*Benediction
High Plateau
fabric art by Lisa and Lori Lubbesmeyer
Benediction
Day 31 — March 11
“Art is how we decorate space;
Music is how we decorate time.”
―Jean Michel Basquiat
Elizabeth and I had for years admired artwork signed “Lubbesmeyer.” What we later learned was that “Lubbesmeyer” represented twin sisters—Lisa and Lori—who create fabric art, together.
They begin spontaneously with fabric swatches of color stitched on a background canvas, but they don’t actually have a theme or design in mind. One of them adds layers for awhile and then hangs the work-in-progress on the wall for the other to take down and build upon without any conversation about it. Interestingly, Lori loves abstraction and Lisa loves realism, and the art they create couldn’t exist without both perspectives, together.
They might pass the canvas back and forth 15 or 20 times over many months, each adding tiny fabric pieces—sometimes with a pair of tweezers—which are painstakingly stitched in place using a machine zigzag.
You might wonder how they know when a piece is finished. As they hang it back on the wall for what becomes the last time, twin-sister intuition kicks in. They just know that it’s complete.
I saved the Lubbesmeyer art for this day of Benediction—marking the one-year anniversary of Elizabeth’s death—for a variety of reasons. Most of all, because it was our most treasured and appreciated piece. I never tire of savoring every individual fragment of fabric, every stitch, every hue of blue, every cloud and field and mountain—simultaneously abstract and real, together.
Because like the two perspectives of the Lubbesmeyer artists, I love abstraction, and Elizabeth loved realism—just some of the attracting opposites that combined for weaving together a marriage tapestry of both tension and satisfaction—true for every marriage.
Ultimately, though, this art symbolizes our 29 years of marriage together because of who the Lubbesmeyer sisters are and how they create their art. Marriage—and life—is a series of circumstances and stories, painstakingly stitched together over time. Hung back on the wall for the other to add their color and texture. Traded back and forth. Savored.
But in our case, we didn’t get to decide when the art was finished. Reconciling how it can be simultaneously unfinished and complete is the most disquieting challenge of my lifetime. I still cannot imagine what life can be like without Elizabeth to share it with me—truly understandable after sharing 10,735 days of marriage, together.
But this 30-day writing journey has invited me to reflect on my life and Elizabeth’s—intertwined—in a way that has focussed my heart on creativity and gratitude. And I have discovered a surprising consequence that I never could have imagined.
In this endeavor, I studied and stared at each piece of art in a way that I never had before. Sure, I always liked or loved the art in our home, but now the art is loving me back. Each artwork embodies a fragment of who Elizabeth was in her uniqueness, and now each piece of art whispers back to me the stories I pondered and wrote and shared.
The art animates our life, together.
It symbolizes our joy.
It radiates our laughter.
It reveals our tears.
It represents the places we travelled, the meals we enjoyed, the hymns we sang—even the pets we cherished. Most of all, the art—all of it— celebrates home and family and love—in the gift of our children, Annika and Preston, who are my unbounded joy.
At this end, though, art and words are not enough.
After 30 days of reflecting on art and writing an abundance of words, I know in my heart that there will never be adequate words for saying goodbye. Instead, music speaks a language from my heart as words fail me. I invite you to listen to our most favorite piece of music: Gabriel’s Oboe by Ennio Morricone (video below).
Accompanied by the language of music, the words of my benediction for Elizabeth merely echo the words she was so fond of saying when expressing her love for me…
Dearest Elizabeth—I love you massively.
Elizabeth Ann Izant
October 25, 1960 - March 11, 2020
Day 31: the art of love and loss
view all posts at kentmueller.com
February 10, 2020, was the day my wife, Elizabeth Izant, entered the hospital. She and I were on a hopeful journey following her heart transplant five months prior. On March 1, she entered hospice and died March 11. This is not about her medical journey. This is about sharing stories and reflections about our life together. In our 29 years of marriage, we collected a piece of art or two each year, often in celebration of our marriage anniversary. Each day from February 10 to March 11, 2021, I shared an image of that art. And a story.