Father's Day

Dominique Densmore
Jun 22
4 min read

Greetings from the Studio,

(This is a day late due to technical difficulties.)

Yesterday was a hard day for me as, after a hard battle with cancer, my dear father went home to heaven last month.

Generally speaking I try to keep my private life separate from work, but as this has had an immense effect on me, it has also effected my work, and may for some time.

Furthermore, my father having been a big influence in encouraging my art, and of course my life, and yesterday being Father’s Day, I wanted to share a bit about him. Only a few fragments, as his story is too much for a newsletter, and I am not able at present to do more.

I am still in a state of disbelief. His voice and presence, so long such an integral part of my life, seem yet so near and real. Well, he is still real; more real now, indeed, than he ever was, having now received his incorruptible, heavenly body, which no ailment can assault.

But he is not present...

A little about my Dad:

Clockwise from top left: a poster for one of my father's recitals; an article from playing at Orchestra Hall, Detroit; with his tennis coach; with Bernie Katz, pianist, after a concert.

He was a classical musician, a flutist, and despite discouragement early on (his music teacher told him his lips were too big for the instrument) he persevered, going on to study at some of the country's top schools, including Peabody Conservatory in Baltimore, and the American University in DC. He played first chair in many orchestras, including the Detroit Symphony Orchestra, the Las Palmas Symphony Orchestra, Gran Canaria, Spain, and The Fulham Symphony, London, to name a few.

Oh--and he also played tennis professionally. ;-)

He had the most infectious laughter, gave a great pep talk, loved people, cigars, and dogs. Most of all he loved the Lord. On our long walks to ballet school, we had conversations about all manner of things, from the Bible to his past experiences in Europe, to music, or life in general. It was very much the Deut. 6:6-7.

He loved legends and stories, giving us classic films and books. He opened up the wonderful world of classical music to us, a great gift which I treasure to this day; he instilled in us the practise of looking for and recognising the signature of God in all that is beautiful, wonderful and good in this world.

He always encouraged us in our pursuits.

I doubt that I should have stopped drawing even without much encouragement, but having supportive parents is an advantage. And a certain event one afternoon ensured that I would draw regularly without hindrance.

My father, though a master musician, did not draw, and was fascinated by the ability both my sister and I showed in copying things.

Once, while Daddy and I were waiting for my sister to finish dance class (I was perhaps about 10 or 11), my father struck up conversation (as he was wont to do) with a gentleman in the waiting room. He mentioned that I was good at drawing, and suddenly put me on the spot. Why didn’t I draw something for the man? Draw Garfield. (I was a fan.) Going up to the whiteboard, I proceeded to oblige, but my attempt, to my father’s (restrained) disappointment, was not the best. You see, while I was good at copying when I had a reference in front of me, I was not yet able to pull things out of my head. My father didn’t know this, and suddenly worried that I was losing my ability, he decided that from then on, once a week we would have “art day” at home, and our only homework was to do artwork. That tradition continued for years.

Another incident which very much influenced me art-wise (and yet this carries to other areas of life too) was a few years later. I was 14. My siblings and I used to go to a certain corner store for chocolate bars. Somehow the shop owner discovered that I was good at drawing, and he asked whether I would be able to draw a portrait of his child from a photo.* I said I could, took the photo home, drew a portrait from it, and took it back that afternoon.

When I got back, my Dad asked what I had been given in exchange for the drawing. “Nothing,” I said. “Nothing!” he replied, and despite my protests, he marched off to the corner shop. He returned with a 2 litre bottle of Coca Cola. (He’d told the shop owner, much to my chagrin, that I’d come home in tears because he’d given me nothing.) “Don’t think so little of yourself,” Daddy said to me. I learned then: your work is worth something. Don’t let people take advantage of you.

My father influenced me in so many ways.

He instilled in me an appreciation for excellence, both in others and in myself, and to strive for it in whatever I did. “Don’t do what you haven’t practised,” he used to say.

This short letter cannot do justice to the loss I feel, to the man he was, to how much he meant to us all.

And yet, mingled with the sadness, is a latent joy in knowing that he is now beyond any pain or suffering. and is in glory with the Lord.

He's probably discussing the finer points of composition with Mozart, Mahler, Ravel and the gang. Perhaps he's been congratulating Senor Gaudi on the completion of his cathedral (one of my father's favorite sights in his favorite city, Barcelona.)

Best of all, he is face to face with Jesus.