There is a portrait that hangs on my parent’s living room wall, and it still haunts me to this day. As a child, I avoided even looking at the image, as I felt like the eyes were following me as I passed through the room on my way to the kitchen. The picture is of my great, great, great grandfather posing in his Union solider uniform.
My ancestor, Albert T. Sprague.
One day, I gained enough courage to ask my mother who the boy in the painting was. She explained that he was Albert T. Sprague at age 19 – it was an original charcoal drawing done by a local artist, unknown. The history of the civil war was an important topic in our house at the time – my mother had become obsessed with our family’s genealogy and traced some of our descendants back to the pre-Civil War era.
For most of my childhood, we often spent summers traveling up and down the East Coast visiting historical sights as my mother cataloged the whereabouts of our long, lost relatives. I remember my parents pointing out bullet holes and cannon balls stuck in the side of 200-hundred-year-old homes during our tours of Civil War battlegrounds. We visited countless graveyards with overgrown vegetation in which the epitaphs were washed away with time. Then, I listened to the many stories from tour guides about the terror of war and great losses of life on both the Union and Confederate sides. My most distinct memories are of Gettysburg where I personally visited at least six times in my youth between school field trips and family vacations. By age 12, I was almost qualified to give tours myself.
As a kid, I lacked the maturity to comprehend the significance of these stories from the past, but as I grew older, I was less frightened of the portrait and began to appreciate the history. My feelings about Albert transformed into compassion and sadness. I often wondered what was going through his mind, being so young, and sent off to war. This portrait was a testament of his service and could have been the last image of him; but, fortunately, not. Albert survived and was sent home in 1863 due to a persistent bouts of illness. He went onto marry my great, great, great grandmother, Alvira, and together, they had 6 children. If it wasn’t for the sacrifice of my ancestors, my life could have been much different today – I may have never been born.
This is why art matters. Whether it is used to express an emotion or capture a moment in time, we all need art in our lives. The once eerie portrait of my ancestor evolved into an appreciation for history, and the life that I have today. My interactions with Albert’s painting had an impact on why I chose to focus on portraiture in my artwork - I am drawn in by the eyes of my subject looking to find what they are feeling or thinking.
Finally, remember to support your local artists – even if it’s taking the time to like a post, buy artwork, or make a referral. We all appreciate our fans and friends.
