This morning I was cutting up t shirts to be used when I paint (oils on canvas) Some painters used paper towels, but that can leave a little debris on the canvas. These t shirts belonged to my father. I saved all his t shirts after he passed away. Today I cut up the last one, very sad indeed.
My Father is the reason I started painting as a portrait artist in the first place. I took him to his art classes every week as he could no longer drive. He so enjoyed those classes, the teacher, the other students (he was the only male in the class) I wanted to try my brush at painting as well, but he would not have it. I worked as his “assistant” so to speak for a couple of years, mostly mixing his paints, preparing the canvas, doing the difficult bits. As his health started to fade, I found myself helping out more and more. At a certain point he insisted that I put my signature below his. Toward the end he was falling asleep in the chair, brush in hand. When he woke up he would shove the brush towards me and say, “here, you do it!”
This is how my painting life began. I suppose I have my father to thank for my path that lead to painting portraits. It was comforting to know I had a little piece of father with me when I was painting, sentimental that. From now on I will buy my used, white t shirts at the thrift store. Oh dear.
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