Portrait of Grandmother

In my grandmother’s loungeroom hangs a large painted portrait of her.  It was painted by the son of some friend or other, wanting to practice his skills with the brush.  You would hope that such a portrait would capture her at her best; perhaps airbrush it a little.  Actually, if you look carefully, you will notice that the painter has unwittingly captured a rather critical and disapproving expression.  He, not knowing her, probably didn’t realise it wasn’t her habitual expression.  I remember, back when she was sitting for the painting, she came back talking of how she was sitting for it merely as a favour to her friend, perhaps feeling somewhat obligated.  She disapproved of the son and his artistic efforts.  Now no-one can find much fault with the artist’s technique – it’s a good painting.  She could have had a good and flattering painting, but instead her misplaced disapproval of the artist stares from the wall like an uncomfortable item of evidence. 

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After I came back from Adelaide, having had a wonderful time, I had dinner with my grandmother.  I spent the whole evening there talking with her.  She wanted to know everything about the trip.  She practically interrogated me, in fact.  When I left I felt utterly deflated. 

Now, I should preface this by saying that while I’d come back from a week’s holiday, my grandmother had had both her tenants give notice that week, and was in a rather grim mood.  Not that I had any warning about it.  The simple truth is, she spent the entire evening – all five solid hours of it – criticising everything and everyone.  And she didn’t just pour cold water on things I told her.  No, she interrogated me for the information she wanted, and then put her own savage spin on each little fact.  So that rather burst my bubble, and the opportunity to write about my trip while it was fresh was lost. 

Having gone over it in my mind, I’ve come to add a few more brushstrokes to my picture of her.  It’s not the first time she’s done this.  And it’s not the first time I’ve spent an evening vainly trying to defend everything that’s good in my life from her harsh judgement.  I got tired of being drawn into that negativity.  I got tired of trying to defend people from an utterly unjust judge.  But as for interrogation for the purposes of finding something to then shit upon, I’m not sure she’s often gone that far. 

You see the thing is, she’s usually so sweet and compassionate.  She goes into quite nauseating flights of sentimentality and raptures of fervent religious gratitude.  She does weepy speeches and prayers, and touching avowals of affection.  And yet this – what a witch!  What a bitch!  I say one is a great cook; she says he has a terrible temper and anything that doesn’t show it is fake.  I say another is a sweet woman in the middle of a painful breakup; she says she’s looking old and should settle for whomever she can still get.  A third I say has turned out to be a wonderful father; she says he looks miserable, is seriously mentally defective and is doomed to be a screw-up for the rest of his days. 

So, I’ve added some balance to the painting.  The flattering image we praise is not the honest one we know.  She’s affectionate and sentimental – and harshly critical and judgemental.  She’s a bold and prolific cook – and she turns every recipe into clumsy peasant chow.  She embraces technology – and has nothing but scorn for the efforts of those who freely buy, service and fix it for her, and try in vain to teach her the basics of it.  A few defining shadows against the nonsense of glowing blur.  She’s no saint, my grandmother.  Sometimes I suspect that those who are the most sentimental are also the most judgemental.