Someday My Art Will Die
Robins are assholes.
We don’t have them where I’m from, but in Allentown, New Jersey they serve as the local alarm. They wake you up at 6:13 a.m. by standing on the window’s edge, tapping on the glass, trying to say hello.
Despite the unwarranted wake-up call, Allentown in the morning has an alluring silence to it. Standing off the side porch drinking coffee, watching the changing light illuminate the budding flowers. It’s a type of simplicity that can only be achieved by living in a semi-rural town.
The calming presence of the morning dew wears off as my family wakes, slowly corrupting the silence.
Almost every year, my immediate family visits my dad’s side of the family that lives on the east coast. Until this point in my life, I had only ever perceived my dad’s family as one-dimensional characters that I called on their birthdays or to catch up with every once in a while.
Music is the thread that ties my dad’s family together. My dad has forever been obsessed with achieving his livingroom rockstar dreams–obsessing over new chords and styles weekly. My uncle is in a local rock band semi-famous to residents of Phillipsburg, NJ. My grandmother sang in the NJ state choir, and her sister, Janet, was the church pianist for almost 50 years.
Growing up, I never imagined that the melodic music that filled my family’s homes could eventually fade away. I had never imagined that my grandparents could get old. To me, they were supposed to be young forever–but on this trip, the reality sunk in.
In the years we spent apart, I had grown into an adult—I started college and embraced my love of photography. I’ve become the type of person who never leaves home without a camera and on this trip, I knew my purpose.
My great aunt Janet has dementia.
In all honesty, I know very little about the life she lived for 87 years. She is a college-educated woman who devoted her entire life to her faith, music, and husband, Tony, who died a few years ago.
I can remember the mildewy smell of her 1,200 square foot townhouse, whereupon every visit she would lead my brother and me to their basement to look at our great uncle’s extensive model car collection. I can remember being small and sinking into their blue patterned couch as Janet sat at the piano playing us American classics, like “Yankee Doodle” and more complex pieces she had written herself.
As her dementia set in, she moved into an assisted living center. Despite her small new apartment-style home, there will always be a place for her piano.
Every time I’ve visited my dad’s family, we always stop to say hello to my aunt Janet and bring her a bouquet of flowers. Yet this time, there was something in the air. I don’t know whether it was the stormy weather or the hot humid air making my clothes stick to my body, but there was a solemness that made every breath heavy. It wasn’t having to remind her of my name or how she knew me, but it was her piano playing that got to me.
That day, my grandmother asked her if she would play a few songs for us. Janet sat on the piano bench just like she had my entire life. As she played music for us, she apologized for how she couldn’t remember certain parts of the songs. Midway through “Yankee Doodle,” she just stopped and transitioned into playing a combination of minor chords, creating a somber song on the spot.
She didn’t need to speak for us to understand how she was feeling. I could hear it in minor chords sprinkled with moments of major keys, offering a few bright moments.
I am not an emotional person but hearing her play piano on this day reminded me of how rare moments like these truly are.
I wanted to capture my great aunt’s joy and power that she’s held onto all these years as a pianist. At one point, my dad sat on the piano bench with her playing the classical jazz he had taught himself in recent years. You could see the pride on my great aunt’s face watching her nephew gracefully play complicated chords. I wanted to encapsulate these moments because I don’t know if there will ever be more.
It’s an odd thing to think about—someday these photos will be referenced as to what she was like in her old age and how she held onto her love of music and family.
There’s a certain sense of duty I feel in capturing the older members of my family. I want to be able to capture the warmth and sense of comfort they’ve always provided for me—even living thousands of miles apart.
I will always cherish the time I spend with my family, and someday I will have to come to terms with what happens when art dies.
For now, all I know is that robins are assholes.