About eight years ago, I had a memorable
and somewhat apprehensive
conversation with a close friend, a painter. At the time, his
wife was expecting their first child and the topic of discussion
was parenthood. I asked if he had considered how the
responsibilities of being a father might alter the diligent
schedule he kept at the studio. He replied that this was a
concern,
but that his plan was
basically to take the child to the studio with him. When I
pointed out that young children are rarely content to sit and
entertain themselves for hours on end, my friend answered that
this problem was taken care of. All that was needed to keep a
child occupied, I was told, was a playpen, a sack full of
feathers, and a bucket of molasses. When I asked which child-care
expert recommended this unconventional brand of behavioral
enrichment, he replied: H. C. Westermann.
At the time of this conversation, the artist H. C. Westermann
(1922–1981) was known to me primarily as a midwestern
eccentric—a homespun absurdist whose sculpture occupied an edgy,
if admired, niche in the annals of post-war American art.
Knowing this much, I realized that the babysitting story fit the
spirit of the man, though I doubted its veracity. Since then, I
have learned that the above-mentioned regimen was, in fact, how
Westermann
occupied his own son. (For
what it’s worth, my friend did eventually take his son to the
studio—minus the molasses and feathers.) Since then,