If I hadn’t admired a friend’s post last week, where he posted a fine painting of flowers, I may not have thought of writing about the painting I have sitting on my study wall. There is a history to this painting of pink roses in an old-fashioned vase (circa late 1940s), which was possibly done as a study from an image in a book, or calendar. The book may have well been a ‘how to paint’ variety, showing step by step processes. My father clearly studiously emulated the image – whatever its provenance. The sketch, painted in watercolour on a primed piece of cardboard, was admired by those who saw it, including myself and siblings. I was a teen when my father died, and any art of his carries special meaning.

The painting came to me some years ago, looking somewhat forlorn and un-framed. I had an artist friend frame it for me in the early 1980’s, but over time it looked very shabby indeed, with mould and rust spots attacking the matt and the painting. The metal frame, which had been in vogue at the time also looked seriously dated. (Acid-free matts and backing only came into regular use and acceptance later in the decade, and nowadays it is almost unknown to use anything else).

So, after moving house and shifting paintings from storage some time later, I came across this painting of my father’s and almost cried. Luckily I had just started part-time work at a picture framers and learned of an art restorer who lived nearby. She took the sorry-looking rust-marked painting away, telling me she thought it could be restored okay. I was worried that the paint colour would be affected by the process, as I believe some kind of bleach is used to remove the stains. It was never going to look as new, but it came close to looking perfect to me. I chose the double matt and frame myself, plus the UV protective glass. And although I can see some small spots of rust it has survived on my wall very well.

P.S. My father grew up in an orphanage from the age of two, left aged fourteen and became the manager of a shop soon after. He was the epitome of ‘a self-made’ man, who taught himself to paint, draw and do commercial lettering. He played the banjo mandolin, sang, danced ballroom, and ran his own travelling library service to name just one of the many enterprises he tackled in his short life. I have written about him in the fictional memoir, The (Almost) True Story of a Man Called Jack.