Meeting Judy Chicago, Shedding Light on the Potato Eaters, and a Journey that Feels Like Home

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I first met Judy Chicago as she stood at the top of a grand staircase at the converted hotel that is both home and studio. She is a diminutive woman who is all at once fierce, intense, and warm. Chicago is 70, but there is nothing about her that speaks of age except experience and wisdom. She has a glow about her that is energetic and very much in the present.

Donald Woodman & Judy Chicago

I was nervous about meeting Chicago, not because she’s a prolific artist and a pioneer of feminist art, but because my knowledge of her art – or any art – is extremely limited. I grew up in a time and place where people bought $10 seascapes from the auction barn because the colors matched their sofa. Black velvet Elvis paintings and Geisha girls under glass were not uncommon. The only artist I ever felt truly moved by was Van Gogh, and my knowledge of him was purely accidental. I came upon a print of the Potato Eaters in the library when I was about ten years old, and found it both frightening and alluring. There was a poverty of spirit in Van Gogh’s painting that seemed to be a gross reflection of the world I lived in, and I found it repulsive.  I knew the Potato Eaters, I was familiar with them, and it absolutely frightened me that one day I might grow up and be one of them.

Chicago and her husband, photographer Donald Woodman, graciously took me and my hosts at La Mirada, Imelda Sisneros and Laura Flick, on a tour of the landmark hotel they spent years restoring and converting. We also visited Judy’s non-profit art gallery and educational center, Through the Flower, which is just across the street.

When I returned to my room later that night, I thought about all the things I could write about — Judy’s art, she and Donald’s home, the other artists they support — but there was something else brewing, and it wasn’t only my limited knowledge of their world. I decided to let it steep, and moved onto other things. I turned my video camera on at Viola’s house, visited Albuquerque with Imelda and Laura, talked with another artist, and sipped coffee in the morning sun.

Days later, I found myself at a small café near Phoenix. The waitress who came to pour the coffee had red, work-worn hands. Her eyes were tired, and her face reminded me of a walnut; hardened and wrinkled. She felt as familiar to me as my own fear. On a hunch, I asked her if she knew who Judy Chicago was. She didn’t.

The Potato Eaters, Van Gogh

I stared at my own broad hand as it gripped the steaming coffee mug, and it occurred to me that in a world of comparisons and contrasts, I was closer to a Potato Eater than to an artist. So was the waitress, the man sitting at the counter pouring sugar in his coffee, and the couple standing outside sharing a cigarette.

The word radiance had been uncomfortably leaping in and out of my consciousness since the evening at the hotel. It was certainly what I saw in Judy Chicago, who has spent her life learning, evolving, and honing her skills. The light she exuded was not the temporary kind that comes from playing host to strangers, or from being a celebrity in one’s field. It was deeper than that, like an internal fire that was continuously stoked.

Chicago had teased me about my “Midwestern roots” when I told her my feelings about Van Gogh, but my roots aren’t in the Midwest, or anyplace else. I am rootless. I’ve lived in many states, but have never felt settled.

In the café, I realized that this journey is the closest I have ever come to feeling at home. It is the closest I’ve ever come to feeling radiant. My Potato Eater has thrown open the door and is stepping into the sun. There’s no poverty of spirit, no crushing gray pallor, and finally, no oppressive fear — only a desire to shine light into a world that no longer frightens me.