Sally Muzzy

Above: My grandfather Donald, my grandmother Sally, and my mum Molly.

My grandmother was a painter who could make marionettes and reupholster furniture. She gave me my first sewing machine, my first set of watercolors. She tried to teach me how to crochet. No dice.  And made me a beautiful embroidered pillowcase covered in fairies with a pocket for my lost teef.

She painted portraits of my brother, and sister. All of the art on our walls were gifts from her. She never explained their importance, or who the artists were. I remember squinting at the signature above the frame and making up my own names. I didn’t realize until recently the beautiful reproduction of, “Market Day” above my mother’s bed was a Gauguin. I just thought the women were beautiful and kind of looked like my aunts from Philly.

I wanted to be that pretty.

I was five, with bad eczema on my ankles, and couldn’t stop itching. So she’d stuff crayons into my hands to keep me from scratching.  I remember that she would stand over me until I started to draw. I’d usually chuck them across the room and keep itching.

I don’t remember any praise – whether what I made was bad or good. I just remember once the paper in front of me was full – there’d be an empty one waiting…

Sometimes I wonder where my artistic gene comes from and I forget about my grandmother who passed away when I was in the 9th grade. But she never talked about being an artist. About being passionate about it, or what it meant to her. All I remember is her trying to teach me everything she knew how to do…

This is me. Christine Jean. 
www.christinejeanchambers.com
Photographer/Writer/ Swiss Army Knife