When I was growing up in Charlottesville, my mother always seemed to be in the thrall of some more assertive older woman, one of whom was Mrs. Thomas Jefferson Randolph IV. This pretty, pleasant Nancy Randolph was an artist, or as my father insisted on calling her, an “artiste.” She painted perfectly respectable flowers, fruits, or birds on the black backgrounds of trays and cookie tins and mirror frames or the backs of antique chairs. Sometimes she painted credible but rather dull landscapes of the Blue Ridge Mountains near her home. But she also had the occasional commission for portraits—the owner of the Chevrolet dealership, say, or the retiring minister of the Methodist Church. My mother, who had about as many trays and boxes as she could possibly use (I still have two trays, a sewing box, and two chairs), asked her to paint half-length oil portraits of my two grandmothers, herself, and me. This must have been in the late 1940s.
My maternal grandmother (née Elizabeth Long) was dead, but Mrs. Randolph had at least known her a decade earlier. “Bessie” had dark hair and eyes and was considered a handsome woman. For this portrait the painter worked from her memory boosted by a photograph. My paternal grandmother (Julia Plummer) was still alive, and also said to have been a beauty in her day, but she was neurotic and reclusive. Mrs. Randolph worked from an old photograph of a much younger woman. I could never see that this resembled the thin, nervous old lady who seemed not to care much for me, her namesake and only grandchild. My mother (Elizabeth Magruder) never really sat for her portrait. Mrs. Randolph protested that she knew my mother so well, it wouldn’t be necessary. My mother is presented as younger and slimmer than photographs of the period show. She is quite pretty, wearing a red formal gown with a princess neckline and a luxurious mink stole. I never saw either one of these and don’t believe she owned them. As for my portrait, a plump, pale eight-year old girl appears, wearing her Sunday best blue dress with a lace collar and what appears to be make-up and lipstick, stiffly clutching a bunch of daffodils.
“Give these to Mrs. Randolph,” my mother had commanded, “You know she loves flowers.”
Mrs. Randolph cooed that this was such a sweet gesture. “Why thank you, honey, I’ll paint you just like that,” and she did. She asked me to sit still for a little while in her living room as she quickly sketched me in pastels.
When I first saw the finished portrait, I didn’t think that sappy little girl, all prim and proper, looked like me at all. My mother had given me a home permanent and my curly hair never lasted long. I wore glasses, but of course these were considered inappropriate the portrait of an ideal daughter. I was already a tomboy in training and this girl didn’t even look like someone I would want to play with. These portraits all respond to what my mother wished for—an ideal world, with her own handsome mother and a pretty, polite good little girl, and herself looking elegantly dressed as if about to leave for a ball. If there were any balls in Charlottesville in the late '40s, i'm sure my father wouldn't have agreed to go.
All four lifeless portraits in their gilt frames now gather dust and cobwebs in the tack room of our horse barn in Michigan. No one wants them. I can’t imagine hanging them in our small, informal house. Perhaps one of my sons would exhibit them in his garage, over the extra fridge that holds the beer, as ironic statements. The paintings wouldn’t even bring a good price on eBay, though Mrs. Randolph’s tole-style trays sell well in the local Virginia consignment shop. It seems wrong to destroy the portraits, though bonfires have been mentioned.
