I was 22 and still in school when I photographed my grandfather in his lazy boy chair, reflecting on the statue of Hebe, goddess of beauty and youth, dislodged from its wall space in their Westmoreland living room, a family heirloom ready for movers to pick up and ship to my aunt in out west. My grandparents were moving out of the house they had lived in for 50 years, to a modern apartment where they would live out their lives, for a couple more years.
Fiberglass patterned curtains, clocks with different times, Hummel figurines on the TV, a bin of magazines by the lazy boy chair accented the 50-year old patina of their household bliss.
In the background, above Hebe’s hand, hung my mother’s oil portrait of my grandfather sitting in his rose garden. I’m close to the same age as my grandfather was then, when my mother painted his portrait. I’m getting up there!