Henrietta's Closeup

I sit on a lawn chair in a hay carpeted shed with Henrietta, a large brown hog, at my side, and a renowned portrait artist, Brenda Zlamany seated directly across from me, peering into her Camera Lucida, a drawing aid that performs an optical superimposition of the subject being viewed.

“This one is from the 40’s,” explains the slight dark curly haired woman dressed in black jeans, now smudged with dirt. “I could replace it, but…”

Brenda, a city gal from Brooklyn, has never had a close encounter with a hog; she’s nervous that Henrietta might destroy her delicate piece of camera equipment. I reassure her and distract Henrietta with a carrot. From the sketch she quickly makes, Brenda will paint Henrietta and me with watercolors; this portrait will be included in a project Brenda is doing about the impact of climate change on people’s lives.

Brenda, who brands herself “the Itinerant Portraitist” is visiting Goatlandia, one of several stops in her exploration of the devastating Sonoma fires. She’s studying how Californians live with the effects of climate change induced threats. When she’s done with us, she’ll conduct her final interview and make a portrait of the Fire Chief of Sonoma County; she'll pack up her paints and proceed to her next destination, Alaska. She'll be painting portraits of Inuit whalers in Utqiagvik and of scientists and park rangers in Denali National Park.

Through portraiture and video interviews that will later be edited for a documentary film, Brenda gives context and meaning to social and environmental justice issues. She captures the faces of people (and now, pigs), collecting narratives that both inspire and inhabit each portrait. The collaboration between artist and subject that Brenda facilitates results in something remarkable.

Her work is not just a rendering of a person -- it becomes part of a story, an exchange that belongs to something larger, something that she hopes will move people to care deeply and perhaps take action about issues such as climate change. “We’ve gotten so used to and numbed by the media images,” she explains. She is interested in slowing things down and providing a richer perspective through her art. 

I talk to Brenda about how my experience at Goatlandia has helped me counter the despair I feel about the state of the world; I explain how caring for these creatures soothes my soul and sparks joy. I think about the sign I pass on 101 when I drive home from the animal sanctuary that declares, “Sonoma, we will rise from the ashes.”

Before our session in the shed is over, Henrietta places her snout into Brenda’s palette of watercolors.

Laughing, I grab Brenda’s iPhone, and start videoing the curious hog and the artist interacting.  “I’ve never had an experience like this one,” Brenda declares as she wipes “pig slime” from the top corner of her paper.  

Some of Brenda’s past projects include traveling throughout China, painting portraits of aboriginal Taiwanese teenagers and over 888 Chinese people. She’s created 100 portraits of 100-year-olds at the Hebrew National Home in New York, painting and talking with many Holocaust survivors.  She has received a Fulbright grant to pursue her artistic globetrotting, and later when I check out her web site (brendazlamany.com), I am blown away by the beauty and humanity of her work.

“And now you’re here at Goatlandia, where we also have stories of survivors,” I observe. I describe how as a runt, Henrietta was thrown into a fire by an abusive farmer, and then saved by the founders of Goatlandia. I show her a photo of Henrietta as a baby, wearing a t-shirt reading “Pants Optional,” that protected the burnt skin on her back. I tell Brenda how Alana and Deborah rescued a large herd of goats during the Camp Fire.  

She remarks on the calm and peaceful vibe at Goatlandia, marveling at how the animals interact seamlessly across species. To punctuate the point, a rooster pops into the shed to check out what we’re up to, and then the Hog sisters amble in, wondering why they aren’t being included in the portrait. I reward Henrietta with an apple, as she has been such a willing participant.

We talk for a while on the porch as Brenda continues to paint  -- about our daughters, about the power of storytelling, about art and writing. “Goya painted animals,” Brenda says.  “Did he do pigs?” I ask, delighting at the image of Henrietta she has captured.  Me, I am looking pretty intense in the portrait, but that’s not surprising. 

Brenda promises to send me an image of the finished portrait and then hurries off to her next meeting because what was supposed to take 20 minutes has turned into three hours.  She waves goodbye from behind the wheel of her rental car; inspired by this interaction, I return to raking goat poop. Another unexpected day at Goatlandia.

Spit Gel

When I look at Greer, I feel the force and fancy of her grandmother.  Kathy, my wife Patricia’s older sister, is present in the essence of our niece Kristen’s baby girl, who wears her name,  Greer Kathleen, like a multicolored polka dotted romper. 

