The Kettle of the Family

Sometimes I am starting to believe it has always been there, standing on a small table in a corner of our living room, but I know my father had found it on a dunghill, where it had been used to transport the excrements of the cows. The owner had told my father he could keep it, my father brought it home, my mother almost got a seizure, but days of cleaning and polishing finally revealed a beautiful copper kettle. After more than 40 years, my mother still keeps it in her home. It feels like an icon.

I finally got a chance to portray it. Last year I had hoped to do it during my holidays, but I found there was no place in the big city of Emmeloord that carries oil paint. This year I returned, bringing my own oils, and spent a few days to do the job. I do not say this easily, but I like this portrait.