I finally got around to placing some of my grandmother's paintings in frames. And, like her pieces always seem to do, they triggered a moment of reflection for me.

From a young age, I looked up my artistic grandmother. My parents had a few of her paintings in frames around our house which, to me at the time, seemed like an amazing achievement worthy of praise and adoration. Once she passed away, that admiration grew to an almost idolization. In death she became an unreachable goal that I must always strive for yet never reach. These past few years have changed that belief for me. As my grandfather is getting older and thoughts of what will be left behind in his absence grow, he has begun the slow and painful process of sorting through the hundreds of painting paraphernalia still left in the house. I have gotten numerous sketchbooks from him. Most of which carry a sketch or two inside that insight wonder or bring back some sort of memory for me. What I didn’t expect to find through this process was the more personal and realistic side of this woman I consider to be beyond mistake. In fact, I have come to learn that, unlike what I envisioned as a lifelong journey through the painting universe, my grandmother had only been taking art classes a few years before I was born! And the paintings my family brought out from the musty basement were not of the quality that one expects from a painting master, but what one might expect of a mid-level painter. Sure, they were beautiful in their own right, and still gained from me a few gasps of admiration. But they were flawed, or seemingly unfinished; a few even sporting a wanton glob of paint in the middle of the canvas.

So, imagine my near heartbreak at this discovery. The one person I held to be an idol and creator of amazing works of genius, reduced to someone I might one day reach. It was hard. But after spending some time looking at my few picks of her paintings, actually looking, I realized something. To be human isn’t so bad. The flaws don’t make them any less beautiful than before. Rather, the fact that I can strive for and reach that which was once unreachable drives me to work harder for my dreams. Because, someday there could be someone looking at my work and smiling; flawed and incomplete though it may be. These experiences reminded me of why I began down the path of an artist. The warm feeling I get inside when looking at something someone else spent time and effort to create. Art isn’t meant to be perfect. It’s a learning, and growing experience. Art is meant to be loved, not idolized.

So, after all these years, I remember my grandmother and think not of someone sitting high on a pedestal. But rather, a warm hearted women sitting next to me by the fire, smiling.
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Sappy, I know. But anyways. Thoughts/ feelings/ comments on art?
Do you ever have these moments when you remember why you spend time drawing late into the night with little sleep and dinner forgotten on the table downstairs?