Betty and Francesca Woodman, Hilma and Meg Wolitzer, pitchers, petitions & "resilient cheerfulness"

"I suddenly realized, what had I done? I would have to be—for the rest of my life—somebody’s mother." —Betty Woodman

Betty and Francesca Woodman in New York City, c. 1980, photo by George Lange

When I first watched the documentary The Woodmans last year, it was for Francesca, the photographer behind a mesmerizing and ghostly body of work who died by suicide at age 22 in 1981.

But I became more interested in the family dynamics, and by Francesca Woodman’s mother, Betty, in particular. In interviews, Betty wears a sharp, center-part bob, copious stripes, and red-frame glasses. In B-roll she jogs down 42nd street sporting short-shorts, in her late ‘70s at the time, calves hard as tennis balls.

Betty Woodman, who died in 2018, was also an artist. “As Francesca’s work has become more and more well-known,” she says, “she’s the famous artist, and we’re the famous artist’s, you know, sort of family.”

She goes on, saying you, when she means I:

I think you have huge amount of pleasure from her success. We don’t have Francesca. So this is what we have, and aren’t we lucky to have it? And isn’t it wonderful?

But it’s not always wonderful. I think at times it really rubs you the wrong way. You know, “Hey, wait a minute. You know, I’m an artist too.”

Francesca Woodman, From Eel Series, Venice, Italy, 1978

Betty Woodman, Venus #7: Homey, 2014, glazed earthenware, epoxy resin, lacquer, acrylic paint, cement