April 25, 2021

#08: My grandmother’s painting is better than anything ever posted on Instagram.

At some point in her life, my grandmother took up painting. Come to think of it, I’m not sure when she started, and I’m not exactly sure when or why she stopped. Across the 35 years I knew her, not once do I recall her wielding a brush. However, the artifacts left behind bore evidence of her passion. In all the homes my grandparents lived, her paintings proudly hung on the walls. Growing up, I always remembered seeing these paintings: a clown; a bull fighter; a bowl of fruit; and others.

A few blog posts ago, I wrote about the passing of my grandfather. Since that time, I watched my father and my aunt painstakingly sift through the remnants of his and my grandmother’s life. All that remained were artifacts stored in the apartment they spent their final years. They had to wrestle with what to keep and what to throw out, and I imagine for them, getting rid of anything was a symbolic gesture of the loss suffered. I can’t begin to imagine how hard this must have been. (When my parents moved out the house I grew up in, deciding what toys to keep and what toys to discard was traumatic enough.) My only hope is that my brother’s and I don’t have to grapple with something like this for a long, long time.

When everything was said and done, I was given one of my grandmother’s paintings: a cathedral. It currently hangs in my dining room, and I couldn’t be happier about it. Not only do I think of her upon each glance; I know that every single detail in the painting was a decision she made: the cathedral door is red because she wanted it red; the trees in the foreground are their because she thought it aesthetically pleasing; and the sky is blue because she wanted it to be that way.

I do not completely know why she made this painting, and I’m not sure I ever will. It seems like she had a passion for the art form, and over time, that passion waned. However, out of that extinguished fire birthed my grandmother a piece of immortality. See, she will never meet any of my children. However, they will come to know her through this painting. This little, sunny day cathedral will be the gateway for them to indirectly converse. This was something she made; something she touched, and it’s all I have left her. Because of that, I’m confident this painting will become a family heirloom.

When I think about it in this light, my grandmother’s painting is better than anything ever posted on Instagram.

While I completely understand the need for photo sharing apps like Instagram (and its contemporaries), it saddens me that the digital seems to be eclipsing the physical in today’s world. What will we and future generations leave behind to metaphorically talk to those who come after? (Even this blog post is fleeting in the grand scheme of things.) Will they simply remember us by our feeds? Nothing I or you have ever posted will come close to this.

I am not a luddite, so you won’t hear any arguments about canceling all future posts. However, my grandmother’s painting serves as a reminder: even with all this digital content, the physical is still important, and in the long run, the physical will matter more.

Thanks for reading.