A little over 3 years ago I did a painting named “Angel (for Grandma)”. I painted this after I received the news that my grandma was sick with leukemia. My family is from a small town in Norway and that is where my grandma was – very far away. I felt so helpless being here in New York City. My grandma was my last living grandparent. She lived in the house my grandfather built at the end of the road surrounded by forest. Along with my two sisters and my three cousins we spent much of our childhood in her flowery wall papered kitchen begging for a piece of dark chocolate. She always had some in the kitchen cabinet – just out of reach. Often, as kids, we would chase each other barefoot in and out between the front porch and the backdoor leaving wet grass all around her carpets. She never yelled at us, just smiled quietly – that was all that was needed – we knew.

My grandmother was very religious and to this day we kids know our bible history remarkably well – no wonder really, after years being dragged to Sunday school. Well, I actually sort of liked it, especially when while telling stories, they stuck the little cut-out figures, men and women in long flowing garments, to the green felt board. I always was a visual person.

When my mother called and told me grandma was sick, the first thing I thought about was all the angels she had around the house. Pictures and figurines of pretty, blonde little angels with white fluffy wings and I knew I had to paint her one. Not for her really, but more for me. I had to feel I was doing something, helping her in some way. The angel I painted did not have white fluffy wings; it was rusty and cracked with torn and tattered burlap wings. To me this was an earthier, more real, more substantial angel, something I felt I could hold on to, something I needed to hold on to.

My grandmother was given only a year to live, but I am thankful she stayed with us for another two years.
After she passed I started thinking a lot about death and this has been the subject of many paintings I have made since and I am still dealing with it. I have a feeling that in order to live fully, I have to first find a way to accept that eventually there is an end to life. I am truly thankful I have the ability to be empathetic to my own feelings through painting.

Anki King

The painter’s true reality lies neither in abstraction nor in realism, but in re-conquest of his weight as a human being. - Alfred MaessierText for images: