Portrait of my grandfather
When I first started painting the portrait of my grandfather a whole year had already passed since he had died. My father insisted that I do a portrait of him and the two things were very important : that I do it right and that I do it. Back then I remember my grandmother used to bring me, after she heard that I had finally decided to paint him, pictures of my grandfather in which he either looked too serious, too cheerful or too ill, but I wasn’t pleased with either one of those solutions.
The thing was, my grandfather really loved me and I guess you could say that he had always had a weak spot for me. Those are the facts; I’m not just saying it. Everybody knew it, and he never even bothered to hide that I was his favorite grandchild so he’d regularly, to my utmost lack of understanding as to why he would do such a thing, say that I was his favorite in the presence of all his other grandchildren. But, that’s the kind of a man he was; extremely opinionated, confrontational, loud, not taking other people’s opinions or feelings too much into account in the process of saying what he actually thought or felt about them. Well, at least nobody could dispute the fact he was honest and that he had always stood up for himself and for the few of those he actually cared about.
I loved him too, though I knew he was no perfect. And I guess he did indeed at times appear to be too serious, too cheerful and too ill but that isn’t how I remember him. I could have gone with the too cheerful version I assume and painted a portrait of a man who was truly enthusiastic about life, the life of the party, the attention seeking hedonist. He was all that too, but that’s not all that he was. What I do remember most about him was his unquestionable love for a debate. He stood by his opinions so firmly it was practically impossible to persuade him otherwise. And let me tell you, when it came down to his principles being violated in any way, he’d happily defend what he had believed in so eagerly and vigorously without even the slightest possibility of a compromise on his part. You had to have had admired his assertiveness, especially if you were lacking it. The jack of all trades, a cunning former salesman, with the energy he had I thought my grandfather would outlive me.
He did, however, live to see his eighties, but by the time he was 81 most of his companions had already passed away and you could tell he was deeply struck by this. Not that he thought he couldn’t live up to the new times and perfectly adjust to the latest trends and skip the generation gap, but it was as if he felt that he was losing his energy too. His gradual loss of energy was the most depressing thing it could have happened to him. The lifestyle he used to lead all his life, due to his illness, just wasn’t feasible anymore. He could have chosen not to have the surgery, it has been advised to him on several occasions that it would have been better that he does not undergo even a minor operation at his age due to the high risk that was involved. But it was his choice to have it after all. He’d say that he simply cannot live his life anymore without the ability to move his arms the way he used to before. “What kind of a life is this going to be if I was to become an invalid?! “he’d shout every time someone would ask him to revise his decision.
Months before he went to hospital and had his surgery, shortly after which he died, he’d talk about his forthcoming operation to practically anyone who would listen. He had never lost his verbal skills and would go on for hours about his past, the places he had gone to, the people he knew, and about his many disputes over land and ideology with some of the friends he had lost along the way because of it and the ones he reconciled with eventually. I listened to him too, partly because he had some pretty interesting and insightful stories to tell and partly because he would tell them with such good sense of humor he wasn’t even aware of.
It was a shock to all of us when the doctors told us he isn’t going to make it after all. My father was the one who was especially hurt by his death. What it had disturbed my father the most was seeing his own father in the hospital bed where he spent the last days of his life. I still hear him sometimes say that “he looked so small in that bed.” I think that is why he insisted on me making the portrait so soon. Maybe he didn’t want to remember him by being small. That is why it was so important that I do it right.
I also came to visit him in the hospital just before he died. I went there with my sister and cousins. He didn’t talk much, just asked for water. I remembered, while I was there, which was the last time I saw him, just a couple of months before he went to get his operation done, that he asked to see me and said he wanted me to have all his land and posessions and that the two of us should go see a lawyer and “sign some papers about it” because he is “going to die soon”. My grandmother was there and she said I shouldn’t listen to him because he has gone delusional and that I don’t have the right to get what he said he wants me to have. He wasn’t delusional but she was right and I knew it would be wrong. He told her to butt out and that it was between me and him anyways. It wasn’t just between us two and I told him to keep me out of it. He always had this thing about blowing things out of proportion, but it made me smile that day, that incident I remembered.
I wasn’t with him the night he died but they told me his last words were to my father to take care of me. “She has been through a lot.”, he said. They seldom mention that now but it was the reason why it was so important I do a portrait of him.
