Many artists have to carve our their career path in families where no one understands their creative urge. Not so for me.
The most objectively successful person in my family was an artist
...my grandfather, children's book illustrator, Garth Williams.
My parents' wedding invitation, illustrated by Garth Williams.
Detail of my parents' wedding invitation — Garth Williams self portrait, sleeping under a tree.
We didn't see each other often.
My family lived in Europe. International travel has become so commonplace and we're able to communicate so effortlessly and cheaply these days that it's easy to forget that up until twenty-some years ago we were limited to letters and the occasional expensive long-distance phone call.
His wife Leticia, Garth, me and my father in the garden of Swiss friends. (The striped shutters indicate that the house is a manse.)
Garth visited us several times while we lived in France, when I was between the ages of 3 and 6. I remember taking a sight-seeing boat ride with him on the Seine river in Paris. He gave me a pretty Japanese printed glassine envelope that contained small pellets of compressed paper that opened into brightly colored flowers when dropped into a glass of water. They were magical.
We took an epic trip to North America.
The summer that I was ten, my parents and brother and I spent a month visiting my mother's family in North America. We visited relatives in California, Quebec and New York.
There was a family gathering in Rhode Island, with all of Garth's daughters from his different marriages present.
Garth with all five of his daughters in 1981 — back row: my mother Fiona and aunt Bettina; front row: my aunts Estyn (yes, there are two of us in the family), Dilys and Jessica, who is the artist and jewelry designer I came to work with two decades later.
And we spent time with Garth and extended family at his home in Guanajuato, Mexico.
Garth with my aunt Dilys and me.
While we were there, we took a trip to the pacific coast together. We drove, taking two days and stopping overnight in Guadelajara. I remember Grandpapa Garth keeping my brother (also called Garth) and me company in the hotel restaurant and introducing us to club sandwiches.
We drove in two cars — Garth, Leticia and Dilys in one, my parents, brother and myself in the second. At some point, out of boredom, we switched and I rode with Leticia and Garth. I remember jungle-coverd volcanic mountains passing by as we played the Bee Gees on the 8-track.
With my father and brother, Club Maeva, Mexico, 1981
We spent a luxurious few days on the beach and in the pool, sipping fruit juice from coconuts. I tried to be helpful by carrying things for Leticia. Everyone made sure "little Garth" didn't get sunburned.
Somewhere I have a sketched caricature that Garth drew of all of us in the swimming pool, Leticia lounging at the edge.
I didn't get back to Mexico until 1994.
The year that I moved to the United States, my mother and I flew down to see Garth. He was beginning to lose his memory and was no longer illustrating, but he was surrounded by family and love and he continued to be silly and playful.
Goofing around with Garth at dinner, Guanajuato, Mexico, 1994
Garth and Leticia took us to explore San Miguel de Allende for a few days, and we stopped for lunch at some hot springs on our drive there.
Garth autographing my copy of The Little Fur Family and making silly faces.
That was the last time I spent time with Garth; he died a couple of years later, in 1996.
His legacy surrounds me.
Both in this artist's life I've chosen to live and when I'm out in the world. I encounter his illustrations everywhere — in bookstores and thrift shops and friends' homes. The drawing style is so familiar to me that it's almost like seeing a familiar face.
More next month...
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