Author Information
My Grandfather’s Paintings
Every sunday evening I saw my grandfather drawing, painting, creating. The whole upper floor of his house smelled greatly of varnish, all of his clothes were covered in paint, and in all that mess, he had the greatest smile I have ever seen. The only thing that made him happier than painting was making music, and when he did both, there was nothing that could pull him away from it. Throughout his life as a student, doctor, and musician, what made him the most content was having the opportunity to express his thoughts. He painted seas, sunsets, waterfalls, faces, boats, cities and anything you can think of. It was from him that I got the love for my city, since his collection of it was the biggest, and most beautiful. His illustrations of it were distinct, they went from historical dates, wars and pirate’s landings, to the beach, and to normal, common days in the life of working people in the beautiful scenery he presented. There was something about his way of painting that made me notice every detail, every color, and every single thing going on in his canvas. To me, it was like being pulled into the 1900s, to the exact same place and time when it all was going on. The passion, the love, and the imagination he put into all of his works was highly perceptible. I remember watching him paint; watching closely how he made a work of art out of the blank, how he thought of every single thing it would consist of: the color of a man’s shoe, the waves crashing in the sea and the name on the side of a boat. There was one particular painting that made me feel peaceful. It was the town center, there was a big red building, a green bus going through the street, a young man holding a newspaper, and behind all that, the sea,and on it, a boat coming towards town. It may not seem like an interesting setting, but I can stare at it for hours. Now, days, weeks, months, and years have gone by and no matter how much time has passed, I can still vividly remember him a sunday evening sitting on a stool, clothes full of paint, with a palette in his left hand, a brush in the other, watching his canvas with the most lively expression he could ever have.
