Kinkade

I don’t drift into the religious or spiritual very often, particularly in public writings.  Unitarianism tend to produce solitary situations for me, and when I do drift into one of the other religions for a few minutes I tend to have stepped in too far.

I couldn’t help but notice, however, that a man who a decade ago was so publicly Christian (in the Protestant sense), passed away on Friday, Good Friday, under somewhat of a cloud of mystery.

The man I’m referring to, of course, was Thomas Kinkade.

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When I lived in Missouri, I faced a lot of potential salvation sessions, particularly after my mother passed.  “Don’t you want to see her again?” people kept asking me, they meant well with that creepy and abrasive question, I’m sure.  Still, I considered other options to the point where I bought a Bible that I could call my own.  Funeral homes give the immediate family a Bible, but I passed on that one...I wanted one that I’d treasure.  Or try to.

Right around Easter of that year (2002 or 2003), Barnes and Noble had a display of Easter books and Bibles.  There I found a devotional Bible (specifically tailored for women) with Kinkade’s prints and notes from his wife laced throughout.  For a Bible, this book was incredibly pastoral; I’m used to Bibles having either no illustrations at all or glossy plates of Christ throughout.  The choice seemed clear.

I also had a small history of admiring Kinkade.  I had couch throws and cross-stitch embroidery and notecards and calendars and journals with him work on them.  He wasn’t my favorite “artist” (go ahead, laugh)--that distinction belonged to St. Louis illustrator Mary Englebreit at that time--but his work mostly soothed me.

I have to admit one thing, however--his depictions of houses at twilight always felt a little off.  He seemed to have the concept of light down in his painting with one important distinction that I didn’t realize until I read the description years later in a New Yorker profile:  “all the windows are painted to look like a house afire.”  Yes.  Too much light.

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After I moved to California I forgot about Kinkade until one afternoon’s trip to Santa Cruz.  My brother was fishing on the Santa Cruz pier  and I was exploring downtown, as I was wont to do.  There, in downtown Santa Cruz and not far from a chocolate cafe, was a Kinkade gallery.

If you really want to test your passion for artwork, by a specific artist, go see it in person.  The first time I saw Frida Kahlo’s pieces I was surprised; some of them aren’t much bigger than the postcard versions of them.  In Kinkade’s case I was blown away going the other direction--the “originals” (turns out they’re all reprints, but...) are huge to hang behind couches and over mantles.

Either I had been without my accessories too long, or those huge versions scared me witless.

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In the ten years since I purchased that devotional Bible, apparently a lot has changed for Mr. Kinkade.  I have to admit that reading his obituary in the LA Times over the weekend that I’m glad I lost track of him.

I’m also glad I didn’t make any changes to my religion based on that particular Bible.

Had Kinkade not died on Friday, I might have gone on forgetting him, occasionally remembering him when I pull out my Bible (once? twice yearly?) for reference.  But die he did, and I have to wonder, will have have the same resurrection as say Whitney Houston from his death?  Will there be buying, en masse, of all things Kinkade?

Onward, dear reader, in sunshine and in shadow.