I come from a family of INCREDIBLY talented artists. On both my mom's side and my dad's side.
My grandma on my dad's side is probably the most talented woman I have ever met. Her oil paintings are incredible, awe-inspiring, even magical. Growing up, I can remember grandpa assembling her canvases and frames for her, and her easel was set up right in the middle of her cluttered living room, next to the window so she could watch the deer eat the corn that she had just thrown outside.
Her house smelled like old books, and there was never anywhere comfortable to sit. The old book smell was my grandpa's fault. He loved books. He loved to write poems. I can still remember the way his office looked, felt, and even smelled like an old library, with his vast collection of aged hardcovers, his ridiculously bright fluorescent desk lamp, and his collection of old arrowheads that he had found throughout Missouri. He would take me in his office to show me some of his books, read excerpts to me, and ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I had no idea. And I never wanted to sit there and listen to him read. I of course pretended to be interested, because I didn't want to hurt his feelings. And there was nothing else to do at their house, so I sat there, half engaged in what he was saying and half thinking about what I was going to do that upcoming weekend.
He passed away a few years ago, and I completely regret my flippant attitude. He was such a neat man. And I never gave him the chance to really show me everything he knew. He had so much to teach me, so much to share, and I was a total idiot child.
I have an old, dusty book, The Poems of Robert Frost, that he gave me when I was 17. It's now sitting on my living room bookshelf to remind me of him, and to serve as a constant reminder to live in the moment of everyday, instead of living just to get to the next day. Life is so short. We should relish the moments that we have in the here and now.
My grandma has since lost her passion for painting. She has no one to put so much love into assembling her canvases and she has severe osteoporosis. She still watches the deer outside her window.
There is barely an inch of free wall space in her house, as her paintings adorn just about every square inch of them. And that's why I think there was never anywhere comfortable to sit. It forced you to get up, walk around, and take a look at the present, or in this case, their love for each other, their library, and their art gallery.
I'm sorry I don't have any of her work to share on here, or I would do so in a heart beat. I'm thinking about taking a quick trip up to see her soon. I know I need to. Time is chasing us down.
