will carry her forward as hard as I can. I will fight using the tools she used, write using her words, draw from her inspirations. I miss her so much. And next time I get the chance, I will put Lotte in the center of the table and try to channel what I think she might want said and done about our Market. I will need your help. Someday we will all depart, and the treasure we have been given is far too valuable to let fall.

I look through my kitchen window where I see the same birds Lotte saw, and drew, and shared with her grandchildren and children and us. I see the huge maple tree that I drew and printed on the tote bag I gave her, which one of her daughters is now using. I feel her loss and I know my gain.

Ahh life! So brief, so ephemeral, so full. Now I shall call my 91-year old mother, and treasure her as the other nonagenarian who made me. I feel so very lucky. And I'm glad it isn't sunny, because I need to be sad today. Plus, I feel some Jell-O Art coming through...maybe a tribute. Maybe just some playtime with art, in my kitchen, finished off with a carefully arranged exquisite snack on pottery with the fingerprints of people I love, maybe tuna salad without pepper, with whatever is in the kitchen that might look lovely with it. I will repeat her words: "Let's just see what happens!"