Jon Imber

I almost canceled my appointment with Jon Imber, which would have been a shame. I would have missed spending a half-day with one of the most inspiring and committed artists I’ve ever interviewed. And I would have missed out on the opportunity to have my portrait painted by not one, but two of Maine’s finest artists.

The story dates to late fall 2013. In a typical year, Imber and his wife, Jill Hoy, would have been back home in Somerville, Mass., by then, their summer at their Stonington home long since packed away for the season.

But Imber was suffering from ALS, and they were staying in Maine because contractors were installing a lift in their Massachusetts home. Imber could no longer climb stairs. But there was more at play here. I believe he knew he wasn’t coming back, that he wouldn’t live another year, and he wanted as much time in Maine as possible.

Hoy advised me to come early in the day, when her husband had the most energy. We could talk in the morning, have lunch and then I would be on my way. I live in Berwick, which is four hours from Stonington, and left home around 5 a.m.

A few miles south of Biddeford, I blew a tire on my Subaru Forester. AAA towed me to a tire store, and I was first in line for service. But even if I got back on the road at 8:30, I wouldn’t arrive in Stonington until afternoon. I called Hoy to cancel, but she encouraged me to come anyway. Jon was feeling good and was eager to talk about his art.

Telling Jon Imber’s story was a profound experience for me and for photographer Gregory Rec. Imber could barely stand, and it was difficult to understand him when he talked. By then, he had lost all movement in his right arm, his painting arm, and had learned to paint left-handed. But even his left arm and hand barely functioned. He painted by thrusting himself toward the canvas, his arm mostly limp at his side, a paint brush secured in a closed fist. He wore a safely harness, so a studio assistant could grab him if the energy of his movements caused him to lose balance and fall.

Whatever function and energy he had left in his body, he used them to paint. “I hope to come back,” Imber told me that day. “If I can make it another summer, fine. But I may not be able to paint much longer. It’s very hard. I feel like if I am painting next summer, it will be with my foot or mouth.”

He didn’t make it back to Maine. Imber died the following spring in Massachusetts, but he painted his ass off those final few months of his life, doing exactly what he wanted to do. He made more than 100 portraits of friends and admirers, and I was lucky to be among them. As part of our interview, I sat while he and Jill Hoy made portraits.

It was an honor, of course. It was obvious I was in the presence of greatness and a witness to something remarkable and rare – a painter who readily acknowledged he was running out time and needing to get as much out of his time and talent. When faced with a final choice about how to spend his remaining days, Imber chose to paint. He was a true artist, completely committed to his purpose.