My uncle has always been in the limelight for his artistic skills. An avid painter and wood worker since high school he is still a starving and drug addicted artist. He is still in debt because of his habits and because he took five years in his late thirties to finally go to college to get his bachelors in the most useless degree ever, art. Since he can't pass a drug test he is unable to do anything useful with his education. My uncle is my father's older brother and as my father calls him “The Favorite.”
My father is a painter and wood worker too. In a much more practical matter. He has spent years making my mother's house beautiful from top to bottom. As many times as we have moved my father has painstakingly spent every minute of free time he had painting huge wall pieces, building ornate cabinetry and installing new flooring. Our homes have always been filled with the beauty that my mother designed and my father built.
I remember when I was young that his clothes always smelt of musk, saw dust and lacquer. When he would go away out to sea I would sneak into his closet and just smell. When I was a teenager I would steal some of his flannel shirts or his sweat pants and wear them. It's no wonder that as I got older I too became an artist in my own way.
My father has huge paintings of Italian scenery lining the walls of my parents home in Missouri. When people marvel at them he always says “Oh I just copied another painting.” and shrinks away from the subject. No matter how many compliments he gets he never takes credit for his paintings.
My grandmother was going through old paintings and art my uncle did and was talking about how talented he is. His paintings are weird and filled with the over compensating and arrogant incomprehension that “true artists” often posses. I mentioned the paintings my father has done to my grandmother as she chattered away and she said “Didn't he copy those from a picture?” And there it was.
The truth is my father used a picture to paint those paintings but he did not copy it. You can tell by the meticulously straight lines, the lack of texture and the blocky ungraded shading that they are truly unique.
He refuses to sign his art so do I. For different reasons I suppose.
I think with my father and his brother it has always been a competition for approval. My father has given our family a great life. We have never been monetarily rich but we have always been wealthy in other ways. And yes my parents are crazy but they are decent and honorable people. Both my parents posses integrity and fierce devotion to their children. My father has always been our defender and watchman. My uncle is strange and reclusive. He has never been married, he has been searching for some elusive fame his whole life and has never found it. Instead of filling his life with goodness and shedding his vices (like my father has) he has built for himself a prison of unhappiness.
It hurt me very deeply when my grandmother said “Didn't he copy it from a picture?” because I knew that of all the things in this world that she should have been proud of was how much better he was than his brother. My father is better at everything. My father has built for himself a better life than could have been expected. He has brought her more joy than my uncle ever could. And yet I could see why my father felt he was second rate. I could see that hint of small but greater than approval my grandmother held for my uncle. And it saddens me because I know that she will always love the people who hurt her more than she loves those that would never ever think to do so.
My father is a painter and wood worker too. In a much more practical matter. He has spent years making my mother's house beautiful from top to bottom. As many times as we have moved my father has painstakingly spent every minute of free time he had painting huge wall pieces, building ornate cabinetry and installing new flooring. Our homes have always been filled with the beauty that my mother designed and my father built.
I remember when I was young that his clothes always smelt of musk, saw dust and lacquer. When he would go away out to sea I would sneak into his closet and just smell. When I was a teenager I would steal some of his flannel shirts or his sweat pants and wear them. It's no wonder that as I got older I too became an artist in my own way.
My father has huge paintings of Italian scenery lining the walls of my parents home in Missouri. When people marvel at them he always says “Oh I just copied another painting.” and shrinks away from the subject. No matter how many compliments he gets he never takes credit for his paintings.
My grandmother was going through old paintings and art my uncle did and was talking about how talented he is. His paintings are weird and filled with the over compensating and arrogant incomprehension that “true artists” often posses. I mentioned the paintings my father has done to my grandmother as she chattered away and she said “Didn't he copy those from a picture?” And there it was.
The truth is my father used a picture to paint those paintings but he did not copy it. You can tell by the meticulously straight lines, the lack of texture and the blocky ungraded shading that they are truly unique.
He refuses to sign his art so do I. For different reasons I suppose.
I think with my father and his brother it has always been a competition for approval. My father has given our family a great life. We have never been monetarily rich but we have always been wealthy in other ways. And yes my parents are crazy but they are decent and honorable people. Both my parents posses integrity and fierce devotion to their children. My father has always been our defender and watchman. My uncle is strange and reclusive. He has never been married, he has been searching for some elusive fame his whole life and has never found it. Instead of filling his life with goodness and shedding his vices (like my father has) he has built for himself a prison of unhappiness.
It hurt me very deeply when my grandmother said “Didn't he copy it from a picture?” because I knew that of all the things in this world that she should have been proud of was how much better he was than his brother. My father is better at everything. My father has built for himself a better life than could have been expected. He has brought her more joy than my uncle ever could. And yet I could see why my father felt he was second rate. I could see that hint of small but greater than approval my grandmother held for my uncle. And it saddens me because I know that she will always love the people who hurt her more than she loves those that would never ever think to do so.
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