“Ode to Harry” Nancy Marie Mithlo with visuals by Gabe Shaw and music by Matthew Andrae
This is a piece I produced on the death of my dear friend, artist Harry Fonseca (1946-2006). The visuals are by the fantastic filmmaker Gabe Shaw and were taped on site in Venice, Italy during the Venice Biennale exhibit "Ceremonial" in 1999. The amazing music is by Matthew Andrae. The piece was shown at Harry's funeral in Santa Fe, NM. Download link: vimeo.com/user36591795/download/464022919/5df91d2fc6
“The Best of Us”
An Ode to Harry
Nancy Marie Mithlo, Ph.D.
My friend Harry Fonseca took the long journey home on December 28, 2006.
My mind did not initially accept his death. I thought of Harry as simply being away on an extended trip, perhaps to one of those beautiful, cultured places he loved - Paris or Venice. Later, I slid into the mode of self-pity - who would shame me into finishing my manuscript, or using more current slides in my lectures? Then there was anger – why should he of all people die in his prime? How could Harry, the quick-witted, irreverent flirt, the capture-a-whole-room’s-attention icon, the bossy, opinionated and endlessly entertaining conversationalist simply slip away from us like that? Now, there is simply sadness and memories.
Was it something I said?
Venice, 1999. It is a hot late afternoon on the Grand Canal. No amount of cappuccinos can fully wake us into full consciousness given the jet lag, but the panic of an exhibit opening has us on our feet and trying. The rest of the group has taken their leave, but the two of us are struggling still with the impossible task of lighting Jaune’s installation piece. The space is definitely too small for the work. Sweaty and exhausted as we were, we had not given up hope, but had called in for an electrician who brought precious bulbs and electrical cords in a large metal tool case. At the time of a Biennale opening, every light bulb carried into the canal is a rare commodity. Harry is artfully moving industrial lights from corner to corner. I am enchanted with the results, “No, yes, a bit to the right, further!” There is laughter, silliness, and awkward standing on chairs. So lost are we in our fun that we did not notice the electrician until we hear the jarring sound of a metal toolbox being shut and locked. Suddenly sobered, we ask our colleague Betta to come translate. Where is he going? “Out.” Will he come back tomorrow? “No.” Will it be the day after? “No.” When will he come back? “Never!” Harry strikes a pose, hand to chest and in a high tone declares, “Was it something I said?”
I’ve been talking to friends and reporters about Harry’s work, where it is, and what will become of it. It is a project of some proportion, given a lifetime of creative output. I worry that not enough people will notice his gift, that the ignorance that plagues Native art scholarship will skew the beauty and lightness of his canvas. I worry that his struggle and the struggle for many more to simply achieve a level of humanity in the reception of their work will not come about soon enough. There was no place for Harry in mainstream fine arts and that is a crime. It is a crime largely born of covert racism and fear and I am angry that this intolerance continues. But I don’t think Harry was angry. Harry was savvy enough to just get on with it and continually add his grace wherever he saw fit. There was not a sense of a loss of self-worth, but a dignity, the kind of dignity born of a generation that really did not have many resources to draw upon but that learned somehow to walk tall. I like to think of Harry like that.
Squeaky Shoes
Los Angeles, 2001. Harry and I had been invited to give a talk and afterwards decided to spend a day at the Getty Museum. He was so entranced by the textures of the paintings that he would come right up to the canvas, within fractions of an inch, drooping his glasses from his mouth, unconsciously chewing on the ends of the frame with his eyes furrowed in concentration. More than once a guard had to ask him to please move back from the artwork, but it seemed to have little effect. To make matters worse, Harry had on new shoes that squeaked loudly on the pristine marble floors. The shoes were like little loudspeakers announcing his arrival in each room. I could find Harry anywhere in the galleries that day, but so could the guards. Flying back to Albuquerque, we changed planes in Phoenix, drank a few beers and laughed until we both cried by playing naughty with a massage chair perched at the entry of one of those high tech stores in the terminal. I seem to remember that we drew a crowd.
Returning to Santa Fe was depressing, after all! We stopped for food in Bernalillo and as I drove us steadily north up I-25 he told me stories from California, of aunties, cousins and history. As he spoke, he carefully held my food up for me, feeding me with the care reserved for a child. It was his way of being completely present, totally absorbed in the moment. I wanted to be sad but his tenderness would not let me.
It is easy to say things about Harry that confirmed his place in our lives. I received an email recently from our Italian colleague Mario in which he called him “the great Harry.” What will be hard is being a bit like Harry, for he walked so tall. It is not our sadness that really matters but remembering in every small way what it was like to be Harry in a world that often does not care to see us tall. He was the best of us, so now we must be that as well.