And, eventually, I did end up finding the right picture of my grandfather and I did paint his portrait. It took me seven days to finish it. I picked out one photo of him in which he almost looks as if though he is about to say something very important in his loud, distinguished voice. He was sitting in his dining room when that picture was taken and I think it was Easter at lunch a few years ago. I painted a wooden key house which I gave to him as gift for one Christmas, the first year I went to college. I knew he kept millions of keys around the house so I thought he’d put the key house into a good use. He was always reluctant to change anything about the interior of his house but ever since I got him that house to keep his keys in, he never took it off the wall. You couldn’t see it in the photo because the camera didn’t catch it. But it was there. He cried when I gave it to him. So I added the key house into the painting.Thought it might be a nice touch.
Portret mog djeda
Kad sam tek počela slikati portret svoga djeda prošla je bila gotovo već cijela jedna godina otkako je umro. Moj otac je inzistirao da naslikam njegov portret i pri tom su dvije stvari bile jako važne: da to uradim kako treba i da to uradim ja. Sjećam se da mi je u to vrijeme baba, kad je čula kako sam napokon odlučila da ga naslikam, donosila fotografije djeda na kojima je izgledao ili preozbiljno, preveseo ili previše boležljivo, međutim, ja nisam bila zadovoljna nijednom od tih varijanti.
Stvar je bila u tome da me je moj djed zaista volio i moglo bi se čak i reći da je oduvijek bio nekako slab na mene. Ovo su činjenice,i ne govorim to tek tako. Svi su za to znali, a i on se zapravo nikada nije ni trudio sakriti da sam mu najdraže unuče tako da bi redovito znao, bez da sam ja ikada razumjela zašto, u prisustvu sve njegove ostale unučadi naglas izjavljivati da sam mu draža od ostalih. Ali, takav je uvijek bio čovjek; dogmatičan do bola, sklon sukobima, glasan, nemaran prema tuđim mišljenjima i osjećajima kada bi se izjašnjavao o tome što on zapravo misli ili osjeća. No, bar nitko nije mogao osporiti činjenicu da je bio iskren te da se uvijek znao izboriti za sebe te za malo onih do kojih mu je zaista bilo stalo.
A i ja sam njega voljela, iako sam znala da nije savršen. I valjda jest, s vremena na vrijeme, zaista i izgledao preozbiljno, preveseo i previše boležljivo, međutim, ja ga takvog ne pamtim. I mogla sam, vjerojatno, odabrati tu pretjerano veselu verziju i naslikati entuzijastična čovjeka, srce zabave, hedonistu željnog pažnje. I vjerojatno ne bi puno pogriješila, bio je on sve to, no nije sve što je bio. Ono po čemu ga ja najviše pamtim definitivno je bila ta njegova neprikosnovena ljubav prema raspravljanju. Za svoja uvjerenja zalagao se i držao ih se tako čvrsto da ga je praktički bilo nemoguće uvjeriti u išta suprotno.Kada bi se dirnulo u njegove principe na bilo koji način, tad ga je trebalo ga je vidjeti na djelu. Tako spremno i tako srčano bi branio svoja uvjerenja bez ikakve naznake i mogućnosti kompromisa s njegove strane. Da ste ga znali, morali biste ste se diviti tom njegovom samouvjerenom i izravnom stavu, osobito ako ga vi niste posjedovali. Univerzalni sveznalica, lukavi bivši trgovac, s energijom kakvu je imao bila sam potpuno uvjerena da će me moj vlastiti djed nadživjeti.
I jest, ruku na srce, doživio svoje osamdesete, ali kad mu je nastala neka osamdeset i prva, većina njegovih drugova već je bila preminula, i vidjelo se da ga ta činjenica duboko potresa. Problem nije bio u tome da je moj djed ikada smatrao kako se ne bi mogao nositi s nadolazećim vremenima ili se savršeno prilagoditi najnovijim trendovima i jednostavno preskočiti generacijski jaz , problem je bio u tome što je i on sam počeo osjećati kako i on sam polako gubi vlastitu životnu energiju. Taj postupni gubitak energije za njega je bio najdepresivniji poraz koji ga je moglo zadesiti. Životni tempo koji je vodio cijelog svog života, zbog bolesti, jednostavno više nije bio održiv. Mogao je odabrati da ne ode na operaciju, u više navrata mu je savjetovano da bi, u njegovim godinama, bilo kakav, čak i najmanji zahvat bio u najmanju ruku visoko rizičan te vrlo vjerojatno i poguban. Svejedno, nakon svega, on je izabrao. Obično bi govorio kako on više ne može živjeti a da ne može pomicati rukama onako kako je to mogao prije. „Kakav će mi to bit život ako postanem invalid?!“ derao se svaki put kada bi ga netko probao nagovoriti da preispita svoju odluku.
