Trainee horticulturalist (snowyfeline) wrote in mask_makers,
Trainee horticulturalist
snowyfeline
mask_makers

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Fellow Artists, take a moment.

this is for tomorrow,really. but please understand why I give you it today.
I put this in my own journal too,a cut down version, but it is perhaps a better place to put him here. He'd love to be among the creative ones, and i'd have loved him to meet you.
One day, I'm going to go to the Metropolitan Art gallery in New York, where my Grandfather used to live, and invegle myself into where they restore the paintings. He said it was one of the most fantastic places on earth.
*sigh*
It's hard not to cry, but instead to smile. I'm doing ok at the moment, but i know tomorrow will be worse. If it gets too bad, i'll ask for some time out.



Tomorrow is a sad time for me. A time of much reflection.
so, I thought I'd do him justice here, and in mask_makers today instead of tomorrow, as I can never tell how i'll be on the day.
Judging by how I am now, tomorrow i'm going to fall apart at the seams.

I bring you a minutes thought on the life of Milton J Wynne.
"I fall asleep in the full and certain hope
that my slumber shall not be broken;
And that,though I be all-forgetting,
Yet shall I not be all forgotten,
but continue that life in the thoughts and deeds
Of those I have loved.
(Samuel Butler 1835-1902)
This was the poem they put on the front of the programme at his cremation. I kept a copy safe inside my photo album, just accross from a picture of him, my mom and I on a bench at the Polo ground in Langham, near to where I used to live, in Ashwell. his smile and mine can dazzle, they really can.It was a fun day.
I took it out today, to read out at the poetry reading when we go to the neighbouring school. it'll be another way to remember him, as he knew English and art were my main loves. As he died when I was still young, he never knew my quest for other subjects, and never saw what I turned into. in some ways i'm happy, as i've made a lot of mistakes, but in others, I wish he was still around, like my other Grandparents are.
His house was full of books, and I read a good many of them. With Sandra there, and not him, it's not the same. she hasn't spoken to me since my parents split, and never really liked me anyway.
it's an empty space, and i haven't the courage to set his studio alive again. i wish i could,as it's so dead in there. it needs to be woken up, the paints used before they completely dry out, and any half finished things preserved, and not left to rot.

He was and is Milton J Wynne
his dates are 1918-2000
we said goodbye at Kettering Crematorium, 2 February 2000 11.15
so This has EVERYTHING about art.
Today is that day again. I ask you to remember Milton, as I have asked a good many of you to, every year, and it's important.
It may not be the anniversary of his death, more of his funeral. I choose to remember the funeral, because it was the day his body truly left, the day i was meant to say goodbye, but couldn't quite let go. It links it less to school too, whereas the day he died i was there,and hating it.
I remember the day he died in quite horrid detail. I think it was a Wednesday, and I was in the low end of the school, in my first two years at oakham. I’d been told my grandfather was ill, and it was only when I insisted I came home that night that my parents told me he was dead. I remember thinking that they must be playing some kind of cruel joke on me, and how sick I felt when it sank in.
He died quietly at his house, with a dear friend of his, Richard Hunter. He fell asleep whilst talking like he sometimes did in his last years, and never woke up again.It's a bummer for the family, but was good for him. I don't think I could have bore it, if he'd felt pain. he didn't deserve it.
Milton, if I’m truthful, is one of the few men I’ve actually –loved-. in fact, there are only two or three people who have ever caught my attention,my eyes, my mind.
My words will never do him justice, as I can’t remember the full scale of the wonderful things he did. I'm also not a writer, my brain being linked in a crazy roundabout way to everything else. My writing hits the page like many myriad splatters of brightly coloured paint, which is hard to get into semblance of order.However, I can give you a brief overview of his life before me, and when I was there.
He invented and created toys, owned a factory. Some of the older ones among you may remember ‘the potty people’. He invented those. I’m also proud of him for inventing Micro chips – yes, that was him too, though he was beaten to the patent.I hate Mc Cain for that, as he deserved the thunder.
He was a great chef, and my love of food has come from him. Where others criticised, he encouraged. At the age of seven and eight, I remember helping him out in the kitchen, or talking with him as I sat on the side. Warm Pastrami sandwiches with a gherkin cut into quarters lengthways beside it, will always bring back memories of sitting in one of the swivelling chairs around the big round table in the dining room at his house.
I used to raid the fridge at night, too, to have private feasts of gherkin,as i lay in bed and read books and I’m still in love with the flavour of them, to this day.I can eat a jarfull at a sitting.
One day too, i'll ask my dad if he can remember any of the recipes that featured so prominently in the Wynne household, and try to cook something else to make me remember.Those mushroom starters that he created were devine. i've only had them once, since.
Art too, was very very much his forte. I’m a lucky person to have had him there during my childhood. He always encouraged me to draw and create, providing paper, pencils, and books on the great artists. He himself was an Artist, and I have several of his pieces at my home. He painted me from photographs because I never could keep still. The first is me at five years old or so, in front of the bus, where I used to live. I’m wearing my old battered felt bowler hat, eating a mango and making a mess of it as ever. The second is a triptych, of me and my red satin dress finished a little while before his death. It captures the youthful cheekiness and exuberance, and reminds me how long my hair used to be. You see every brushstroke has been painted with love, wanting it to be just right. I've never ever seen the texture and feel of satin conveyed in those three small pictures anywhere else.
And finally, I have a silly painting. I’d drawn a duck, and he composed a little poem, and drawn another duck looking at mine. And he’d copied my handwriting when he signed his side of the painting, as I’d signed mine, to give to him.
He managed to keep it secret until Christmas, and it has to be one of the best presents I ever got. It was just so…personal.I love things like that, and yes, i have a mirror too, that he gave me the last birthday I had whilst he was alive. wooden dolphins, as he knew how much i love that mammal.
Even though I don’t talk with the other members of the Wynne family often, I have no quarrel with Milton. The day I came back to school after my illness, the other Wednesday, I went on a school trip to Rugby.
I was so glad that the route we took went past the cemetery where his memorial stone is. I waved and mouthed hello, both ways. It makes it better that I won’t be able to go and see him today, because I’ve been upsetting myself a lot about it recently.

So please, remember him for me. He was and is a fantastic Grandfather, a Wonderful creator, artist, chef, Father, and much more besides. I have so many memories that link me to him, and still look for him to ask him about tricky procedures in my art. FIVE whole years on, and I trail round the house looking for him. *sigh* it’s a hard time.
I found him on yahoo- for his book, just now.
I think he was allowed to hate them, being Jewish and seeing the suffering. I’m not sure many copies exist- I know that I saw one, and that it was one of the most emotive things I’ve ever read. And that- that was when he was still alive, when I was too young to really read into things.
http://www.deuceofclubs.com/books/036hatenazi.htm

Milton
Thank you for the years I had you. Thank you for the love you gave me, treating me as your own. I know to some members of the family I was an usurper, a non blood relative, but you made me feel welcome, and as if I belonged, more than anyone else.
Every time I put pen to paper to draw a picture, I can’t help but remember you. And I’m sure also, that will be there, guiding my hand as I make my first mask.
Some day, I’ll bring you your own, sit with you for a while, and catch up. Last time was too short, and I’d quite like to be alone with you for a while.
I’ve only ever loved one other male person almost as much as you,someone equally artistic and loving and full of life, but you… you will always be utmost in my heart.
I love you.
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