Now I KNOW that sounds really boastful – the truth is I am just really excited is all! Finally I see my ‘Green Family’ canvas in print. (it’s in the new Somerset Gallery incase you haven’t seen it!) It is SUCH a long time since I saw it – I sent it almost a year ago – the people at Somerset have done a fantastic job of photographing something really difficult. They haven’t written the ‘family story’ into the article, so here’s their little tale!
The Green Family lived in England in the county of Suffolk. A benevolent landowner, Arthur Samuel Green was widowed as his beloved wife Mary gave birth to their youngest daughter. The mewling was named after her mother & was said to look just like her, with eyes that danced. His wife’s death left Arthur bereft & soulless. Local folk were sure that he would loose his mind. They expected something completely out of character & thought he may go to sea or perhaps move to the city & buy a townhouse. Instead, he terminated his daughter’s tutors & absorbed himself in educating them. Mondays was the day for Latin; Literature filled Wednesdays & Fridays. Tuesdays were reserved for Geography & Botany filled the daylight hours of Thursday. As the Green children matured into sophisticated young ladies they were not interested in societal expectations. The invitations to parties & balls that bombastically invaded their serene existence were politely ignored. They had become comfortable & satisfied in their own theosophical company & sought no other. Father lamented, worried that he had influenced them too strongly in masculine pursuits & that they had suffered from limited exposure of feminine companionship Emily, his middle daughter, was an engaging young lady of 22 that loved music. She competently played the flute, harp & pianoforte & had a pleasant enough singing voice. A rather carefree waif, she could often be found in the orchard with the grounds man, barefooted with apple blossom flowers in her hair, examining the state of the crop. Long beyond marrying age, she entertained at her father’s salon parties of his political associates. A melancholy had settled on Jane. She was 6 years old when her mother died & had really never recovered. She aspired to travel the continent but was rarely found outside the voluminous library that led out to the garden on the ground floor. She read communiqués & papers belonging to Father, watching the great intrigue evolving in Florence. As Mr Brunelleschi’s dome started to take shape, she wondered at the ingenuity of man – captivated by the pictures of the wood & brick model Father had bought back for her on his last trip to London. None of this, however, was enough to lure her from the security of hearth & home. She only dreamt of travel. The garden was Mary’s lover. Her countenance was predicated by the weather & the condition of her latest botanical protégé. She imported fine varieties of bulbs from the merchants & nothing got in the way of her Horticultural Society meetings. They lived a full & satisfied life, accomplished in the arts & confident in the love of their adoring Father.