Beautiful writing. I look forward to sharing more stories. I worked as a psych nurse in my younger life and remember quite a number of the patients, as they were called back then. Always trying to see the person in their story. They mattered! Bob mattered and your writing tells us that.
Thanks so much, Zoe, for your reading and insightful comments. And I look forward to future sharings too. I remember your mention of the work as a psych nurse. All good wishes. xx
Bring me back, Amy, bring me back to the most valuable and formative years of my adult life. This clear-eyed portrait of Robert of yours explicates for me the reasoning I think I had in mind when I founded the Anchor House of Artists, Northampton in 1997, in mind when I expanded the mission to serve artists living with mental illnesses by opening the New England Visionary Artists Museum to conserve works and educate on the life of artists who produced them. You show here that art is only incidental to those lives in your portrayal of Robert.
Bob served me as the first artist I witnessed to abstract experience of the world that shaped him. His process of producing and destroying representations of paper money, his invention in producing them—colored penciled details with copper and silver toned rubbings from coins. The transfer of psychic power he gave them sheerly transformed the way I thought of art. He was a beautiful man whose twists of moods enhanced my respect for him. It adjusted my view of art, of creative labor. And as all three of us, you Ricardo, and I were at creative beginnings in our careers, his influence was large.
Do you recall how outside he functioned politically in the our cohort of men who were considered our charges—ironically us, ha, kids as house parents to middle-aged men? I think that Robert stood apart from the cadre of men that were led by a rival chief, remember?. As I conceived of it, the natural split between them was that he was discharged with the first class of patients deinstitutionalized from the failed Northampton State Hospital while all the others were from the first class released from the overcrowded and nightmarish Belchertown State School.
Do you remember, how they each had an entirely different manner of relating to us. As I remember it, it wasn't our job to discuss with any of them how it felt to be there, it was just clear that Robert was an outsider. He occupied the front bedroom on that dark second floor while the others were dispersed in the rooms down the hall where their chief held court. What a dynamic. What do you think?
Of the little knowledge we had of those men's original incarceration to each institution, we lived with the enigma. Remember the suggestible possible causes: the medicalization of mental illness, the force of the court to order young juveniles to permanent detention, the families who simply ejected their handicapped members, even if, under their unsteady gaits or speech impediments, they may have been cognitively normal, and how cruelly labeled were the cognitively impaired--the "retarded."
Remember the strategy meetings with agency’s psychologist, our marching orders, the ideology from the book “Normalization?”—who was that author? How quizzical the advice, unhelpful many times I think. How tragic to us, how tragic but mostly peppered with the joy and fun of knowing the men for us. We had fun with them.
Do you recall the alleged crime Bob was institutionalized for, how the tale fit into the cruel narrative of his employment, how it devolved from a dispute with an overbearing boss? I recall my distain that it was a life-robbing sentence. We, you, were so lucky to have the opportunity to support his freedom. How free though was our question? You served him like no other person in his life I think.
I have two pieces of art from the time: I have a dollar bill with the impression of a Ham Lincoln and a painting by a resident of the River Valley Rest Home of the yard and front facade with Robert Rhodes sitting in a chair, smoking. They are precious and included in the permanent collection of the museum. How horribly sad it was, his death by cancer, wasn’t it?, a fate shared with so many of that lifestyle, robbed of actual healthcare, infuriating.
The way I knew him, Robert was distinguished in his poverty, unflappable in most cases of house crisis among the men, and particularly loving to you. Your portrait is loving, too. So much so that you inspire me to live the experience of our life with him again.
I treasure sharing those times with you and Ricardo. We made a strong team, the most effectual team I have ever been part of. Your writing, your photographs—thank you.
Michael, so lovely to find your comment, full of love and remembrance. Your memories add to my own - what we recall is never complete, shaped by our singular view - and so you have made my view brighter and more complex. We were the best work team I have known - and as you say, so young and at the beginning our own creative development. We navigated a system that we knew to be flawed, with limited powers to change it - but I felt we remained honest between us, even innocent at times - I hope this made us better with the people who looked to us for support. To meet Bob at that time was a gift for all three of us. And it's wonderful to see its legacy in Anchor House. I remember how proud for Bob I felt when I saw his piece on the wall there - and as an artist, you remember his materials much better than I - the silver and copper rubbings from coins. I wish I had remembered that when writing the piece. Thank you, Michael, for taking the time to read and write as only you can. And for remembering Bob alongside me. Those days, the people in it - including you - are forever in my heart. xx
Nancy, thank you. It's been nice how many Northampton people have mentioned to me that they remember Bob. He left a trace. Sending you love, dear friend. xx
What a beautifully poignant account of your time with Bob, Amy. I do remember him vaguely from those mid-70s days, but, after reading your piece, wish I'd taken the time to know him better.
Beautiful writing. I look forward to sharing more stories. I worked as a psych nurse in my younger life and remember quite a number of the patients, as they were called back then. Always trying to see the person in their story. They mattered! Bob mattered and your writing tells us that.
