In memoriam

I had a less-than-usual relationship with my grandfather. He was an academic painter and artist with high standards and I was the only other artist in the family. The art we created could not have been less similar, but he took me on as a student like-it -or-not on both our parts. As I grew older, he became less critical of my work, but his judgment was always a driving force in my career -- I wanted to create something that would impress him. I wanted to be the sort of artist he could be proud of. He died Wednesday morning without me ever having brought him that one thing I knew he would praise. But, his death isn’t about my art, it’s about him.

As I grew older and he did too, I found it hard to communicate with him in any meaningful way except through art. We had a gap of fifty eight years between us and all the uncomfortable family baggage that goes with it. But art is pure and does not require an exchange of words. He was good at that. While he chose classical subjects for his focus -- portraits, landscapes -- and focused on technique rather than emotion, there is emotion still in those lonely farmland scenes, punctuated by a tiny figure, a marooned sailor in the wheat. Not to make mention of the portrait that hung in the living room if his house, over the sofa -- an intimidating thing to have looming over me as a young artist. A portrait of his daughter with a small dog on her lap -- quite and composed, but breathing out an otherworldly glow. Strange, because in some ways his painting often felt like a product of his younger day -- a taste of the nineteen forties and early fifties in his color pallet, his use of lines. A difficult esthetic to create beauty in. He did, though. I remember wanting him to paint me the way he painted that portrait of Alice, the only time I’ve ever wanted to be the subject of art rather than the creator.

As an adult and no longer his student, he sometimes talked about his other art, the sculptures he did before he decided painting would be his lone focus. In one corner of his cold studio was the serene bust of Abe, a man I’d never met, but even if I had, the sculpture seemed more alive than any person could have been. Like a secret, my Grandfather explained his planned sculpture of Adam and Eve under the tree, showing me the partially finished Eve -- the rest only existing in his head. Eve holds the apple in her hand, her mouth open in surprise. He face holds not fear, not the misery to come, but a split second where everything makes sense. He captured it perfectly. I don’t believe he was a religious man, but simply saw an opportunity to show an emotion, a scene, and ran with it. Echoed again, in an ink and wash illustration of Don Quixote, a slumped old man on an angular horse. Classical subjects, sure, but each with a life of their own.

At thirty six, I have still accomplished little in life, much less as an artist. He may have felt this way from time to time himself, though he chose to be a father, a teacher, as his first priority and found success in that. I’m sure it stung him, as it stings me. He leaves behind a body of work seen by few enough, but I doubt anyone who has seen his work has been immune to its touch.

Good bye, Graham Burmeister.