David Chatt

Glass beads, thread, wooden table, a thirty year collection of letters from my father
48" x 22" x 17"
2012

My father was typical of many men; friendly but not intimate, familiar but not known. I loved him but struggle still to understand the distance he kept. That said, my father did not let a week pass without sending me a hand written, newsy and advice-laden letter. Even with the emphasis on advise, I loved getting these missives and in 1980 I began saving them. When he passed, I found myself with a collection, now complete, which spanned thirty years. I had imagined myself going back and re-reading them after his death.  When the anticipated time arrived, the box that housed them loomed large in its place in my home. I thought of delving into its contents but could not bring myself to do it. I have known grief and do not fear it, but I am also my father’s son. While I am willing to engage, I do not invite sadness and reading about a world where a father and mother shared a home and offered updates and council to a young son as he experienced the first throws of independence seemed impossibly sad. Instead, I spent a year laboring to create a place for these letters. I recognize the importance of what they represent but I am making the choice to contain them and to place them in an environment where they can be seen but not shared. As I began this work, I thought of this image as a metaphor for my father and his illusive nature. As I completed it, I understood that this effort is as much a symbol of how I deal with my feelings as for how my father dealt with his. Love, Dad is about a father and son who loved each other, each in their own sincere and flawed way.

Glass beads, thread, wooden table, a thirty year collection of letters from my father
48" x 22" x 17"
2012

My father was typical of many men; friendly but not intimate, familiar but not known. I loved him but struggle still to understand the distance he kept. That said, my father did not let a week pass without sending me a hand written, newsy and advice-laden letter. Even with the emphasis on advise, I loved getting these missives and in 1980 I began saving them. When he passed, I found myself with a collection, now complete, which spanned thirty years. I had imagined myself going back and re-reading them after his death.  When the anticipated time arrived, the box that housed them loomed large in its place in my home. I thought of delving into its contents but could not bring myself to do it. I have known grief and do not fear it, but I am also my father’s son. While I am willing to engage, I do not invite sadness and reading about a world where a father and mother shared a home and offered updates and council to a young son as he experienced the first throws of independence seemed impossibly sad. Instead, I spent a year laboring to create a place for these letters. I recognize the importance of what they represent but I am making the choice to contain them and to place them in an environment where they can be seen but not shared. As I began this work, I thought of this image as a metaphor for my father and his illusive nature. As I completed it, I understood that this effort is as much a symbol of how I deal with my feelings as for how my father dealt with his. Love, Dad is about a father and son who loved each other, each in their own sincere and flawed way.

Glass beads, thread, wooden table, a thirty year collection of letters from my father
48" x 22" x 17"
2012

My father was typical of many men; friendly but not intimate, familiar but not known. I loved him but struggle still to understand the distance he kept. That said, my father did not let a week pass without sending me a hand written, newsy and advice-laden letter. Even with the emphasis on advise, I loved getting these missives and in 1980 I began saving them. When he passed, I found myself with a collection, now complete, which spanned thirty years. I had imagined myself going back and re-reading them after his death.  When the anticipated time arrived, the box that housed them loomed large in its place in my home. I thought of delving into its contents but could not bring myself to do it. I have known grief and do not fear it, but I am also my father’s son. While I am willing to engage, I do not invite sadness and reading about a world where a father and mother shared a home and offered updates and council to a young son as he experienced the first throws of independence seemed impossibly sad. Instead, I spent a year laboring to create a place for these letters. I recognize the importance of what they represent but I am making the choice to contain them and to place them in an environment where they can be seen but not shared. As I began this work, I thought of this image as a metaphor for my father and his illusive nature. As I completed it, I understood that this effort is as much a symbol of how I deal with my feelings as for how my father dealt with his. Love, Dad is about a father and son who loved each other, each in their own sincere and flawed way.

Glass beads, thread, wooden table, a thirty year collection of letters from my father
48" x 22" x 17"
2012

My father was typical of many men; friendly but not intimate, familiar but not known. I loved him but struggle still to understand the distance he kept. That said, my father did not let a week pass without sending me a hand written, newsy and advice-laden letter. Even with the emphasis on advise, I loved getting these missives and in 1980 I began saving them. When he passed, I found myself with a collection, now complete, which spanned thirty years. I had imagined myself going back and re-reading them after his death.  When the anticipated time arrived, the box that housed them loomed large in its place in my home. I thought of delving into its contents but could not bring myself to do it. I have known grief and do not fear it, but I am also my father’s son. While I am willing to engage, I do not invite sadness and reading about a world where a father and mother shared a home and offered updates and council to a young son as he experienced the first throws of independence seemed impossibly sad. Instead, I spent a year laboring to create a place for these letters. I recognize the importance of what they represent but I am making the choice to contain them and to place them in an environment where they can be seen but not shared. As I began this work, I thought of this image as a metaphor for my father and his illusive nature. As I completed it, I understood that this effort is as much a symbol of how I deal with my feelings as for how my father dealt with his. Love, Dad is about a father and son who loved each other, each in their own sincere and flawed way.

Glass beads, thread, wooden table, a thirty year collection of letters from my father
48" x 22" x 17"
2012

My father was typical of many men; friendly but not intimate, familiar but not known. I loved him but struggle still to understand the distance he kept. That said, my father did not let a week pass without sending me a hand written, newsy and advice-laden letter. Even with the emphasis on advise, I loved getting these missives and in 1980 I began saving them. When he passed, I found myself with a collection, now complete, which spanned thirty years. I had imagined myself going back and re-reading them after his death.  When the anticipated time arrived, the box that housed them loomed large in its place in my home. I thought of delving into its contents but could not bring myself to do it. I have known grief and do not fear it, but I am also my father’s son. While I am willing to engage, I do not invite sadness and reading about a world where a father and mother shared a home and offered updates and council to a young son as he experienced the first throws of independence seemed impossibly sad. Instead, I spent a year laboring to create a place for these letters. I recognize the importance of what they represent but I am making the choice to contain them and to place them in an environment where they can be seen but not shared. As I began this work, I thought of this image as a metaphor for my father and his illusive nature. As I completed it, I understood that this effort is as much a symbol of how I deal with my feelings as for how my father dealt with his. Love, Dad is about a father and son who loved each other, each in their own sincere and flawed way.