One of the things I really appreciate about the building Stan and I work in is that there is a lot of artwork throughout it. Sometimes when I walk down the hall, I pretend I’m in an art museum rather than at work. I think it helps keep me sane.
Some of the artwork is terrible, like the scary clown painting I’ve blogged about so many times.
Some of the artwork is beautiful, like the Charles Rhinehart works that are nearly impossible to find outside of our hallways.
Some of it is just art on the wall, which was the mindset I had about a painter named Howard Terpning. I feel like his work is mediocre at best. It is well painted, but lacks the depth I have seen in great art. That is, until I noticed this piece:
I can’t really put my finger on it, but there is just something about her. She reminds me of someone. The memory is blurred, and comes and goes in pieces so that I cannot grasp all of it at once. I only find there is a familiarity in this face. I feel a kinship with her, and I long to sit by a fire with her and listen to her tell stories of her life.
Even as I’m writing this, the thought is forming that somehow, although I can’t explain how, this woman reminds me of my grandmother. She doesn’t look like my grandmother, but then again, maybe she does. It’s in her eyes. She has the same fiery spirit, the same gentle strength, the same quiet contentment with the life she has been given. She has the look of someone that has lived long enough to have seen the world change for better and worse.
She reminds me of the kind of person I am striving to be, a woman like my grandmother, a woman that leaves that kind of legacy.