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Migrant Mother by Ted Moomaw
TWELVE INCHES Easter Sunday afternoon, neighbors Laura and Ted Moomaw, who live about six doors up the hill, stopped by with a gift. Ted is an artist whose work I’ve long admired. Some time ago I visited his basement studio, where he was creating a sculpture inspired by Dorothea Lange’s iconic Depression-era photo, “Migrant Mother.” I was impressed. A few months later, when Ted included the completed work in an art show, I was awed. Though only 12 inches high, the sculpture conveys powerful emotions. The barefooted woman nestles her child, paradoxically assuring safety and comfort even as she contemplates her uncertain struggle for survival. Lange’s photo was widely reproduced, even on a postage stamp. But the identity of the woman in the photo, Florence Owens Thompson, did not become public for over 40 years. Thompson had not appreciated being the “face” of the Depression and complained Lange’s depiction was embarrassing and inaccurate. It’s not easy being an icon. Just ask Marilyn Monroe. Or my late husband, for that matter. During his years of disability, people would say, “When I think about John, I realize my own problems are small.” He doesn’t want to be your Job, I would think. To be iconic is to have an image bigger than you are. It feels as if someone is shining a glaring light on a reality that only you can recognize. Your shortcomings loom large, casting shadows. You’re caught in a contradiction. You can never be the icon you’ve become. Ted’s iconic sculpture had been in the back of my mind ever since we’d stopped to chat on the street one day. Ted told me he was getting the sculpture cast and intended to give me one of the finished pieces. I was dumfounded. Who was I to Ted other than a neighbor six doors down? He never explained why he wanted to make the gift. Giving is embedded in Native American culture, and Ted is strongly connected with his native roots. On some level, I wonder if he sensed that “Migrant Mother” fit into my life at this time with amazing synchronicity. I’d been delving into the nature of Mary/Madonna, and that catapulted me into studying ancient goddess wisdoms that were so effectively repressed by patriarchal religions. Easter was a fitting time for “Migrant Mother” to enter my home. Since then, she has witnessed my preparations for a pilgrimage to England, which begins next week. Though she is made of solid material, I notice her expression and even her posture change with the shifting light or my varying moods. The small sculpture in my living room is no longer a one-dimensional photo. She has taken form and subtlety of shape through the anima in Ted’s fingers. She is no longer an icon of a specific time or event. She expresses the maternal that is eternally part of us all, female and male. She is created and creator. I cannot thank Ted adequately. I can only accept with humility and gratitude.
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