By DAWN BAILEY
I lost my mother, Dolores Furnari, on January 16, 2025, at the age of 92 and a half. She was an incredible lady, talented, and kind. She taught art in Brandon and all over the country for many years. Her studio was in the Briggs Carriage Co. building when her home studio that held eight students was outgrown. She taught many different mediums such as stenciling, which she preferred for beginners. Anything can be stenciled: wood, canvas, many forms of metal like candle wall sconces. For the students that wanted a challenge, she would introduce them to her favorite historical art techniques, which were tray painting, oil canvases, wooden chair decorating, furniture.
She often taught special classes to children, supplying everything her students would need to complete a project. She mentored one young lady for years, giving her free private lessons in her home after school. “Feed the passion,” she would say. Give them the opportunity if they want to learn. The historical 19th century art she learned to adore, made, and taught. What people do not realize is she had to learn very precise techniques working with ‘tacky varnish’ to apply to trays or wood for judging to become a certified teacher in this medium. This is working with gold leaf, bronze powders, silver powders, rose gold leaf, too many to list, along with striping. One of her trays can still be spotted in Café Provence.
She was not a boastful person. She received many lifetime achievement awards over her 60 years of doing and teaching her historical craft. Her knowledge was beyond words and comprehension. These awards and recognitions I have found since her passing as I go through her art studio. I have been overwhelmed going through her teaching binders, finding many of her unfinished works was heartbreaking. I was agonizing over all of my limits of her knowledge and was concerned with what was going to happen to her life’s passion.
I was physically ill for two days after mom’s passing, stayed in pajamas, smelled horrid, I had no ambition, I was mourning. I was a very lucky daughter to have had such a loving person in my life for 73 years. Actually, I’m lucky to have had both my parents. Dad is 94 now; they would have celebrated their 74th wedding anniversary on July 1.
After she passed, the thought of going into her home art studio raised my anxiety. For weeks, I only peeked in and felt overwhelmed by the volume of her 60 years of work left behind. There were teaching supplies and portfolios with every nook packed full of a lifetime of her art. Mom was well known in town. She was Brandon’s Lister for 29 years and had our Town Report dedicated to her. She was a founding member of the Brandon Artists Guild.
Dad and I decided to donate one of mom’s folk art paintings to Porter Hospital’s Estuary, Palliative Care Unit. The staff there is outstanding, was kind beyond words to her and her five generations of family that visited over the days mom was there. Mom was a very generous person with her time and talent. We felt she would be happy to have a piece of her art there as a token of our appreciation. A few of my girlfriends donated knitted prayer shawls for other patients and families, along with handmade blankets. I was told that the families who received the gifts were very appreciative and surprised by our kindness. The Palliative Staff was happy to pass along our gifts.
I realized over the past months, as I started painting again, that I was a sponge that lacked water. Some techniques were buried in my brain that I felt I couldn’t remember how to do, or I didn’t pay attention to her many talents. I will not be at her level of talent but I have found my passion again in her studio. While I grieved, I reached out to Palliative Care at Porter Hospital—I wanted to continue her work that she started over 25 years ago painting Bereavement Boxes for mothers that lost babies. I did this with her long ago for Porter and Rutland Hospitals. Some of my mother’s students would also do boxes that we would deliver. Something that could hold a memento for the family: hat, booties, photo, etc. I hand-painted 11 boxes and delivered them to Palliative Care for the Birthing Center recently, to give along with their care packages if a family wanted something special to remember their lost love.
I am excited and driven by passion now in mom’s studio every day. I am comforted in her space. I had to make the area mine, so the paints and supplies flowed easily for me. Dad is loving the company, and I see the joy he has in seeing the progress of a project come to fruition, he tells me lovingly, “You are getting good, kid!” I giggle at that as I am still his baby at 73!
I am finishing some of mom’s pieces, doing techniques I hadn’t done in many years and finding a joy I couldn’t imagine months ago. I am finding so many articles and accomplishments my mom kept but did not boast about or share. She was a true lady. I often told her she was “Harpers Bazaar”; she never went out without being dressed with lipstick . . . funny how things rub off on you, I don’t go out without my lips on!
I have become passionate about her work, past and present. I recently found a piece she made for a Guild auction in 2004 that was displayed in the window of a building in town that has been sold. I was almost brought to my knees when I saw it. I dashed to Bernie Carr to get the info about the owner, and I am happy to report that I did purchase the piece back and I am so proud to have it in my home. The surprising thing is, it was stored for 21 years and is a time capsule of perfectness—not a scratch—and just as brilliant as the day she painted it. By the way, my dad built the wooden framework of it for her.
A friend recently kidded me that I may need to open a museum with all her work I hope to share. I am fortunate that I do not have to dismantle her studio just yet, but when I do, it will be moving home with me so I can continue to paint. I feel her with me in her space. I can hear her saying, as she often did, “Oh, that’s interesting . . .” when I would change something she was teaching me. I always wanted it to be my own and not like the true historical piece.
My mother’s love is there with me. I miss her. We all do.
