My father was simultaneously the most humble man I have even known and the proudest.
His pride was not something he shared outside to the world, but to those who were closest—who knew him best; we knew that his family, his home, his God, and the goodnesses in his life that he had worked *very* hard for were things in which he held great pride. These were his; things that no one could take from him.
Most of all, he was very proud of his family history.
Our family was about as American as it comes. And by that I mean, we have roots in Germany and Italy and England way *way* back, but the real “beginning” of our family line can be traced to a signer of the Declaration of Independence, and early lawyers and teachers in the newly formed United States. We were first generation Americans in the truest sense.
I used to love hearing my dad talk about how our family was a part of American History.
Our other famous connection to American popular culture was our pretty direct (3rd or 4th cousins?) link to the Wyeth family of American artists: NC Wyeth the illustrator; Jamie Wyeth the pop painter, and most notably Andrew Wyeth, arguably one of the greatest American painters of his generation.
Dad loved to tell that story, too.
Growing up, there were Wyeth biographies around the house. If ever there was a showing of Wyeth art anywhere close to us (close being 3ish hours to Chicago) we would go. I had a poster in my room growing up that I’m not sure I even realized was a piece of Wyeth art until I was much older. It was just sort of woven into our family story. Not a big, proud announcement, but always just sort of there as something we could internally be connected to.
Not long after my mother passed away, I moved to Washington DC. My father was older then, but not yet in failing health. (We still had some good adventures left in us!) Dad decided that our first family adventure just we two would be to drive from DC to Chadd’s Ford, Pennsylvania to the museum that housed the Wyeth art; that was the home of the family. He had said that being so close, he just felt compelled to go there.
I remember the trip so vividly.
We visited the museum and the artists’ studios and toured the landscapes that were made famous by Wyeth’s art. My father was transfixed. It was very easy to see that my father felt a genuine connection to these long-distance family members, their art and their stories. And every once in a while, in hushed tones, with my father’s familiar little smile and his raised-eyebrow side-eyes, you’d hear him tell a passing stranger, “You know, I’m his cousin.”
It became a memory and a trip that dad and I held dear to us, not just because it was the first thing that we did JUST us (Mom would have loved it, too), but because it connected us. Us to each other. And us to our family history.
I was driving down the highway not long ago, and I saw a billboard for an Andrew Wyeth retrospective art showing for the anniversary of his 100th birthday. It was going to be held at that same museum on their homestead. I now only lived about an hour away.
Clearly, I had to go.
I took a day off of work and packed up my car for the pilgrimage. And that’s truly what it felt like—a meaningful, almost religious journey to a place that I felt compelled to go; drawn to visit. I didn’t merely *want* to go. I had to go there.
When I pulled into the parking lot, this incredible wave of the familiar came crashing over me, followed by a sense of such blissful peace and the knowledge that this was absolutely the place I was supposed to be in that moment.
The art was incredible, yet comfortable. Familiar. I don’t think there’s anything that I hadn’t seen before in one of his books or other showings I had been to. But I felt like I was looking at it all with different eyes. Not my eyes; my families’ eyes.
The death of Andrew’s father NC was tragic and sudden and left Andrew a different man at a young age. It is said that it changed his art, his outlook on life, and the way he thought from that day forward.
I get it.
One of his greatest regrets was that he never had the chance to paint his father’s portrait and that all that remains is a quick pencil sketch of his father. His father; our cousin; to whom my father bears a striking resemblance. I stood and stared at those quick pencil lines for so, so long. Without knowing it, I feel like this picture was what I had come there that day to see. My father and the Wyeth family woven together. Andrew mourning the loss of his father, as I still sometimes mourn the loss of mine.
Turns out, I hadn't come for Andrew Wyeth after all. I had come for my dad. Like laying flowers on a grave. To pay tribute. To reconnect with that part of my family. Peaceful reflection and gratitude and reverie.
I needed that connection and that time to mourn in ways that I didn’t even realize, and that I am so incredibly grateful for.
Before leaving, I took a seat next to the docent station to gather my thoughts and the books I had purchased in the gift shop.
“Quite an amazing family of artists here, isn’t it?” mused the docent.
