If you just happen to pass by in a hurry: this is a painting showing myself, based on a picture taken when I was 2 yo [please click to enlarge]
The details are less pleasing that this first glance ‘you looked so cute’ impression: I discovered this almost forgotten artwork last weekend on a pile of building rubble in the house that used to be inhabited by my grandparents. Most of us had multiple pictures taken when we were 1-2yo, pictures that have a tendency to end up all over the place: be it in neatly labeled albums, framed as a treasured memory by our relatives or even virtually forgotten in the proverbial shoebox. But no matter who we are, most of us have a visual memory dating back to the time when the world was new and full of promises.
Watching this particular artwork being treated like a disposable hamburger wrapper emotionally messed up my warm, sunny Antwerp weekend, as the events leading up to recovering this painting put me on an unexpected trip down memory lane.
My late grandmother adored me. Being the “mater familias”, she was a well educated woman with outspoken values and a heart of gold. I can no longer recollect the moment this portrait was painted, but I do remember the long warm summers we spent together, listening to her stories about how she traveled to the south of France, in an era most woman stayed at home and cooked their husband’s diner. She was frank and unreserved when she spotted social injustice, actually saving several people from being deported to Nazi Germany during the war. My grandfather confided in me how he just couldn’t imagine life without her, although his job often entailed they were separated for longer periods. But way before I started to realize how amazing she really was, she had my portrait painted, a portrait that she kept for decades above her favorite chair, surrounded by numerous memorabilia collected from (former Belgian colony) Congo.
Her death marked the end of an era. My grandfather’s health deteriorated, forcing him to move to a nursing facility, although each time I visit he still vividly recollects memories of my grandmother and stories that put a smile on my face.
Last year my brother felt he could use my grandparents large country house and its surrounding gardens, as his young children needed more space in a safer environment away from the big city. Well, so could I, but I could accept the emotional need of my parents to have their grandchildren within driving distance. My brother rents the property for only a symbolic payment, causing rather predictable family friction.
When I finally visited the house that had been the guardian of countless childhood memories, I was truly shocked. Not only the priceless antique pieces from Congo had already been replaced by more contemporary items, the entire house was being stripped and rebuild with little or no respect for my childhood memories. Every personal item had been removed, with frames and pictures casually tossed on a pile of building rubble. And that’s exactly where I found myself, two yo while holding on to my favorite bear: on a dusty pile of building rubble
This blog is not affiliated with or endorsed by the city of Antwerp, Belgium.