My Grandma Gearhart
My grandmother, Lenore Gearhart, passed away nearly two weeks ago. Losing a dear family member is a supremely difficult emotion to endure, but I am buoyed by the fact that dad’s mother lived a wonderful and full life of 96 years.
This weekend, I’m flying to her funeral in Vacaville, CA, fitting the trip between two wedding shoots on the same weekend. Funerals, meant for the living, are odd and uncomfortable to me, but I’m sure I’m not the only one. Their unspoken purpose to unite families by sharing in a celebration of the person, much like a wedding can do, is noble and worth every moment.
Before it was clear that I wouldn’t be booked on the funeral date, I prepped a portrait of my grandma to be printed and sent to my parents for framing, so that it could be displayed. I have admittedly few photographs of my grandma that I deem frame-able (a tough admission for a photographer) . But one is enough.
With Grandma protesting the whole time, I made this portrait of her in my parents’ backyard on a gorgeous day in 2003. She was worried about her clothes, her makeup, her wrinkles. I fussed with her collar and her necklace, and worried whether I could make the same trivial jokes that I make with high school seniors and newlyweds for a smile. In the back of my mind was the faint idea that the image could be important to me, and perhaps my family, one day.
When I pulled it from the archives last week, I discovered something I’d forgotten — I’d made it on film! So I cleaned a few squeegee scratches and dust particles (something I hadn’t done to any photo in a few years) and marveled at how lovely and beautiful she is – just the way I’ll always know her to be.
A few images from my Grandma’s past, courtesy of my cousin Debbie, showed me how others have known her.
Her high school senior portrait from 1931 was splattered with something at some point, but I kind of like the fact that life and time can affect art. The weathering and eventual breakdown of old prints just add to a life story, rather than detract from it. I know, I know … I cleaned the scratches from my own image of Grandma. But even that resulting print, fresh as it is now, will hopefully age with the same grace.
She wrote a message on a hand-painted portrait given to my grandpa (also named Russell) on their 20th anniversary.
This is my grandpa, grandma, and my dad, Larry, in that overgrown coat on Rio Verde Street in San Francisco. I’ll have to ask my dad what the dog’s name is. My dad has talked of climbing the fence of the nearby Cow Palace. I’ll have to ask him to repeat those great stories as well over the weekend.
May we all be so lucky to live a full and blessed life.
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