Here is a Christmas story ion New Years for you.
My old man died a few years back. When he retired at 72, it was only because his busted hip made getting to work too hard. So he set about seeing if he could paint. Broke, he used thrown out boxing cardboard, plywood, anything he could find, as a canvases, and did 18 paintings of his childhood journey, from the mountains of Transylvania, to 4 years on the run through war-torn Europe, to a new life in and orphanage in Australia. It was a hard story, yet, somehow, as was his way, he managed to make every painting positive, and life affirming. When he held an exhibition in Melb, he thought no-one would come, but Hungarians appeared from everywhere. “I had no idea there were so many…!” he gasped. He was offered good coin for the paintings but refused, despite being penniless. “No, they’re my legacy for my kids.” Two years after he passed, his estate finally sorted, me and my siblings split them – all he really had. On my pick, I went for the one of him as a boy, flying through the forest with his imaginary friend. A gypsy girl. Elena and I hid it, and this Christmas gave it to our daughter, as a present from her gone but not forgotten Nagyapa. Hungarian for Grandfather. And said the gypsy girl was her.
the Zurbos. xo