My Father

To say that my dad and I didn’t always see eye-to-eye would be to oversimplify, but in the seven years preceding his passing we had reestablished a relationship that worked for us. In those quick but satisfying seven years, I grew as a person. We spoke almost every day and, if a day or two passed and he hadn’t heard from me, he would call to be sure everything was alright.

I spoke to my dad just hours before he had the stroke that landed him in the hospital where he would suffer two heart attacks and then two more strokes, the last of which brought the doctors to determine that he had no chance for recovery. This news led me to the choice which was both the easiest and the most difficult I’ve ever had to make—the decision to take my father off of the ventilator, leading to his death.

I say it was the easiest choice because I knew it was what he wanted; we had spoken about the topic less than two weeks prior to his stroke and he had made it clear that he did not want to be kept alive on life support. Still, it was the hardest choice to make because it meant I would never get to talk to him again.

My dad was a man of few words, but he always had something unique and heartfelt to say about my art—even when he didn’t understand what I was up to, he always found kind and encouraging words about my pieces.

Since his passing two and a half years ago, I have found that my work has become more serious, or perhaps more refined, while maintaining some whimsical qualities. Any way you look at it, my father’s death has had a profound impact on my art and my life.

—Roger Bowie