Restoring the past?
Once there was my father who was a force of nature. He never rested nor allowed others to either. His ‘passion’ was for antiques - distressed ones in particular. I lost count of the time he came home in triumph, a rare Georgian table strapped like a hunting trophy to the top of our ancient Renault 4. Found it at the tip. He would haul it down from its perilous moorings. The table barely deserved its name. as it tottered and leaned against the car. Its remaining two legs were rotten, drawers cracked open unable to close or draw out. The surface bubbling away from lord knows what damp torture. My father was in raptures. Look at that mahogany and rosewood inlay. Look at that quality.
He would then abandon all family life to spend days in the garage. Sawing sounds and strange smells of animal glues haunted our home. Eventually a door bell would ring and one of his antique dealing friends would be on the door step. At this point my father emerged from his lair cradling an unrecognisable beauty. The table was perfectly restored. Yet it still retained the patina that spoke of all the hands it had been through before it had fallen on such hard times. My father turned new legs, found castors and stain matched the new to the old with a mastery of understanding of colour and of wood that can only be learned from experience. The dealer would turn the piece over and over , drink tea, discuss the abysmal state of business before placing it into the back of his Volvo and driving away. The next time we saw it would be at a glossy antiques fair. The table stood centre stage with Chinese blue and white vases artfully placed upon it; a quiet but happy example of woodworkers art. Saved for eternity.
When my father died, my sister and I had to clear his house. We gave his tools and wood veneers to other craftsmen and found good homes for all his possessions. Then in the kitchen I found a painting - oil on board -of a racehorse. A jobbing artist had captured the bay’s portrait. His horse blanket draped on a stand. A shaft of light illuminating the scene. It was, inevitably , in a terrible state. Whole sections of paint was lost, and yet and yet, the painting had held on. Someone had kept it, somewhere, long enough for my father to find it. He shoved it onto a shelf where it knocked about with dog food and cooking oils.
I picked it up as one of the last things we took before we closed the door on the cottage for the last time.
Once home, I too placed it on a bookshelf and forgot it. Yet it came nagging me for years. My paints of choice are watercolour. This painting was oil. In the end I thought - what have I got to lose? The horse is charming. Let’s give it a go. So I cleaned it, studied the thick brush strokes took up my oil brushes and set about using traditional oil paint and thinners. It was then professionally varnished as I could not fathom the best way to do that despite endless YouTube gurus . Saved for eternity? I don’t know about that and I can’t even claim to restoring my past either. Yet I felt connected through time via the legacy given to me by my father, holding history in our hands. Once was a little horse resting after his race, once there was an unknown painter who captured the scene. Once there was my father…
All photos by Sarah Keen - picture from private collection.