When I was a little kid I remember
that my mother used to paint. Every Wednesday she would leave me with my nana
while she went off for a few hours doing I’m not sure what. Eventually at the
young age of four I learned that she was going around Gloucester with a group
painting. My mother painted water colors of Gloucester and they amazed me. One day
I remember asking her if I could come and paint with her. There was a
hesitation in her voice, but her younger soul back then had eventually caved to
the pleading voice of my innocent youth.
We
went to a little beach over near Ten Pound island with a handful of others,
easels at the ready to paint. Of course little me with my little easel was
horrible at painting and had no idea what to even do, but painting still piqued
my interest. Every five minutes while at that little beach I remember pestering
my mother about what to do and what color to use. Later on in my life I found
out that that had annoyed the ever living daylights out of her, but I wanted to
figure out how to paint amazingly just like her. The landscapes she painted
always seemed exactly like the setting in front of her, copied with only a
brush in her hand. It was an unconceivable concept to me, but I continued to
grow and attempt to figure out how she did it.
As
I did grow I was constantly asked the question in life what I wanted to be when
I grew up. There were many options to think about. Teacher, nurse, doctor, vet,
judge, President, etc. My whole little world inside my mind thought of so many
opportunities, but never art. From what I saw from my mother it was more of a
hobby. I saw my mother bring home beautiful watercolor paintings only for them
to be stuffed in a closet or bag never to be seen again. Well, a few of them
hang in my house, along with a few other Gloucester styled paintings. The point
is that she never sold her beautiful pieces of art, and if she couldn’t how
could I?
I
haven’t attempted to sell any paintings or pictures of my own today. I did
however decide that I wanted to be an artist after years of contemplation and
since that decision of a foolish young child I have refused to give it up. It
is hard to cling onto a dream anywhere when given the perspectives of
everywhere. The world was pretty gloomy and even the most upbeat kid could get
upset just by glancing at what lay in our futures. It wasn’t very pretty to
look at.
Everything
I saw was beautiful. Every painting in every store. Every hand crafted item, whether
it be jewelry or a stuffed animal, got my attention. The little details and
beauty of everything captivated my mind and imagination to inspire me. Reality
hit when stories came to me when not everything is beautiful. Some things just
weren’t meant to sell because that is how the world worked. I learned that from
my friends in a circle and how Gloucester and Cape Ann are known for their
landscapes and seascapes and that is what people come to buy. They think of
their Stuart Davis, their Emile Gruppe, Winslow Homer, and that Fitz Henry
Lane. There was also Theresa Berstein, Nell Blaine, Jane Peterson, Mary Blood
Mellen, Cecilia Beaux, Bessie Hoover Wessel etc. but they aren’t as well known
as the male artists anyways.
I
do not draw in the Gloucester style. I did not want to draw in the Gloucester
style nor did I ever want to be one of the few old ladies positioned across the
Cape painting the same picture over and over. Art has some many other better opportunities
I had learned. I had learned many things over the years, but there was always
something that bothered me since I was little.
Sitting
at the table during a quiet day eating lunch my mother sat in her seat at the
head of the table doing a crossword puzzle. I looked over at her and asked the
simplest question “Why have you never sold your paintings?” Her answer was
simple. My mother just saw art as a hobby as many women back in the 1800 and
1900s did. It was a nice way for her to pass the time and to get days away from
her kids when we were little. This is in opposition to the women way back when
as their kids came before their mental health, but it seemed appropriate that
my mother would do something like that. It doesn’t matter though as the only
thing that really matters is that she never went in or sold a painting. My
mother kept all of them, and although she did eventually use her creativity for
other things besides painting it was those paintings made on the Backshore,
Lanesville, Downtown, Rockport, Rocky Neck, everywhere that made art seen hobby
or not.
And
a hobby to one person is a life to another. The only difference being that
living off of art will have its obstacles, and you must ride out every wave as
if it is the crashing cobalt waves that smash into the breakwater every day.
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