Yesterday, I used my Grandmother’s easel.
My dad had found it tucked away in a corner of our garage (aka the assorted junk and crap room, I don’t think it had ever housed a car.) much to my delight.
I don’t think I ever saw my Grannie paint. I know her mother (mum’s very own Granny Smith) was a keen artist, so perhaps it was bought in good faith or as an experiment to see if the art genes had been carried down the family tree.
Granny Smith did some lovely paintings.
They are a different style to my own, although, like me, she focuses on painting things that bring happiness and make people feel good. Aesthetically pleasing and realistic.
Its commercial art. And it is not ashamed to be so.
People would want it on their wall. We have it on our wall.
Its not what I call “Forced Art”, like you are taught in school or college. It is quite happy existing context free.
Random punter: “Hey Imogen, what were you thinking when you made a screaming, paint-splattered ceramic head with severed hands?! It must have been a horrific time in your life!”
Me: “Not really… I was probably wondering what was for tea.”
Anyway, I like to think I am now carrying on Granny Smith’s legacy. Or my own Grannie’s legacy. One of the two.
It makes me sad that I never asked her whether she painted.
If she actually used that easel.
So from now on, whenever I use it, I will think of them. While I carry on making my commercial art. Art that doesn’t really tell a story, but the important thing is, it doesn’t try to either.
Whats more, its truly a delight to use. What luxury not to be hunched over painting and getting back ache. People should have thought of this centuries ago…