Jo Israelson

SCULPTOR & INSTALLATION ARTIST
UNION BRIDGE, MD.

I came home from work one day, and in front of my studio were two chairs and a sofa, with a note saying, "Hope you can do something with these." The springs were sagging on the ground; the fabric was ripped. Not exactly a gift from God. They sat in my studio for probably two months, asking me, "What are we here for?"

This was 1997. Around that time, we'd had a local young artist commit suicide. Her mother wanted artists to tell the story of other people's struggle with depression, so she put out a call for proposals. I knew there was an untold story about the women in my family. My great-grandmother and my grandmother had been institutionalized in their mid-40s. My mother had also been diagnosed as manic-depressive. I wanted to tell their story. And then it was clear to me: The sofa and chairs were perfect.

I spent a week at [what was once called] the Maine Insane Hospital in Augusta, in a tiny old library, going through records. The archivist said, "Remember, they didn't know anything back then; they weren't even doctors." The more I learned, the angrier I got.

This is my great-grandmother's chair. She was never talked about in my family. When she was institutionalized, they told her children she had died. I have the records of her symptoms: She had migraines; she would not perform her "wifely duties"; she was tired. I ended up crocheting nine booties to represent her children. These 22 little pleats were the years she was institutionalized: 1912 to 1934. The white pieces of paper were the times a doctor actually saw her. There are eight.

On the other side of the family was my [paternal] grandmother. She was an entrepreneur -- one of her most famous careers was rumored to be selling bathtub gin -- and a seamstress. At some point, she had a hysterectomy and was implanted with radium. After that, she suffered a nervous breakdown. These buttons, they represent the total of the days that she was institutionalized: 16 years, 2 months and 22 days. At the bottom of the American history test that was given to test mental competence, she would write: "I would like to be home." I took the images of the documents, digitized them, transferred them to fabric.

When I started working on this, my mother's response was, "I went crazy at 44, and I don't want to talk about it." For her chair, I put a clear cover on the stuffing, so you can see inside, but there is no information. And there are all kinds of copper tacks: They serve as a warning. You can't sit there; that one will hurt.

I have shown the piece -- it's called "Invisible Legacy" -- over the years. It's hard because it's big, and so it needs a lot of room. It's in my living room now. It's an integral part of my life, like having your family around. Sometimes when I see it, I mourn for them, in a way. Maybe they were not as crazy as they were said to be. But I keep it here. I think I just like having them around.

-- INTERVIEW BY CHRISTINA BREDA ANTONIADES