Thanks so much, Zoe, for your reading and insightful comments. And I look forward to future sharings too. I remember your mention of the work as a psych nurse. All good wishes. xx
Bring me back, Amy, bring me back to the most valuable and formative years of my adult life. This clear-eyed portrait of Robert of yours explicates for me the reasoning I think I had in mind when I founded the Anchor House of Artists, Northampton in 1997, in mind when I expanded the mission to serve artists living with mental illnesses by opening the New England Visionary Artists Museum to conserve works and educate on the life of artists who produced them. You show here that art is only incidental to those lives in your portrayal of Robert.
Bob served me as the first artist I witnessed to abstract experience of the world that shaped him. His process of producing and destroying representations of paper money, his invention in producing them—colored penciled details with copper and silver toned rubbings from coins. The transfer of psychic power he gave them sheerly transformed the way I thought of art. He was a beautiful man whose twists of moods enhanced my respect for him. It adjusted my view of art, of creative labor. And as all three of us, you Ricardo, and I were at creative beginnings in our careers, his influence was large.
Do you recall how outside he functioned politically in the our cohort of men who were considered our charges—ironically us, ha, kids as house parents to middle-aged men? I think that Robert stood apart from the cadre of men that were led by a rival chief, remember?. As I conceived of it, the natural split between them was that he was discharged with the first class of patients deinstitutionalized from the failed Northampton State Hospital while all the others were from the first class released from the overcrowded and nightmarish Belchertown State School.
Do you remember, how they each had an entirely different manner of relating to us. As I remember it, it wasn't our job to discuss with any of them how it felt to be there, it was just clear that Robert was an outsider. He occupied the front bedroom on that dark second floor while the others were dispersed in the rooms down the hall where their chief held court. What a dynamic. What do you think?
Of the little knowledge we had of those men's original incarceration to each institution, we lived with the enigma. Remember the suggestible possible causes: the medicalization of mental illness, the force of the court to order young juveniles to permanent detention, the families who simply ejected their handicapped members, even if, under their unsteady gaits or speech impediments, they may have been cognitively normal, and how cruelly labeled were the cognitively impaired--the "retarded."
Remember the strategy meetings with agency’s psychologist, our marching orders, the ideology from the book “Normalization?”—who was that author? How quizzical the advice, unhelpful many times I think. How tragic to us, how tragic but mostly peppered with the joy and fun of knowing the men for us. We had fun with them.
Do you recall the alleged crime Bob was institutionalized for, how the tale fit into the cruel narrative of his employment, how it devolved from a dispute with an overbearing boss? I recall my distain that it was a life-robbing sentence. We, you, were so lucky to have the opportunity to support his freedom. How free though was our question? You served him like no other person in his life I think.
I have two pieces of art from the time: I have a dollar bill with the impression of a Ham Lincoln and a painting by a resident of the River Valley Rest Home of the yard and front facade with Robert Rhodes sitting in a chair, smoking. They are precious and included in the permanent collection of the museum. How horribly sad it was, his death by cancer, wasn’t it?, a fate shared with so many of that lifestyle, robbed of actual healthcare, infuriating.
The way I knew him, Robert was distinguished in his poverty, unflappable in most cases of house crisis among the men, and particularly loving to you. Your portrait is loving, too. So much so that you inspire me to live the experience of our life with him again.
I treasure sharing those times with you and Ricardo. We made a strong team, the most effectual team I have ever been part of. Your writing, your photographs—thank you.
Thank you.
Michael, so lovely to find your comment, full of love and remembrance. Your memories add to my own - what we recall is never complete, shaped by our singular view - and so you have made my view brighter and more complex. We were the best work team I have known - and as you say, so young and at the beginning our own creative development. We navigated a system that we knew to be flawed, with limited powers to change it - but I felt we remained honest between us, even innocent at times - I hope this made us better with the people who looked to us for support. To meet Bob at that time was a gift for all three of us. And it's wonderful to see its legacy in Anchor House. I remember how proud for Bob I felt when I saw his piece on the wall there - and as an artist, you remember his materials much better than I - the silver and copper rubbings from coins. I wish I had remembered that when writing the piece. Thank you, Michael, for taking the time to read and write as only you can. And for remembering Bob alongside me. Those days, the people in it - including you - are forever in my heart. xx
Mine too, Amy. Regards to the old man R if you see him.
Hi Michael, Will do. And I already took the liberty of sharing your lovely comments with him as I know he will appreciate them as much as I have. xx
Wonderful images and recollections of a true character. Thanks Amy.
Many thanks, Caroline - much appreciated, as always. xx
Amy, you continually amaze me with the beauty of your writing.
Nancy, thank you. It's been nice how many Northampton people have mentioned to me that they remember Bob. He left a trace. Sending you love, dear friend. xx
What a beautifully poignant account of your time with Bob, Amy. I do remember him vaguely from those mid-70s days, but, after reading your piece, wish I'd taken the time to know him better.
Many thanks, Bruce... comments warmly appreciated!