I was 22 and still in college when I photographed my grandfather in his lazy boy chair, reflecting on the statue of Hebe, goddess of beauty and youth, as it had been dislodged from its wall space in their Westmoreland living room, a family heirloom ready for movers to pack up and ship to Oregon, to my aunt. My grandparents were moving out of their home of 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 old home’s patina.
In the background, above the Hummel figurine, 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.