“It is quite a family.” I replied. And then, almost as an afterthought, I smiled a familiar, sly smile. I raised my eyebrows. I gave a slight side eye. “You know, they’re my cousins.”
Our family was about as American as it comes. And by that I mean, we have roots in Germany and Italy and England way *way* back, but the real “beginning” of our family line can be traced to a signer of the Declaration of Independence, and early lawyers and teachers in the newly formed United States. We were first generation Americans in the truest sense.
I used to love hearing my dad talk about how our family was a part of American History.
Our other famous connection to American popular culture was our pretty direct (3rd or 4th cousins?) link to the Wyeth family of American artists: NC Wyeth the illustrator; Jamie Wyeth the pop painter, and most notably Andrew Wyeth, arguably one of the greatest American painters of his generation.
Dad loved to tell that story, too.
Growing up, there were Wyeth biographies around the house. If ever there was a showing of Wyeth art anywhere close to us (close being 3ish hours to Chicago) we would go. I had a poster in my room growing up that I’m not sure I even realized was a piece of Wyeth art until I was much older. It was just sort of woven into our family story. Not a big, proud announcement, but always just sort of there as something we could internally be connected to.
Not long after my mother passed away, I moved to Washington DC. My father was older then, but not yet in failing health. (We still had some good adventures left in us!) Dad decided that our first family adventure just we two would be to drive from DC to Chadd’s Ford, Pennsylvania to the museum that housed the Wyeth art; that was the home of the family. He had said that being so close, he just felt compelled to go there.
I remember the trip so vividly.
We visited the museum and the artists’ studios and toured the landscapes that were made famous by Wyeth’s art. My father was transfixed. It was very easy to see that my father felt a genuine connection to these long-distance family members, their art and their stories. And every once in a while, in hushed tones, with my father’s familiar little smile and his raised-eyebrow side-eyes, you’d hear him tell a passing stranger, “You know, I’m his cousin.”
It became a memory and a trip that dad and I held dear to us, not just because it was the first thing that we did JUST us (Mom would have loved it, too), but because it connected us. Us to each other. And us to our family history.
I was driving down the highway not long ago, and I saw a billboard for an Andrew Wyeth retrospective art showing for the anniversary of his 100th birthday. It was going to be held at that same museum on their homestead. I now only lived about an hour away.
Clearly, I had to go.
I took a day off of work and packed up my car for the pilgrimage. And that’s truly what it felt like—a meaningful, almost religious journey to a place that I felt compelled to go; drawn to visit. I didn’t merely *want* to go. I had to go there.
When I pulled into the parking lot, this incredible wave of the familiar came crashing over me, followed by a sense of such blissful peace and the knowledge that this was absolutely the place I was supposed to be in that moment.
The art was incredible, yet comfortable. Familiar. I don’t think there’s anything that I hadn’t seen before in one of his books or other showings I had been to. But I felt like I was looking at it all with different eyes. Not my eyes; my families’ eyes.
The death of Andrew’s father NC was tragic and sudden and left Andrew a different man at a young age. It is said that it changed his art, his outlook on life, and the way he thought from that day forward.
I get it.
One of his greatest regrets was that he never had the chance to paint his father’s portrait and that all that remains is a quick pencil sketch of his father. His father; our cousin; to whom my father bears a striking resemblance. I stood and stared at those quick pencil lines for so, so long. Without knowing it, I feel like this picture was what I had come there that day to see. My father and the Wyeth family woven together. Andrew mourning the loss of his father, as I still sometimes mourn the loss of mine.
Turns out, I hadn't come for Andrew Wyeth after all. I had come for my dad. Like laying flowers on a grave. To pay tribute. To reconnect with that part of my family. Peaceful reflection and gratitude and reverie.
I needed that connection and that time to mourn in ways that I didn’t even realize, and that I am so incredibly grateful for.
Before leaving, I took a seat next to the docent station to gather my thoughts and the books I had purchased in the gift shop.
“Quite an amazing family of artists here, isn’t it?” mused the docent.
“It is quite a family.” I replied. And then, almost as an afterthought, I smiled a familiar, sly smile. I raised my eyebrows. I gave a slight side eye. “You know, they’re my cousins.”
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