Of another time and place. . .

The 20th century to be exact. . .the early 20th century.  I've recently painted my maternal English grandmother, May Allington Clements, born in 1893. 



May Allington Clements . oil on canvas . 24 x 20



My mother had a lovely photo of her encased in an oval frame that graced her wall, then mine and now my daughter's.  The last time I was in Charleston visiting my daughter, I noticed a very slight deterioration in the photo, and having recently completed a "remembrance" commission of a beloved childhood home - well, it got me thinking about preserving the remarkable photo of my grandmother in an oil portrait for generations to come.  I tend to always lean towards serendipity - one thin thread leading and weaving it's way to another then another - I think the spinning chains of life are like that and I, one who listens to the heart more often than not, eagerly follow that thread wherever it takes me. 

Sadly I have little to tell you about this beautiful woman - I was only in her presence (for a few weeks each time) twice in her lifetime.  She was small in stature, and that gorgeously coiffed hair had prematurely turned a lovely white - not grey, but white - by the time I first visited her in England in 1956.  What I find astonishing is that her life traversed two great wars, the likes we shall never see again and the depth of loss which few can now comprehend.  She was the mother of three daughters and gave up one by marriage "over the pond" to the United States via a then-US-soldier, my dad. 

With great fanfare my grandparent's annual Christmas packages arrived, wrapped so lovingly and with words written in the most gorgeous handwriting - her Victorian-like script was stunning.  Her frequent letters on tissue thin blue airmail paper were beautifully phrased and expressed.  She visited America for the first time in 1959 - she and my grandfather rated a headline in the local paper, "Southern Living Impresses Guests."  The article featured a photo of my mother pouring tea for them in our dining room, all dressed in their finery with the best china and silver.  I have a photo of her holding our dog, equally earlier in her life a beloved cat, and I believe I remember the story of her being able to coax a squirrel to eat out of her hand in her later years!  I can report her apparent love of animals is alive and well in the four generations that have followed.  

As I worked on the portrait I felt a quiet communion with her, and the sudden startling revelation of her physical "likeness" in the women who have followed brought tears to my eyes.  A heritage I know so little about but revere just the same, seen through a painter's eyes.          

From the poet Mary Oliver:

 

"For twenty years. . .

 

I have gone every day to the same woods,

not waiting, exactly, just lingering.

Such gifts, bestowed,

can't be repeated.

 

If you want to talk about his

come to visit.  I live in the house

near the corner, which I have named

Gratitude."