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Judith Scott - artist extraordinary 1943-2005

'Entwined'
By Joyce Scott

Excerpt from: 'The Opening

he flight from Cincinnati landed in San Francisco on time, and a sea of anonymous faces now fills the airport arrival gate. I scan them anxiously, concerned that I might not immediately spot her in the confusion. A face emerges from the crowd and comes towards me. A sudden flash of recognition! In an instant, any lingering doubts evaporate, replaced by the overwhelming joy of reunion. Kathi comes towards me, walking with barely a limp. As we rush forward to embrace tearfully, I recall her words. "God blesses you; He gives you what you ask for, but only if you pray. You have to pray a lot!” She’d said it with fervor, wiggling the toes on her twisted foot. I had wondered about her foot, about her polio — and I wondered too about her prayers, but I wanted to believe with her and so I did.

I remembered how, as kids long ago, we had leaned her against the sagging garage door as often as we could. We all closed our eyes and said more than one special prayer. We lined up, just beyond her reach, and cheered her on. "You can walk now. You can throw away your crutches. You have faith. We have faith. Believe, believe, you can do it, come on, come on". We knew she believed and we believed. We stared at her full of hope and expectation.

Her blue eyes looked at us with purpose and intent, full of readiness. She leaned forward, leaned forward, stepped forward; stepped forward, tumbled and fell. How many times did we try? Just as many times as she fell. We picked her up, leaned her closer to the corner, and tried again — and again. Something wasn't working. Our prayers were not strong enough. May be we didn't pray often enough, maybe didn't believe quite well enough.

But here she is — walking alone and unaided. Perhaps our childhood prayers had worked after all.

In a few moments, Kathi’s husband Jim, joins us, struggling behind with the baggage. The traffic driving back into San Francisco and over the Bay Bridge towards Berkeley and Oakland is heavy as usual, but today we barely notice it under the flood of old memories.

“Do you remember,” Kathi asks, “those hot summer nights when we would lie together on that old couch, back behind the walnut tree? With all the bits of horsehair stuffing clinging to us, tangled in our wild-girl hair.”

“And Judy snuggling in close, with the springs poking us,” I respond.

My mind was floating back, seeing again the faded couch, the earth tones of brown and gray, recalling the smell of damp from its outdoor life. Soaked regularly by Midwestern showers, it had begun to disintegrate under the scorching summer sun. Dirt soaked, rain soaked; a worthless, discarded couch; it was our sanctuary, our ship.

With our upside down selves and our ship, we had only the stars to guide us. We had the sea below and a million stars above. Explorers of the universe, face up, feet up, ourselves upended, searching the skies for answers to questions we could only sense, ones we could not name. Time travelers. Like people thousands of years before, sharing the mystery of the stars. Our whispered voices told stories that came from somewhere deep inside, from the blood of our ancestors, which our fast beating child hearts carried round and round. Judy’s eyes were wide with wonder as she snuggled in closer and squeezed my arm.

A giant truck roaring past us on the lower level of the Bay Bridge, swaying violently as it suddenly changes lanes, brings me back to the present — but only for a moment. My mind soon drifts back. I remember how, from the far away kitchen, our parent’s voices would drift through the warm night air, each distinctive in the darkness. But we were beyond their words. Past the kitchen table, through the screen door with its corner torn, their voices drifted, but could never reach us. Our ears were with our eyes, beyond the earth — we belonged to no one. No one could call for us now. We were part of a greater universe beyond the table where our parents slapped down their cards, beyond the neighborhood with the kind and the unkind, beyond the dirt, the puddles, the bent grass; beyond the world.

We were wild girls, we were explorers, and in the long hot days, we lived simply, richly, discovering new worlds around us. We collected tadpoles from the pond, kept fireflies in jars, our small hands reaching toward their blinking, ever moving lights, so often just out of reach. Our world, Judy’s, Kathi’s, mine.

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