By Sally Schwartz Friedman
Youth is the gift of nature, but age is a work of art.
~Stanislaw Lec
"So what will you do now?" well-meaning friends asked my husband when he retired as a New Jersey Superior Court judge.
Vic would smile, shrug and answer that for a while he might just "float." Decompress. Rest his brain and senses after a lifetime in law.
I worried. A lot.
I was fearful that this man with whom I had shared my life would be bored or lonely or lost. I was concerned about how he would fill days that had once overflowed with important concerns and challenges. I suppose every wife of a newly-minted retiree has those dark-of-night anxieties.
"I think I'll take a sculpture course," my husband announced one day as we were having dinner. I almost choked on my chicken -- he might as well have said, "I think I'll train to be an astronaut."
Never in our forty-four years together had Vic shown or expressed any interest in sculpting. Never in all that time had we actively sought out a sculpture exhibit.
But in this brave new world of retirement, I was to learn that lives are reinvented, and deeply buried yearnings burst forth. And thus it was with Vic -- and sculpture.
My only involvement was to suggest a few likely venues for courses. As a longtime arts writer, I thought I could provide at least that much. As it turned out, it was Vic himself who finally identified the local arts center where his new venture would unfold.
I admit it was slightly weird to watch my husband, most often seen poring over voluminous law texts, as he gathered sculpting supplies, from planing tools and tiny sculpting knives to a simple bucket for his clay.
And there was a slight déjà vu about the September morning when my beloved student went off to art school for the very first time. In other years, I had stood by the kitchen door to watch each of our three daughters march into that big world out there, lunch boxes and backpacks in place.
This time, it was a taller person with silver hair, a man dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt, not his former suit-and-tie/briefcase ensemble, who was off to school. I admit I got a bit misty watching him leave the house.
I spent the morning of Vic's first sculpture class worrying. Would this absolute artistic novice feel intimidated? Would his fellow students be latter-day Michelangelos with limited tolerance for the new kid on the block?
As it turns out, I needn't have anguished.
My husband came home from that first class with obvious exhilaration. For starters, he'd gone and done something unexpected. Score one for a new retiree willing to "try on" a brand new experience.
Vic also discovered, over the next several months, that he had some talent for figural sculpture. Mind you, no museums have come begging for his works, which include a pretty decent female nude (yes, a live model did the posing) and my favorite, the profile of a young man.
By winter, my husband was also taking a drawing class, buying charcoals and drawing paper, and finding that there was, indeed, life after law. Fortunately, the class didn't conflict with the second semester of sculpture.
The astonishment: a man who had never ever done more than doodle was exploring a whole new part of himself. Torts, dockets, motion days and sentencings were receding, and human anatomy and perspective/proportion were on the ascendancy.
Vic is quiet about his life in the arts. He talks about it only when asked. And for now, his artistic efforts are stashed in an upstairs room, not yet ready, he believes, for prime time display.
But as my husband flexes his art "muscles" and takes those first tentative steps into brave new endeavors, I'm standing by the sidelines cheering him on.
After all, Michelangelos are born in every generation.
And who's to say that they can't be retired judges?
Youth is the gift of nature, but age is a work of art.
~Stanislaw Lec
"So what will you do now?" well-meaning friends asked my husband when he retired as a New Jersey Superior Court judge.
Vic would smile, shrug and answer that for a while he might just "float." Decompress. Rest his brain and senses after a lifetime in law.
I worried. A lot.
I was fearful that this man with whom I had shared my life would be bored or lonely or lost. I was concerned about how he would fill days that had once overflowed with important concerns and challenges. I suppose every wife of a newly-minted retiree has those dark-of-night anxieties.
"I think I'll take a sculpture course," my husband announced one day as we were having dinner. I almost choked on my chicken -- he might as well have said, "I think I'll train to be an astronaut."
Never in our forty-four years together had Vic shown or expressed any interest in sculpting. Never in all that time had we actively sought out a sculpture exhibit.
But in this brave new world of retirement, I was to learn that lives are reinvented, and deeply buried yearnings burst forth. And thus it was with Vic -- and sculpture.
My only involvement was to suggest a few likely venues for courses. As a longtime arts writer, I thought I could provide at least that much. As it turned out, it was Vic himself who finally identified the local arts center where his new venture would unfold.
I admit it was slightly weird to watch my husband, most often seen poring over voluminous law texts, as he gathered sculpting supplies, from planing tools and tiny sculpting knives to a simple bucket for his clay.
And there was a slight déjà vu about the September morning when my beloved student went off to art school for the very first time. In other years, I had stood by the kitchen door to watch each of our three daughters march into that big world out there, lunch boxes and backpacks in place.
This time, it was a taller person with silver hair, a man dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt, not his former suit-and-tie/briefcase ensemble, who was off to school. I admit I got a bit misty watching him leave the house.
I spent the morning of Vic's first sculpture class worrying. Would this absolute artistic novice feel intimidated? Would his fellow students be latter-day Michelangelos with limited tolerance for the new kid on the block?
As it turns out, I needn't have anguished.
My husband came home from that first class with obvious exhilaration. For starters, he'd gone and done something unexpected. Score one for a new retiree willing to "try on" a brand new experience.
Vic also discovered, over the next several months, that he had some talent for figural sculpture. Mind you, no museums have come begging for his works, which include a pretty decent female nude (yes, a live model did the posing) and my favorite, the profile of a young man.
By winter, my husband was also taking a drawing class, buying charcoals and drawing paper, and finding that there was, indeed, life after law. Fortunately, the class didn't conflict with the second semester of sculpture.
The astonishment: a man who had never ever done more than doodle was exploring a whole new part of himself. Torts, dockets, motion days and sentencings were receding, and human anatomy and perspective/proportion were on the ascendancy.
Vic is quiet about his life in the arts. He talks about it only when asked. And for now, his artistic efforts are stashed in an upstairs room, not yet ready, he believes, for prime time display.
But as my husband flexes his art "muscles" and takes those first tentative steps into brave new endeavors, I'm standing by the sidelines cheering him on.
After all, Michelangelos are born in every generation.
And who's to say that they can't be retired judges?
http://www.chickensoup.com
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