Granny

I'm thinking about Archibald Motley's Portrait of My Grandmother at the National Gallery of Art in Washington D.C.

I’m celebrating Independence Day in July by introducing you to some great American paintings at the National Gallery in Washington D.C.

Today, let’s look at Archibald Motley’s Portrait of My Grandmother from 1922.

Just like this grandma, this portrait is no fuss. A simple background frames the 80 year-old sitter in neutral colors, a spot of red on the pinned brooch. Grandmother is not posed, but rather sits directly in front of us with an unblinking gaze. The hands are placed at the edge of the foreground, distorted slightly to look extra long.

Archibald Motley enjoyed fame for his paintings of the Jazz Age; as an African-American artist, Motley recreated the buzzing nighttime scenes in the black communities of Chicago and New York. This painting, Portrait of My Grandmother, was completed in an earlier phase of Motley’s career, just after finishing his art education at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. Motley painted a faithful portrait here, but also used his subject’s body to tell her story: gnarled hands tell of the decades of hard labor. Grandmother’s stare does not suffer fools. Her wrinkled forehead, heavy eyelids, set mouth also speak to one who has carried sorrow and loss, perhaps for the entire family. And yet, her ramrod straight posture is one of dignity. This women has loved and lost—and this woman has survived!

Archibald Motley’s grandmother, Emily Sims Motley, was born into slavery in Kentucky. She moved to the south side of Chicago in the Great Migration at the turn of the 20th century. Emily lived the rest of her life in an intergenerational home, her bedroom next to Motley’s painting studio in their shared row house. Art Historians speculate on the intentional shadow behind Emily—it is a reasonable detail to include, but is the shadow a lingering presence of the enslaved life that Emily tried to leave behind? This individual, with her life so directly tied to slavery, helps us see a face to the institution of slavery and our nation’s fraught past. This grandma, with apron tied and brooch fastened, is a grandma relatable to all, but the shadow and pained eyes reflects unique hurts from the past that come from a shared, troubled history.

Cultural Riches: How this painting makes us rich

Are there any better American treasures than our grandmothers? What could be better than running into grandma’s house, with it’s special grandma smell, the old-fashioned toys in the basement, the mysterious jars of fruit in the mysterious fruit room, and the roast coming out of the oven? To get a hug from a wise lady, whose love is available in spades!

I hear about older women feeling invisible in public life—maybe there is something there. But in my mind, I can’t imagine more powerful and influential people in my younger years than the monumental grandmothers! They are the kinkeepers of our clans. They make the magic, they do the hard work of gathering, connecting, and tradition-keeping, and in my formative early adulthood, they were the cheerleaders; always listening, always encouraging, never judging.

I invite all of you to hug your grandmas who are still with us, and for those, like me, whose grandmas have shed their physical frames, I invite you to welcome them into your hearts—talk about them, send love to them, honor them. They will always be cheering for you!