A few days ago I created a cryptic post called “The Shaman Legacy”. It is a bold title, I know. The idea to make a post like this was based on things that occurred in the past of my family. And since I am fond of mythologies and magic, I couldn’t stay away from teasing.
One night a few days ago I made this drawing. To be honest, I wanted to do something else, but I was very frustrated about how things were going with the painting and some other things. In midst of me being in a real grumpy state of mind an idea crystallized in my mind. I wanted to do this for a long time but somehow never did. Doing family portraits isn’t easy. Not because of expectations and the tension that it can create. Nope. Because we as artists have to get to the core of a character/person in order to create something that resembles him/her. You have a certain distance to people who aren’t family of blood or mind and soul. If it is just a fictional character – even better. But a family member. Boy, everyone in the family knows how she/he looks like. We are conditioned to recognize people from their faces, their behaviour, mimic and gesture. But on a 2D picture you just get the face. So, if there’s something “off” it feels wrong and bad. Even more so it can lead to the portrayed person being p… not so pleased. And the artist being p… not so pleased because of all of the work he/she had and the fun he/she hadn’t.
Also there was another thing bugging me. My sister wanted me to create something for the room of her Baby daughter. First thing which came to my mind was that I already love the wee one so much that I want to create something for her which was invented and thought out by someone I highly admire and consider an idol as well as teacher and friend. But you don’t do this. You don’t touch the master’s work, at least not before you are able to do it in a way to honour the master and not just doing something that looks like a bad copy, or worse, an unintentional mockery. I am, though I used to draw and create throughout my life, just a student – and will be for the rest of my life, hopefully, since I intend to never stop learning. The difference to all the times before is that I realized it and can accept it now. To be honest, I always had a very competitive personality. Which can be great, because you feel pushed and want to give your best. But the reason why you want to do it is arosen from the bad desire “to be better as someone” instead of “wanting the best I can be despite what others are doing or thinking”. It is a self-destroying behaviour, instead of friends you’re searching out and creating opponents – by will – which makes it even worse.
“If you place a thing in the center of your life
That lacks the power to nourish
It will eventually poison everything that you are
And destroy you”
(Faithless, “Liontamer”)
So meeting someone who says he isn’t competitive at all was/is very illuminating. Not that being competitive is a bad thing all of the time. Sometimes there is a “challenge” we have to take on. But then it should be about the challenge. To see if we’re able to do it. Not to humiliate or destroy others. There is another word for that. It is called “war”. And – at best – it isn’t something we do voluntarily. Not that every war is for nothing. Sometimes the balance in the world needs to be restored, as Tolkien once said. Nonetheless it’s never a beautiful thing, to be very euphemistic here.
But to come back to the essence, what I wanted to say: We are students for the all of our lives, we never can and should stop learning. We meet different masters, which intentionally or unintentionally create different tasks and provide different meanings in our lives. The only thing we have to do is to realize is where our place in life is. I am no master, maybe never will be. But that’s not my goal anyway. So, very long story short: the project for my sister had to wait as well.
Where was I? Right, the portrayal of my great-grandfather. I created it two days ago, because I was so fed up with something else I was trying that I needed something that helped me to calm down and find my focus again. Words of a wise person help. Art does, too. I had both and am very grateful, because I know that both doesn’t come naturally and couldn’t be taken as granted.
I showed the drawing to my dad yesterday. He immediately knew who it was, which is a good thing. Nothing worse than drawing a family member and anyone is like: “Who’s that? Never seen that man.” But he recognized him, his father’s father. Anton Oberthanner, called “Grump’n Tonl” because he used to hobble. “Grump” means “to limp” in our dialect. My dad told me a few stories about him. My family, from my dad’s side, was never rich. They were farmers. And they didn’t lust for the riches either. Some of them were like Hobbits, enjoyed the simple life – like my great-grandfather did. He was the village’s barber, he also was a trained butcher and meat inspector. And he was a kind of healer for animals – and people. Of course, he hadn’t studied medicine, since his family was poor. But he knew a lot about herbs and the powers of nature. And he was able to see and detect problems within all living things. People, who didn’t have enough money to pay a doctor went to see him. Of course he never charged them. He didn’t believe in gaining riches. He wanted to help. People usually gave him something to eat or drink or kind words in return for his help. The latter he preferred. He was a very funny guy, always with this mysterious smirk placed on his edged face – at least that what my older family members always told me. He loved live. He loved animals. He loved herbs and plants. And he loved people. He was always someone who’d chat with people about everything. When there was a celebration in the village (usually some feast days of the catholic church) he used to get the men spruced up for the party. He shaved them, washed and cut their hair. The preparation for it he celebrated like a ritual. He used to sharpen the knives on a piece of rough leather. His gestures while doing so where dramatically and sometimes he even sung a song. It had something magical about it. Of course, he did it for the show. He was like that. But don’t mistake him for a melodramatic fool. No. His bright blue eyes were mirroring his knowledge and understanding of the things going in the macro-cosmos that is our world and the micro-cosmos that was everyday life in our village. When someone was in need he didn’t refuse help. If it was in the midst of the night – no questions were asked. He grew herbs in his garden or took walks into the woods and grasslands around our village to find them. When a cow birthed a calf, he was there. When a woman gave birth to a kid, he was there. When an animal was suffering from an open sore, he provided a self-made ointment. When a person had terrible pain in their throat he prepared a special tea. If he could help in any way, he did. By providing medicine, a nice haircut or a nice little chat. He knew what people/animals/plants needed in any given moment. That’s why my dad calls him “The Shaman”. Tony was a person who knew. According to some family members he was a little bit of a visionary, too. He f.e. felt that a dangerous mudslide was coming down from the mountains. My granddad was the same – a trained butcher master and meat inspector, a person who was there for people in need, though he was a serious guy since WWII hardened him. It is something that runs in the family. At least that’s what my dad says. The Shaman Legacy.