In conversation you were often raucous. You were often shrill. You were often blunt and explained this by saying you did not edit what you said. You did however edit your library shelves. You did write your silent books with talent. You did write your silent books with ease. The libraries’ silences are of a loud force, however quiet the tone. The libraries revealed more about your being than your words. Is that why you often said “words lie”? Your color did not lie. Your color revealed a depth of character. A depth of emotion. A depth of mastery. Yes, a mastery. Stella, you were a master. When in conversation with your library shelves, the works master the viewer. You are still in control, however silent you may be. Yes, your library shelves are the opposite of your personality. They are visual prayers. A visual beseeching. Their personality is majestic. A majestic solitude. A solitary viewing. A humbling viewing. To view your library shelves is a religious experience. It is a spiritual experience. I thank you, Stella.
Your works inspired my body of work. I measured my work up against your oeuvre. Your work’s emotional tenor supported my painting’s emotional tenor. I considered your work Stella rather than what was on view in Manhattan that was antagonistic to my belief system. I thank you. I thank you deeply. Knowing you enabled me to have profound insights and thoughts. Knowing your work enabled me to redeem my insecurities about my place in the artworld. Both you and Miriam Beerman were the artworld I most respected. Both of you born in the 1920s, thirty years and thirty- three years before my own birthing in 1953.
Yes, I thank you Stella. I thank you Miriam Beerman. Each creation of mine thanks you both. Stella Waitzkin. Miriam Beerman. Alison Weld. Yes, we all dedicated our lives to expression. We all dedicated our lives to beauty. We pulled beauty out of psychology. We pulled beauty out of history. We sat ourselves down in the realm of interpretation. Interpretation was our daily Starbucks cup of coffee. Interpretation began our days. Interpretation ended our days. It was our lunch. It was our dinner. Yes, a life of daily creation. Creation as a prayer. Creation as a response to history. Creation as an assertion of gender. Creation as genealogy. An emotive dwelling. A dwelling of intellect. A dwelling of politics. Thank you for the visual. Thank you for the cerebral. Emotive silence. Emotive wealth. Emotive necessity.