Our broken hearts heal just a bit when we hold Greer close. She leans in, relaxed in the crook of my arm. She watches everything, so attentive; I can almost see the synapses forming in her baby brain. Her small chin is determined, her blue eyes so bright. She smells like the promise of apple blossoms and summertime. 

How lucky am I to breathe her in, when her grandma cannot; I exhale a moment of grief, then take a steady breath, grateful for this baby girl.

My sister-in-law, who left the planet far before we were ready, faithfully convened the Keaney family at the Jersey Shore every summer for years at a house that did not survive Hurricane Sandy.  On this Memorial Day weekend, Kathy’s oldest daughter, Kristen graciously steps in to fill those awesome sandals; she gathers us at her comfortable home in the suburbs of New Jersey for her childrens’ birthday party.

Our nieces, the Shala Sisters, Kristen, Katlin, and Karen, have grown to be such kind, funny  enterprising, creative young women. They pitch in and they support each other in substantive ways. Their mom, Kathy would be pleased to see them in action, surrounded by loving partners and friends. 

Greer is busy as a honeybee; she scoots about, holding a stuffed Micky in each small fist, focused and intentional as she fetches a third Micky from inside a tepee. When she catches a rolling yellow ball, she quietly squeals her delight. Low-key, yet energetic, she makes her way to a small ladder in the kitchen where she pulls herself up to a standing position. She bounces gleefully, up and down in place.

Later, she will applaud herself, clapping her tiny hands together because she remembers or doesn’t remember this feat. She is so pleased. Pleased much of the time, she is a delicious  piece of pleasantness.

She is passed with reverence, among the women in her world: her supremely competent multitasking mom; her dedicated grandma Maryanne, whose daughters Meghan and Erin delight in their contented niece; her great aunt Maureen, who fills the room with her big heart and keen mind; her cousin, Stephanie, Mo’s sweet and smart daughter, who scooted down the green hillside in Vermont, much in the same way that Greer now moves; and the bubbly 80-year old cousins, Margaret and Theresa, who still speak with lovely lilting  Irish brogues, even though they emigrated from Leitrim as teenagers.

Celebrating  Level 1, her first year,  Greer, carried amongst partygoers, takes in the crowd with poise and equanimity. Her big brother Nolan Stanley, entering Level 4, a whip-smart and willful guy, plays with the rough and tumble boys he loves from across the street. He manages to navigate all the excitement, sometimes taking a moment alone, or touching in with his reassuring mom and dad as he approaches melt down.

At night I read to Nolan in bed as he gently touches my curls. We both appreciate a good book. 

At his birthday breakfast the next morning when he turned his head, his profile reminded me of his Grandfather Stan, Kathy’s husband. Stan the Man also left the planet before he could meet his grandkids. I miss my steadfast brother-in-law, whom I called my beloved unlikely friend. Nolan is so fortunate to have such a devoted dad, Ryan, and a wonderfully patient grandfather Rich, to help him become a good man.

This family has endured huge losses and has enjoyed enormous love. When I am surrounded by the Keaney women, by my wife, her sister, our nieces, now our great-niece, I appreciate all the intelligence, creativity, humor, and kindness possessed by these women, who all share the same rare mitochondrial maternal DNA, Haplogroup X1. Their capacity for happiness and sadness, their strength and goodness of being, their connectedness, their perseverance, and ability to enjoy a good laugh inspires me.

One afternoon, I watched in amused horror as Nolan generously spit into his hands and rubbed a mess of saliva into his hair announcing that he was using “Spit Gel.”  “Where did you learn this? You use only a little spit and even that is disgusting,” I opine. He is unfazed, not a hair out of place.  

When his Aunt Katie arrived for breakfast wearing a lovely off the shoulder black and bright flowered print dress, he asked, “Why are you naked?”  This kid is going to be something, I think.

Three generations, I don’t know where the time goes; I came to New Jersey over thirty years ago for the christening of Patricia’s middle niece, Kaitlin. When a priest asked Pat, the godmother, to renounce Satan at the ceremony, I looked at her in utter dismay.  What kind of mishugenah question was that?  

Now here we  are, attending a party for the new generation. How can this be? But I am comforted by this clan — the continuity, the flow of it all, the recognition of my dear departed relatives in the shiny faces of Greer and Nolan.  Stan and Kathy did good.