Men I Have Painted

I collect sentences as I collected sticks and feathers when I was a boy, and then I forget them when night-time comes.

How much of pain can be attributed to its original cause, and how much to the fear it will grow worse, and maybe not end?

If I’m still alive at suppertime, I think I’ll set the table with the yellow dishes my parents often used when I was growing up. We’re already using the same old forks, knives, and spoons.

We humans can get used to anything, even regular meals.

Mean what you say and say what you mean. When you do, you’ll say less and mean more.

Beauty comes from use. Don’t wait for a special day. Every day is special. Don’t forget to use your body, too.

Leafed through an old book published in 1921, Men I Have Painted, by John McLure Hamilton, purchased in 2018 at the St. Vincent de Paul store in Salem, Oregon. It’s a rugged book, with very thick, somewhat mottled pages, and a not-overpowering smell that reminds me of one of our old farm neighbor’s egg room. The volume, published by T. Fisher Unwin Ltd, at Adelphi Terrace in London, contains forty-eight portraits. The writing is quite engaging. The first entry is titled, “My Father.”

A poor doctor, art lover, and avid book-collector,

He was a strange man, very impressionable, with prejudices — but his prejudices were confined to Art and Literature, never directed against people. Rachel, the great tragédienne, once visited Philadelphia, appearing at Walnut Street Theatre. My father found her acting so perfect that he never went to the theatre again, for fear that the impression he had received might be effaced.

Hamilton painted many notables of the age — writers, artists, doctors, kings, statesmen, and religious figures. He was born in Philadelphia in 1853, and died in 1936.

October 1, 2023.

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