My Three Fathers (part 2)
I see my life in terms of phases, each highlighted by a significant father figure.
My first father was my biological one, James Evan Love.
His approach to life was stoic and Spartan. He didn’t show any appreciation for art, media, or public events. He didn’t decorate our house, or tend to plants, or do barbecues on the weekend. He was not religious and seemed to hold organized religion in strong contempt. He was an “every man for himself” kind of person and never socialized much.
What he did have was a sense of confidence in his knowledge and beliefs – he never expressed self doubt – and a definite sense of what he thought was right and wrong. He was also a conservative in both social and economic terms. He was tight-fisted with money, but generous in sharing his opinions.
Every so often, I hear his voice when I want to do something right the first time, feel strong physically, feel resolute in my opinion, or hold myself to an ideal standard.
What I keep from him are many things: the undeniability of my genetics, an interest in *our family history, an understanding of the value of working hard to earn something, my earliest impressions of what personal worth is, and what bravery and fear feel like (similar).
My second father was my most significant teacher and mentor, Tom Hudson.
I met Tom when I was in my first year of art college at Emily Carr College of Art, where he was the Dean of Education. At that time in my life, I was nineteen, living on my own for the first time, away from my Dad’s influence but subconsciously seeking another strong father figure, during my phase of post-secondary education and adult independence.
Tom’s dominant yet warm personality resonated with me. I was drawn to his authority, wisdom, and experience, and I saw him as the wisened Obi-Wan Kenobi teaching the forces of art history and visual literacy to my young, inexperienced Luke Skywalker.
Over the next six years, I prospered under his advice and mentorship, attended all his lectures, and worked on most of his research projects. In 1989, just one week after my graduation from art school, Tom gave me my first paying job as a commercial artist and animator, and became my supervisor for the next two years.
Every so often, I hear his voice when I design a document, an image, or a visual interface. I hear him when I think about which colour to use, how thick a line should be, how to compose a diagram, or how to configure text, images, or buttons. In addition to being a mentor and guide, he was also my friend.
What I keep from him is the feeling that I can learn whatever I need to. I believe that some of the ideas and principles I learned from him are directly or indirectly part of a lineage reaching from antiquity to the Renaissance, through modern psychological, scientific, and artistic movements, into realms of modern technology and media theory.
Tom helped me to develop my own creative process, my awareness of visual and media literacy, and my ability to keep learning. This is a fancy way of saying that he inspired me to read in new and different languages and to love learning. That’s what great teachers do.
My third father was my father-in-law, Honesto Sotto Dino.
Initially, he didn’t like me very much; I was the scruffy-chinned 20 year-old punk kid who was going to take his beloved daughter away from him.
Over time, as I brought Grace a Christmas card in the rain on my bike, or had roses delivered to her at his house, he seemed more relaxed and less scary to me. I wouldn’t stop coming by and he gradually accepted me. His nature was always good and accepting, and after I married Grace he softened to me more and his real warmth started to come through. He became “Pop” to me instead of “Mister Dino” or “Grace’s Dad”. From that point on, he became my Father-in-law.
Years later, he treated me with a father’s care and concern, massaging my hand and shoulder when I sprained my hand or had back pain, or asking about my health and suggesting various remedies. I learned to accept his sincere gifts and to truly think of him as my surrogate father. I knew how lucky I was to have his love and be part of his family.
Every so often, I hear his voice when I remember him, or when I think of Grace’s brother Victor or her mother. Pop always took care of his family, but none more so than Vic and Grace’s Mom, who needed extra special love and care every day. Pop sacrificed his career, his time, and his energy to help family and friends, and he did it with humility, restraint, and devotion, and without self-pity or complaint.
As a little boy growing up, I wanted the men raising me, especially my father and grandfather, to be my heroes – I wanted to feel proud of them. They raised me as best they could, but along with their admirable qualities, each of them made mistakes that would permanently shipwreck their heroic ideals in my young, hopeful heart. Now, even past my middle age, I can feel a small sting of disappointment when I remember the stains of abuses that can’t just be washed away. But in Pop’s case, his image, heart, spirit, and legacy still feel clean, just, and true to me.
What Pop had was a singular devotion, untouched by too much pride or ego. He had a moral centre and a good compass to guide him, unlike many of the other so-called “adults” I’ve seen, who lived more like rudderless, drifting boats. I loved Pop, and I’m glad to have had him in my life, to show me that good men can still exist.