Grandpa Schoen’s painting hung proudly in my childhood home on Hickory Lane. I walked passed it nearly every day. When I would stop to take a deeper look, I would see the white picket fence first, with its cast shadows and perfectly proportioned, receding lines. My eyes would then wander up the tree trunk and settle on the large branch of leaves (in the middle) before being drawn down to the peeking white house- the house where my Dad grew up.
I never met Grandpa; he died just before I was born. Some stories, old photographs and this painting help me form a perception of who he was. I’ve heard he was a spirited and tender-hearted man with a thirst for learning and discovery. A creative spirit, who enjoyed classical music, art, baking bread… He was a man I never met, who indirectly played a significant role in who I am. Today, I take a deeper look inside his painting to see if subtle clues lie within his brushstrokes – clues that can tell me more about who he was and maybe a piece of who I am too…
The leaves- Each one formed by their own mark, each important to him. I think he was someone who stopped to appreciate the little details, who marveled, took notice and enjoyed the small things in life…
The house (a mansion from what I hear)- The painting has little to do with a “mansion” and more to do with the beauty surrounding it- the trees, the blue sky, the white picket fence, the people inside? I think he might have been a man who loved HOME and knew it was more than a house (or mansion) to make one…
The foreground- a celebration of flickering light filtered through the rustling trees. Nature’s dazzling dance of light and beauty, set to the music of a warm summer breeze…I imagine Grandpa delighting in nature’s imagery, preferring to live in the present than worrying himself about the future…
Yes, I wonder who he was. I wonder what remnants remained of him in my Dad, which ones trickled down to me and even my children! And then, I am struck at how hauntingly similar this reality is to that of my own children’s now that my Dad is gone. They will hear stories, see pictures and celebrate his music.
One day though, like clues hidden inside Grandpa’s brushstrokes, I hope my children will stop to listen to the music Dad sang in between the notes- his breaths of love, kindness, warmth, compassion and integrity. Those were some of the characteristics that shaped the songs he sang. I hope my children will see me emulate these “Breaths” and “Brushstrokes” as I search for my own, unique assignment in this continued masterpiece, called life.
Valerie Bloom 