Remembering Del

The first time I met Denise's parents, I was terrified.

It was the usual thing. What if they don't think I'm good enough for her? Exacerbated by a host of details. I was a farm kid from a big Catholic family. Denise was a suburban Lutheran only child. I was the first in my family to go to college, first to get a graduate degree. Both her parents are University of Wisconsin graduates. Her father was an electrical engineer, retired from years at Wisconsin Bell/Ameritech.

I was a potter.

You can just see the whole Montague/Capulet thing coming, can't you?

Except it didn't. They were warm and welcoming. Del in particular was fascinated by the details of a potter's life. Part of that was an engineer's curiosity. But I think part was also the desire to have a fellow artist to talk to.

Del was a photographer. Old school, 35 mm, with a black and white darkroom in the basement. He took cameras everywhere, shot people, landscapes, architecture, plants, flowers, abstract close-ups and plays of light and shadow. He also documented football games, family gatherings, photographed new members for the church directory. He was fascinated with gizmos, bought a radio-controlled remote shutter trigger so he could take pictures at our wedding from his vest pocket. But he never went digital, remained committed to film even after he relegated developing and printing to the photo-processors, and though he bought a computer, he never really learned to use it.

He enjoyed going to art museums and gallery openings. I was lucky enough to join him a couple of times when we were visiting, and would have probably done so a lot more if we'd lived closer. He also loved visiting my studio when they came out to Oregon. He was fascinated by my sculptural process, asked many questions and took many pictures. He also took my pottery seriously, praising the quality of the painting, the engineering of the handles.

Del died on September 25; Denise was with him at the end. He was 84. I'll miss him. I'll miss his matter-of-fact acceptance, his dry sense of humor, the way he'd say "I didn't like it" as he handed his licked-clean plate to the waitress. I'll probably even miss the way he'd give directions to a task or trip down to the molecular level, which used to drive me crazy.

I don't have many pictures of Del; he was usually on the other side of the lens. But a large part of my life in the last 25 years bears the imprint of his perspective. Rest in peace, Del. I expect you're checking out the camera angles and arguing shutter speed in the afterlife.