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August

COOLLECTING ARCHIVE

Bea Forte

Whenever I miss him the most, I play with some of my miniatures. If you ask anyone who knew him, that's probably the last thing they would remember him for. But not for me. In the hardest days, I live inside those memories, like a cat, too big to fit in but too stubborn to move.

Being a grown-up, having my own family, my own place, is a mixed feeling of missing home even though I am in it. But that's when I realized we don't need to have only one. A home doesn't have to fit between four walls. It can be the smell of fresh-baked cake that reminds me of my mom. It can be a dollhouse bringing back childhood memories. It can be going back to a restaurant where my husband and I went for the first time as Mr. and Mrs., or the leather couch at my in-laws' basement where I've sat and watched countless movies over the weekends.

Home is where the heart is. It's one of those quotes so old nobody remembers who said it first. As any teenager, I longed for my own place, and I'm lucky enough to have it and share it with someone I love. But I've also realized that's not what makes me feel at home.

What makes me feel at home is the memory of a maquette I didn't build, a pool made from cookie packaging, and my dad's hands working while I watched.

I miss him dearly. And I always will.

Dear Coollectors

In 2nd grade, my school announced a tournament for the best miniature of the school building. My dad took that task as if his life depended on it. And I tiptoed around him the whole time, handing him things, gluing something here and there, but mostly I just wanted to soak it in. To watch, with curious eyes, his hands work.

My participation was otherwise limited to eating the cookies to free up the little plastic packaging that ended up serving as a pool. Needless to say, I was disqualified. The result was so good it was obvious I wasn't the one who made it. But I couldn't care less. I stood in that line of students, next to something I had almost nothing to do with, and I was so amazed in admiration for my dad I thought I would burst.

The only representation I have of that maquette is the POV of a 7-year-old Bea. My family was never big into pictures or videos. I have little to no archive of some of those memories, and that aches me. But I've also come to think it's a blessing, in its own way. Maybe that's why I feel so drawn to create art from memory. To make sure those moments live long after me.

He passed away three years ago. And I still don't know exactly how to deal with his absence. Grief is like that.

But time and time again I catch myself thinking of him. I wonder if he too would burst with pride watching my work now. I think about the dollhouse furniture he used to buy me. Of how he pushed me, in his own way, to become who I am today.