Mjesecima prije nego što je otišao na operaciju, netom poslje koje je i umro, običavo bi pričati o svom nadolazećem odlasku u bolnicu gotovo svakome tko bi ga iole slušao. Sposobnost držanja dugih govora nikad nije izgubio te bi znao pričati satima o prošlosti, mjestima koja je posjetio, ljudima koje je poznavao a i o mnogim sporovima oko zemlje i ideologije s prijateljima koje je, vremenom, djelom i zbog toga, izgubio, a i s onima s kojima se uspješno, opet, vremenom, napokon pomirio. I ja sam ga znala slušati dok bi govorio, jednim djelom zato jer bi pričao interesantno i pronicljivo a drugim zato jer je uvijek prepričavao te svoje anegdote s tako jakom dozom samo njemu svojstvenog dobrog smisla za humor kojeg ni svjestan nije bio.
Svima nam je bio šok kad su doktori rekli da ipak neće preživjeti. Smrt mog djeda najviše je pogodila moga oca. Ono što je najviše uznemirilo tatu bilo je vidjeti svog vlastitog oca u bolničkom krevetu gdje je proveo posljednje dane života. Još ga ponekad čujem kako kaže da je „izgledao tako maleno u tom krevetu“. Mislim da je to bio njegov razlog zašto je tako rano htio i zašto je toliko inzistirao da naslikam djedov portret. Možda ga se nije htio sjećati tako malenog. I zato je bilo jako bitno da to napravim kako treba.
I ja sam ga otišla posjetiti u bolnicu malo prije nego je umro. Bila sam sa sestrom i rođacima. Nije puno pričao, tražio je samo čašu vode. Sjetila sam se, dok sam bila tamo s njim i vidjela ga zadnji put, kako je, nekoliko mjeseci prije toga, tražio da me vidi i rekao mi kako želi da ja dobijem svu njegovu zemlju i sve što posjeduje, te da bi on i ja skupa trebali otići kod odvjetnika da „potpišemo neke papire vezane za to“ jer će on „brzo umrijeti“. I baba je bila s nama kad mi je to predložio i sjećam se da mi je rekla da ga prestanem slušati jer mu se počelo priviđati, da je poludio i da ja nemam pravo dobiti to što je rekao da želi da dobijem. Nije bio lud ali je ona bila u pravu i znala sam da to ne bi bilo u redu. On joj je na sve to odvratio da se prestane miješati, da je to uostalom naša stvar, između mene i njega. Nije bila samo naša stvar i nije bilo samo između mene i njega i rekla sam mu da me više ne petlja u takve stvari. Često je on znao tako prenapuhati stvari, ali me ipak nasmijalo, taj incident kojeg sam se prisjetila, dok smo bili tu, zadnji put.
Nisam bila s njim tu noć kad je umro ali su mi rekli da su mu zadnje riječi bile upućene mom tati, da me čuva. „Puno je se ona napatila“, rekao je. Rijetko to danas spomenu ali znam da je to bio razlog zašto je bilo jako važno da njegov portret naslikam ja.
I, jesam na kraju našla odgovarajuću fotografiju svog djeda i jesam naslikala njegov portret. Trebalo mi je sedam dana da ga dovršim. Izabrala sam jednu fotografiju na kojoj izgleda skoro kao da se sprema izgovoriti nešto jako važno, svojim glasnim, izražajnim tonom. Sjedio je u dnevnoj sobi kad je ta fotografija nastala i mislim da je bilo za Uskršnji ručak, nekoliko godina ranije. Naslikala sam i drvenu kućicu za ključeve koju sam mu poklonila za jedan Božić, prve godine kad sam pošla na fakultet. Znala sam da po kući uvijek drži milijune nekakvih ključeva tako da sam znala da će mu ta kućica dobro doći. Uvijek je odbijao da promijeni bilo što vezano za interijer svoje kuće ali otkako sam mu dala tu kućicu za ključeve, nikada je nije skinuo sa zida. Na fotografiji se ni ne vidi jer je fotoaparat nije uhvatio. Ali je bila tu. Plakao je kad sam mu je dala. Pa sam je dodala u sliku. Pomislih kako bi mogla biti jedan lijepi detalj.
Astonishing work, thanks for sharing Nonoy Manga
Thank you :)
beautiful portrait
Lovely portrait, lovely story…a sensitive tribute to what seems to be a complex man. He apparently placed his favoritism well.
thank you very much for reading it, I really appreciate it. And yes, he was above all a complex man indeed :)
Pingback: Am I Not Good Enough Or Am I Not Good Enough? « six glasses of water