When Grandma Mabel was 83 years old, I was attending art school. She sent me a postcard which read, simply, “When you needed me, I was there to help you. Now I need you.” She was completely in command of her faculties and perfectly capable of taking care of herself, but her husband had died eight years earlier, and she was lonely. I left school to live with my grandma, not entirely out of selflessness, but because I thought I would have time to paint. I did have time to paint, and draw, and write, but what I didn't expect to have was the experience of a lifetime.
I arrived at my Grandma's home as a college drop-out with $120, a back pack, a few articles of clothing, no car, no job or job skills, and an unclear future. Grandma greeted me with delight nonetheless. I spent much of my time in her 70-year-old house writing, painting, and talking with her. Sometimes we would see or talk only to one another for weeks at a time.
These paintings are the result of the time I spent with my Grandma Mabel. They arose out of observations, experiences, and conversations. They reflect the nature of my Grandmother's precious but imperfect character, which was revealed in the way she thought, the way she organized her home, the things she valued, the moments of her life she remembered, the way she walked and talked, the way she moved through life, the way she communicated emotion with a gleam in her eye or a rise of her brow, the way she held my hand, and the way she shaped her very surroundings. Her essence flowed through all she did, and was, and owned.
I was charmed by her cattywampus, skewed, and even cockeyed nature. I adored the way she plodded through the house with a hitch and a scrape, almost tripping on every throw rug that littered the slanted floors of her house. Every rug seemed to be twisted or bunched just enough to almost catch her blocky black-heeled shoes; she seemed always on the edge of disaster. The bunion that protruded from the intentional slice in her once Sunday-best shoes made me smile. I laughed every time the cat jumped into her rocking chair and she would scold, “Listen, Puss, you mustn’t take my chair.” Curled up in a ball, enjoying the warmth, Kitty would pay no attention. Grandma’s back would stiffen, and she would sit resolutely down. Kitty would escape just in time.
I loved her hands. “Listen,” she would say in her scratchy, breathy voice that seemed to come from her throat instead of her mouth. “Listen” didn’t merely mean listen, though; it meant, “Come closer, so I can grab your hand and tell you a story I have already told you many times.” The palms of her hands were wide, with short stubby fingers that were twisted and knotted from years of toil. The skin hung loose and smooth like well-worn leather. She would clasp her fingers around my wrist, take my hand in hers, and stroke my fingers. As she spoke, her nose would wrinkle up and her eyes would sparkle. “Your hands are just like your Grandpa Chet’s, except his fingers had nicotine stains.” No matter how long she held on to my hand and told me the same story yet again, it always whispered to my heart, “This is home.”
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