Jean Smith

I can’t resist sharing this photo of Diebenkorn showing his daughter Gretchen his new, abstract work (Ocean Park series) after he made the switch from figurative to abstract circa 1967.

I’m almost 15 years younger than Gretchen, who, in 1968, brought her husband to her dad’s studio to see this new work. It’s likely that her husband took the photo. In that era women would typically be more aware and concerned about how their faces looked, which emotions might be jeopardy of being captured by a photographer. In this candid shot, she would have been more comfortable if it was her husband behind the camera. Speculation aside; it’s a remarkable photo no matter how it came to be.

The photo is from a lecture she, Gretchen, gave about life with her father, during which she tells a story about an abstract painting her mother did that Diebornkorn had issues with. He brought up his concerns many times to his wife, who was evidently not planning to heed his instruction. Then, one Christmas, Diebenkorn had his son take the painting off the wall and out of its frame. He cut out a chunk of paper, glued it to the offending area, and put it back on the wall. Gretchen makes it sound like no one noticed.

Here’s where I’ll self-referentially insert myself. Both my parents were painters, basically the same age as Diebenkorn. As a kid, I was aware of their trajectory away from figurative to abstraction and then back again, sometimes with more complicated figurative interpretations informed by their abstract expressionist experiences (and what was going on historically in painting).

For me, it’s a bit trippy to hear Gretchen talking about her early years as the daughter of painters. Obviously, neither of my parents were famous, but their paintings were included in group shows at the Vancouver Art Gallery and both had local commercial galleries representing them. I’m here to assure you that not being famous didn’t dilute their intensity. Painting was the important thing in our family. Studios were built. Phone calls with art dealers were had and discussed (lots of yelling). Shows were prepared for (painters were responsible for framing). All of the extraneous infrastructure was dealt with, but day-to-day life was made up of heaviness or lightness of moods, various successes (insert Tarzan yell), failures (stomping around, doors slamming), reveals of new work (look at me!!) and criticism (hurt feelings).

My mom was an art school graduate (who did not have a job outside the house) and my dad was a tenacious natural from the wrong side of the tracks who invented his trajectory (freelance commercial art to ad agencies, then a full time painter and back to freelancer when that didn’t pay the bills).

The story of Gretchen’s father altering her mother’s painting is shocking to me. It’s an abject lack of respect for her and her work. My dad may have been a opinionated hothead, but he respected my mother’s artist abilities tremendously and frequently posited her talent above his own. He would never have done anything like this, although certainly there were bits of paper around that were positioned and adhered to alter paintings as they discussed them.