By Susan Marque
Most people come across a George Segal sculpture and take in the individuals depicted, usually in white,
that capture a moment in time, simply as pieces of art. A woman who can’t sleep and her husband who
can, or people on the street, Segal’s statues are of ordinary people. His life size scenes are often compared
to Edward Hopper paintings for their melancholy and kinship with noir films. I never viewed them quite
that way.
“Look Suz,” my father said pointing to the white plaster individuals at the soda fountain that stood in
view as we entered The Walker Art Museum. I was three, or four, or five years old at the time. “Do you
remember the name of the artist?”
“Segal. Like a bird,” I said.
“That’s right. George Segal.” My parents each liked to take me to this museum in Minneapolis where
we lived until I was seven. If there was a show they wanted to see, we might all go together with my
sister. Mom once took me to a live puppet show where I got scared of the enormous costumes that I
couldn’t understand. Instead of seeing a story unfold, with mortals beneath, I saw fearsome fuzzy objects
that moved. I started to cry, but knew better than to make a scene in public. I was never afraid of the
ghostly plaster people that were always at the museum of modern art. The Segal depicted characters were
much like paper mache. I had taken flour and water soaked newspaper strips and plastered them over a
balloon to make animals, so I understood George’s process to be art. He was better at details and used
surgical strips, that could be used as a cast for a broken arm or leg, instead of fragile pulp.
Some people found his medium to be unusual, but it seemed perfectly sensible to me. He started by
using his own body as the base for the casts and piecing sections together to create a whole man sitting at
a table. The table was a real or a found object, and not one that he created. He was juxtaposing art with
life, creating a scene in the way a director might on a film set, making the imagined something real.
Mom liked to have lunch at The Walker. I remember it being cafeteria style, where I might like a few
bites of a grilled cheese sandwich or fries. What I remember most is the blueberry pie.
Just like the white plaster sculptures that greeted us with each visit, the blueberry pie was always
there, waiting for me. The slices were enormous and for some reason I didn’t have to share. I was allowed
to eat the entire triangle. I’d make sure that I didn’t eat much of anything else so that I would have room
for dessert. I loved everything about blueberry pie. The sweet-tart flavor of the blueberries, the satisfying
cookie like crust, the way the blueberries could pop in my mouth as I sunk my teeth into them, everything
about blueberry pie was great. My mom never refused me a slice when we visited. She viewed it as a
healthy choice, despite temporarily staining my teeth. I made her laugh with my blue mouth after our very
ladylike lunches. Sometimes Mom might have friends meet her there, other times it was just the two of
us.
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THE CONE - ISSUE #10 - SUMMER 2016
By E. Amato