When I was fourteen, I met my best friend. She moved here from Manhattan and originally came from the Czech Republic (now known as Czechia). One day I walked into class in 9th grade and even though I was extremely introverted to the point of not being able to speak to many people or even look them in the eye, for some reason when I met my best friend - the new girl siting in the back of Social Studies class - I walked right up to her, looked her in the eye and said “Hello.” It was as if I recognized her and we are still friends to this day.
The first time we walked home together after school, we walked in the same direction and it turned out she lived only a block away from me. When I walked into her house, I was stunned. I had been painting for years already and had pored through stacks of art books over the years, to learn about the history of art and also to gain inspiration. But I had never been to an art museum… until then. My best friend’s parents were both artists, incredibly gifted artists with styles of their own. I looked around at the house with all the paintings on the walls with elaborate gold frames, richly-colored rugs, velvet drapes, beautiful old antiques and classical sculptures. It made me feel overwhelmingly nostalgic for a time and place I had never been in this lifetime, but only dreamed about. It was a world of art and elegant surroundings and an “old world” sensibility that I knew existed but had never experienced. The art alone was stunning. I stood and stared and asked questions. My friend shared so much with me. I looked closely at the paintings, in awe of the soft shading, particularly of my friend’s mother’s art, and the careful blending of colors. I had only painted with colors straight out of the tubes, but these were colors I had never seen and that probably had no names. The checkered floors, softly-painted gradient skies, achingly atmospheric dreamlike imagery spoke to my soul and when I went back to my own art at home, all of it became a part of my new vocabulary and emerged in my naive, amateurish style as I attemtped to capture, in my own way, the same feeling. The sense of freedom with mixing my own colors was brand new to me. The options were endless.
Many years later after college, after working at a museum in the city, and after returning home to Long Island, after losing much of my health and my family, and having been changed in many ways by life’s circumstances, I still painted. Now in my sixtieth year and struggling to find my new voice as an artist and stroke survivor, I look back and can say with my truest heart that the biggest influences as an artist were my best friend’s parents. Even though they were both incredibly accomplished, my first preference was for Irena’s art. It wasn’t just because I had become friends with her as I got older, and we used to go to lunch together often, and I truly loved her as a person, but aside from that, her art was extraordinary. I wanted to post this photo of her in front of one of her paintings because this is the main photo she wanted to use for her first website which I helped her create. It was an honor to do it. It was an honor to know her.
Recently, my best friend found a series of sweet small canvases of flowers painted by Irena. My friend has created Fiala Arts and sells different kinds of beautiful things at local markets from Philadelphia where she lives with her husband, to Long Island where I live. People seem to love these small flower canvases. My friend asked if I would be willing to create new ones in my style, but inspired by Irena’s. At first I hesitated because there is absolutely no way I can replicate what Irena created, but I can do my own version. So I tried, and I painted some, and several sold last month at a market in Philly. So I’ll continue.
In 2007 after my father passed away, Irena drove us to the beach and spent time with me. One day as I struggled to create after such a huge loss, I asked Irena if I was still an artist. In her heavy Czech accent, she replied, “Robeen, don’t be stupid! Of course you are artist! You are always artist, even if you don’t paint for years.” I really loved her directness. She made me laugh.
I’m still struggling to find my way back to my own art, painting these slightly replicated small flower canvases, I find I am soothed by painting them. The colors she used that I learned to use, just like years ago. The softness and soulfulness of the imagery which I am attempting to capture, but in my own way. It’s as if Irena is leading my hand. Perhaps it will help me find my way eventually back to my own self-expression which I desperately need right now, as I struggle with how I want to do art, and my new post-stroke limitations of my hand going numb after a bit and diminished fine motor skills on my right hand, my affected side. But I remember Irena’s words from years ago telling me that yes, I am still an artist.
