Richard_Unveiling2

There was a baby doll, the size of a thumb, in tattered pants, whose head, the area around one ear, back and neck were bruised. Richard told the story simply, reporting that it had arisen out of an artist's need to do something in the face of the sex scandals among clergy, among the most trusted in the community.

In private, he told me his wife had also been sexually abused. And in another situation a friend of his stood up in court at 15 years old and revealed her own secrets of agony and the father was put in jail. In time, this father had thanked his daughter for doing this loving thing of telling the truth, and forcing upon him a stop to something he could not stop by himself, because of course the abuse did not begin with him. He was simply doing what had been done to him, kept a secret, just passing it on.

From the time I heard him tell the story of the piece, I could feel the tears coming up from my heart. When I saw the figure of the woman bound, a greenish, pock-marked/rotting away figure, I identified her as my inner troll, the keeper of my heart's gates, the one who made me turn every one away that came close to me.

My shoulders were shaking; I was taking deep long breaths so as not to sputter and make sobbing sounds while Richard was talking. I felt conspicuous, visible, vulnerable, but not ashamed. I was struck by the courage of the women who gave their stories to his art; I was struck by the wholeness of the piece that included not only the victim, not only the
family, but the response/reaction of the community. I could feel my friends presence beside me, and, while wiping away tears with the back of my hand, felt his body behind me as his arms encircled and held me. I, the ever-strong, ever-sturdy one, felt immense gratitude to this man who was a stranger to me just two days ago, for intuiting that I needed to lean on someone who would not give way.

This, I realized, is one reason why I am in Taos, NM, this summer. I need to be away, far away, so I can tell the story in the company of no one who knows my family, my name, my lineage, my beginnings. I must tell the story out here where no one needs to suffer from this shame.

But how do I tell the story? What do I say? Why is this such a burning need, when I am but one of hundreds and thousands who have the same story? I feel inadequate to the task; I feel cowardly, which is a signal that I am very close to the truth. If my sister Sharon reads my story, will it send her over the edge into the madness she is so tempted by now? Might it help her to heal?

I noticed that my friend signed the silent auction sheet, and wrote $6000 under the previous bid of $5500. I wondered who would get to bring this piece home.