Today is the one-year anniversary of the shooting death of Masumi Hayashi, artist, photographer, friend. Her neighbor, artist John Jackson, was also killed. The man who took their lives is in prison with a life sentence.
I'm supposed to be writing/finishing an article on the four exhibitions of her work being mounted this fall, but all I can think about is her, her laugh, her kindness ribboned with irony. Watching her son, Dean, grow up. Learning about the daughter she gave up for adoption (they found each other just in time).
She entered this life smack in the center of one of America's great shames: a Japanese internment camp called Gila River, in 1945. She left this life in a presumably safe building in Cleveland.
We have her work as testament and multiple memento mori.
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4 comments:
i remember when this happened, remember reading about it. a sad, sad thing.
She was brilliant.
It's got to be difficult to write from an intellectual perspective when the wounds of her loss seem so fresh.
I can only give you my own take on her work and hope it helps inspire you.
By natures' design we are limited to how our eyes can focus. It truly is in rather small sections. We then take all these
fragments and impressions, sew them together and create a larger composed image in our mind. She seemed to have been fascinated with this basic human process and took full advantage of the media to experiment in this format.
All true.
Dork, you should have written the article! Well said. I was tempted to steal your words...
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