A lot of posed portraits and photos of Emma Amos’s artworks are starting to fly around, but you probably won’t see many candid/family pictures, so I’ll post a couple of those.

For starters, the first reaction people seem to have to this one is, “Is that…a…loom?!”

She studied weaving in school, worked as a textile designer for Dorothy Liebes, and taught weaving at Sandy Lowe's storefront, Threadbare.

That's this Sandy: https://www.clevelandart.org/art/2018.24 

She started drawing at a very young age, but she also played piano! Decades later, she could still sit down and sight-read Scott Joplin. She started taking music lessons again (from @Sudsaxter), around forty years after this photo was taken.

Her parents both worked long shifts at the family drugstore, six or seven days a week. So her key role models growing up were people who worked their asses off and had very little free time. I’d imagine this affected her work ethic a bit…

One of her professors at Antioch required their students to read the newspaper every day and threatened to pop-quiz them on current events, with dire consequences for shirkers. Mom started reading the paper every day and never stopped (until she couldn’t anymore).

Mom once mentioned that people she interacted with while out and about with me or my brother assumed she was our nanny, not our mother. This happens to many women who have lighter-skinned children.

Don’t fucking assume this.

And it goes without saying that, *for some reason*, black people do not tend to make this mistake.

Once on the subway, a young black woman sitting across from us leaned forward and said, “You’re mother and daughter, aren’t you.” We said yes, and she seemed proud to be correct.

For a while, Mom made kits for weaving your own sash out of ribbon yarn. IIRC, they were sold through Butterick. Her belt that I’m yanking on in the second photo is one of them.

Another fancy event, another handwoven sash. In nearly every photo, she’s wearing silver jewelry, and in dressed-up ones she’s usually wearing a dramatic necklace with silver findings. Silver jewelry was part of her signature look.

She cohosted a craft TV series, “Show of Hands,” with @BethGutcheon for WGBH in Boston. Many episodes had a trial run in our apartment. In particular, I remember printing with cut potatoes, and hooking pieces of rug.

CW: Thirst trap.

I have no idea how this photo ever happened, because she never learned to swim and was scared of water. This fear/fascination eventually led to her Water Series.

“Octopus,” “Red Fish,” and “Ray” from that series, printed with Kathy Caraccio, are among my favorite works she ever made. They’re the ones I wish I had room to hang in my apartment. If you hang all four together, it feels like you’re in an aquarium. https://www.kcaracciocollection.com/amos-emma 

Arts and crafts are not just for girls! Mom leaned harder on me to be artistic, and she took many, many more years to give up on that (how about never? does never work for you?), but she did teach drawing, etching, weaving, and other skills to both me and my brother.

One of many reasons Mom was delighted to receive an honorary Doctor of Fine Arts from the College of Wooster was that both her father and grandfather, being pharmacists, had been addressed as “Doctor Amos,” and she could thenceforth threaten to make people call her that, as well.

She was an excellent cook and had no problem with planning and hosting a dinner party for fifty people. In fact, she did it at least once a year for much of her adult life, New Year’s Day being an unmissable holiday. Here, she’s cooking grits. (Yes, that’s a Mammy apron.)

The artwork right above the Gourmet Cookbook in that photo is by Melissa Marks: https://www.instagram.com/melissamarks.nyc/ . Mom had a massive and varied collection of other people’s work, much of it on display throughout the apartment. She loved to support and promote fellow artists.

Correction! It was Bucilla that sold the weaving kits, not Butterick. *Botato, botato.*

From a letter Mom sent to her mother on January 31, 1978: “Got paid $450 for the weaving kits from Bucilla, but owed the money all over town. Start teaching weaving on Sat. in my studio…”

Most of Mom’s papers went to the Smithsonian in December, and I pawed through as much as I could beforehand. Mom had mentioned that she had a lot of letters from her mother, but I didn't realize until I started going through them that they wrote several times a week, for DECADES.

They corresponded so often that they had to agree on designated days, so that their mail wouldn’t cross. But a lot of Grandma’s letters were rushed to get into the day’s post, and the next day she’d send an off-schedule follow-up, to add details. So there were A LOT.

Mom loved to read, and her apartment was full of books. She kept reading until her memory got so bad that she couldn’t follow a narrative anymore.

On the left, she’s at Civitella Ranieri in Nov. 2013, on her last residency, reading Michael Ondaatje’s “In the Skin of a Lion.”

She also loved to talk. She was a poised and engaging presenter, and she loved to get up on a stage and drop F-bombs.

The piece she’s talking about in the first two photos here is “Horizons” (1968): https://emmaamos.com/wordpress/1968/01/01/horizons/. The third photo is not dated, but maybe around 2006?

Both of my parents loved slang, especially obscenity, and jokes, especially dirty ones. They had a pretty regular poker party with friends, and the next morning over breakfast, they’d be rehearsing whatever new jokes they’d learned, explaining them to us if we didn’t get them.

Mom gleefully collected new slang and language patterns from her friends and Rutgers students. I particularly remember her delight when she learned the construction “Hell motherfucking no!” I think maybe she learned that one from @bellhooks? I always hear it in your voice, bell.

(So that, in case any of my friends or coworkers were wondering, is why I can’t ever remember not to swear in front of children, or when I’m trying to pass for a grownup. The grownups in my life swore with gusto, and we had *books* about slang and bathroom graffiti.)

This is also why, when my father lay dying in 2005, having just been taken off a ventilator per his advance health care directive, we sat around his hospital bed and told every joke we could remember, the dirtier, the better. Not every family’s ideal sendoff, but definitely ours.

Speaking of Dad, my parents loved the shit out of each other. I’ve posted it before, but this is probably my favorite photo of them.

Was it the cruelest wound from Alzheimer’s, or the kindest, that Mom forgot Dad first? Starting maybe five or six years ago, she remembered my brother and me, but she forgot that she’d ever been married. She’d see photos of Dad around the house and say, “I think I liked him…?”

We’d held a big Forty Fucking Years anniversary party, just seven months before Dad died.

I’m pretty sure Mom had always assumed he’d outlive her, even though he was older. She wasn’t prepared. But you can’t ever really prepare anyway, so. Here we are, caught unprepared again.

On a happier note, here's Mom in her wedding suit. I think it may have been made from fabric that she wove herself? In any case, she always pointed out that the hat was a Lilly Daché.

(And I'm sorry so many of these pictures are such bad quality. Because COVID, I’m just working with what’s on Dropbox and Flickr and my hard drive. The proper, colorful, in-focus photos are all a germ-laden subway ride away.)

As should be no surprise by now, Mom was a skilled sewist and made or designed some of her most distinctive outfits.

She made this dress to wear to a wedding, I think, and then gave it to me because she got too skinny for it. The fabric is kangas ( https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kanga_(garment)).

I found this photo of Mom and Dad with Vernon Jordan sitting on her desk in 2016. She couldn't identify anyone in it, though she did suggest that Dad was someone she liked.

That jacket and skirt were bright red leather, and she wove the collar. She called it her “chicken coat.”

(Re the skirt: *It has pockets.*)