At my life drawing class yesterday, I met a girl who grew up on Nantucket. This girl, about my age, moved to San Miguel earlier in the year to pursue her art. Her family moved to Nantucket in 1989. Her brother is still there. I remember vacationing there as early as 1985. It's almost certain we swam in the same ocean, ate the same ice cream, and yearned for the same toys; on the same day; within a few feet, amongst a few hundred other children.
Spending this time with my grandmother is largely about connecting with the past; checking my notes. My own seems distant enough. I feel like it's a mystery novel that if I'd only paid attention to in the first few chapters, I'd know now how it has to end. But adding in all the clues of her life, and the lives of family just outside my frame, it's an epic so sprawling I need an HBO miniseries to sort it all out. I know it's all too complex. The narrative we overlay is just one of many possibilities by which we make sense of our lives. But still I feel each new story is a clue to who I am and where I'm going.
Tonight I heard about my grandfather's proposal. It was minimal. Grandma still calls herself a war bride. He was shipping out and said he wanted to be with her for the rest of his life. The cynic in me scoffs at his possible pessimism, but the romantic knows all about the life they shared and the love they inspire.
I heard about my Grandmother's drive for something more. She's a brilliant girl grown up in the sprawling metropolis that was Omaha Nebraska in the 20s and 30s, resigned to live with the man she loved in Grand Island. She said her life's biggest regret was not going to college. But I have to think that drive to know, to learn, inspired her four sons to venture out on their own and conquer such worlds as they have.
This morning we went back to the gallery for our painting classes. I continued with one of my sketches from our drawing workshop. Grandma parked her easel by the balcony and started in on the Perroquia church across the plaza. She's very brave. Painting is fun. There's trial and error; victory and defeat. The woman teaching us owns the gallery and keeps it stocked with a plethora of her own work. They're large format oil canvases depicting herself in various romantic situations (and stages of undress). Her theme of giant reflecting orbs makes it clear that I have much to learn from her.
Sitting in the plaza after dinner, hypnotized by the night-lit Perroquia, I spotted Hanna, our model. Grandma asked how I recognized her with her clothes on. She promised to come by the gallery on Friday as we finish up. I hope she won't be too horrified by my rendition of her. She was walking hand in hand with a lanky Mexican boy two heads taller than her. He did not come over while we spoke. I find girls who pose alluring. Not while in the act (I'm too busy), but after. I would never have a problem with my girl choosing such a hobby. But I would certainly chaperone any interaction she had with clients outside the office. At least if I thought she was smiling at them the way Hanna smiled at me.
Tomorrow it's on to cooking classes
Spending this time with my grandmother is largely about connecting with the past; checking my notes. My own seems distant enough. I feel like it's a mystery novel that if I'd only paid attention to in the first few chapters, I'd know now how it has to end. But adding in all the clues of her life, and the lives of family just outside my frame, it's an epic so sprawling I need an HBO miniseries to sort it all out. I know it's all too complex. The narrative we overlay is just one of many possibilities by which we make sense of our lives. But still I feel each new story is a clue to who I am and where I'm going.
Tonight I heard about my grandfather's proposal. It was minimal. Grandma still calls herself a war bride. He was shipping out and said he wanted to be with her for the rest of his life. The cynic in me scoffs at his possible pessimism, but the romantic knows all about the life they shared and the love they inspire.
I heard about my Grandmother's drive for something more. She's a brilliant girl grown up in the sprawling metropolis that was Omaha Nebraska in the 20s and 30s, resigned to live with the man she loved in Grand Island. She said her life's biggest regret was not going to college. But I have to think that drive to know, to learn, inspired her four sons to venture out on their own and conquer such worlds as they have.
This morning we went back to the gallery for our painting classes. I continued with one of my sketches from our drawing workshop. Grandma parked her easel by the balcony and started in on the Perroquia church across the plaza. She's very brave. Painting is fun. There's trial and error; victory and defeat. The woman teaching us owns the gallery and keeps it stocked with a plethora of her own work. They're large format oil canvases depicting herself in various romantic situations (and stages of undress). Her theme of giant reflecting orbs makes it clear that I have much to learn from her.
Sitting in the plaza after dinner, hypnotized by the night-lit Perroquia, I spotted Hanna, our model. Grandma asked how I recognized her with her clothes on. She promised to come by the gallery on Friday as we finish up. I hope she won't be too horrified by my rendition of her. She was walking hand in hand with a lanky Mexican boy two heads taller than her. He did not come over while we spoke. I find girls who pose alluring. Not while in the act (I'm too busy), but after. I would never have a problem with my girl choosing such a hobby. But I would certainly chaperone any interaction she had with clients outside the office. At least if I thought she was smiling at them the way Hanna smiled at me.
Tomorrow it's on to cooking classes
VIEW 4 of 4 COMMENTS
grendel7:
I've found drawing classes in Costa Mesa and Los Angeles. I'm trying to keep up whatever modicum of skill I can muster. It's pretty fun. The weird shaped people are certainly the most interesting to draw.
kiwiprincess:
We need a new blog!! 