Starting Point

My earliest ancestor in North America was Edward Colborne who sailed to the New World from England with his brother Robert on the ship Endeavor in 1635. He landed in Boston and settled in Ipswich, Massachusetts, taking a job as a farmer for the wealthy Saltonstall family. 

I was excited to find that this beautiful house, known as the Whipple House, was a former home of Nathaniel Saltonstall. Drawing this beautiful “First Period” colonial home, I imagined my immigrant ancestor as a probable visitor here (no house of Edward Colborne remains). 

Too bad I was wrong. Further research revealed that this house was built in 1677, after Edward had moved on to Dracut, Massachusetts in 1673. On top of that, this house was never a Saltonstall house at all, and it was moved here from the other side of the river in 1927. A small consolation is that the Saltonstalls did live quite close to this spot, so Edward Colborne did at least walk around here. The lesson: research twice - draw once.

Chain Links

It wasn’t long ago that I pictured my great grandparents facing the complete unknown when they came to America in the late 1800s and early 1900s. But my research has largely proved that wrong. The O’Connors and O’Keefes followed others from their families and hometowns that came before them. No doubt, what they did took great courage (more than I have), but they had connections. 

When looking at old censuses, I found other family members not just in the same cities, but sometimes on the same street. The more I dug into old documents, the more I uncovered a web of associations. Many immigrant ancestors started out by living with relatives upon arrival. Just like we see today.

When walking through the oldest Irish immigrant cemetery in Providence, I was stunned to find the small town of Cloyne, Ireland, on a tombstone from a generation before my ancestors came from there. 

Chain migration is a term used by scholars to refer to the social process by which migrants from a particular town follow others from that town to a particular destination. The destination may be in another country or in a new location within the same country. -Wikipedia

This was the home of my great grandfather’s (Daniel O’Connor) older brother, Frank. He arrived a couple of years before Daniel, and hosted him in his first apartment down the street. Frank moved here in 1902 and started his family. A renter, he moved to another place in 1905, then another in 1907, then across Boston in 1910. He, like Daniel, worked in rubber factories. His descendants probably branch out all around me now. I never knew they existed before this project.

Today, this house in Chelsea, Massachusetts, is in tough shape. It houses a couple of apartments with Hispanic names on the mailboxes. While I sat and drew, a man came by and asked if I was selling the place. I assume from his perspective I looked more like a landlord than a tenant.

Rubber and Fire

The house where my great-grandfather first lived in America is gone. It's a parking lot now, overlooking the ramshackle remains of a once booming rubber plant on the other side of the train tracks. As I drew the view from what would be the back of the house, I tried to imagine the first impression Daniel O'Connor might have of his new home, back in 1893. It certainly wouldn't be one of spacious skies and amber waves of grain. Rather, it would be one of soot, screeches and stink. 

Not everything would be unfamiliar for this immigrant, however. Daniel was a city boy from the city of Cork, Ireland and he followed his older brother Frank to Chelsea, Massachusetts - living with him and his family at first. At that time, this crowded little city across the river from Boston was swarming with Irish immigrants - as well as other new groups such as Jews from Russia. Like almost all American immigrants, my ancestors came uninvited, and they took on the least desirable jobs. For Daniel and Frank, that was working in the factory they faced, the Revere Rubber Company. They were "mixers" according to the 1900 census. Lots of men who lived on their street worked there.

Before me now is a sad shell of the showcase structure featured in an advertisement of 1918, when it was built. My relatives worked in the building that preceeded this one. My guess is that the Great Chelsea Fire of 1909 that brought the older building down. Before it was rebuilt, Daniel and his young family had started again in a another industrial city, Providence, Rhode Island, where he would work in another rubber factory for his entire life. Frank moved on to Roxbury, on the other side of Boston, and also returned to work in another rubber factory. Their children went on to be service workers rather than factory workers.

Looking Back

Drawing can be about so much more than just appearances. What we choose to draw can be about what we'd like to investigate, or wonder about. A page can hold feelings as well as ink.

Consider the new series I've started. In tandem with some genealogy I've been doing, I've dedicated myself to finding through my records, all the places that my ancestors lived. Fortunately, the houses are easy for me to find and to visit. I live not too far from where my immigrant great-grandparents settled.

This was the home in Providence, Rhode Island, of Michael and Theresa Lynch in 1905. My grandfather was nine years old at the time, and they lived in the left side of the house. The cobblestone on this street is rare for the city and it helps me to imagine what it was like back then.

What I can't imagine is how tough it was for that family. They were poor. Irish immigrant Michael would be killed in a construction accident seven years later. Theresa was left with five children under ten years old to care for. She had lost three in infancy. There were no relatives in town to help. Before long, my grandfather had left school and started working in a local factory. Then he was off to war in Europe, where he was shot in the leg and earned himself a medal of bravery. None of these things were ever discussed by him. Ever.

As I leisurely sat and drew on that spring day, I remember how taciturn my grandfather was. He was, to me, grouchy and hard to approach. He was frugal too. But, it all makes sense now. He was a surviver. He made a good life for himself, but he's long gone now.

I drove to the other addresses connected with this family, but all the houses are now gone. They weren't upgraded—they were taken down. The neighborhoods are still poor, still sheltering immigrants. Only this haggard house survives.

I can't go back and talk to my ancestors, but I can picture them a bit through drawing.

Stumbling Stones

Turning the corner, they caught my eye.  On the ground before a door in Viterbo, on a street where I've walked for years, three brass squares shined in the light.  They lay as replacements for three usual grey cobblestones. On each was engraved a name, some dates, and then “Deportato Auschwitz" and “Morto 1945.” My heart sank as I looked down and then around at this pleasant entrance to the walled city - home of the most beloved gelato shop in town. 

In 2015 the German artist Gunter Demnig came from Cologne to Viterbo to place these stones at the door at the invitation of local sponsors. Now the site and its stones are part of his ongoing Stolpersteine project - probably the world’s largest memorial. In twenty-one European countries, over 60,000 stones have been placed before the last residences of victims of WW2 percecution. In this case (as with most) three Jewish citizens were taken away only because of their religeon and were sent to the horrific Nazi concentration camp in Auschwitz where they were killed or died.

The project’s name, Stolpersteine, is well chosen. It’s a German word meaning a “stumbling stone” or something to be stumbled upon. The subtle markers are poignant reminders of the horrors of seamingly peaceful places. I find it also fitting that the stones lie coincidently on an ancient street and an old entrance to the city both named "della Verita"  - meaning, "of Truth".

Fountain Fight

The Pianoscarano neighborhood of Viterbo in Central Italy has a huge fountain that acts as a central gathering place and transit point. A gaggle of old men is ever present, sitting on one side of the piazza in the morning, and on the other in the evening—following the day’s shade. Perhaps it's always been that way, or at least since the fountain was built in 1376.

Surprisingly, a plaque on a nearby wall tells a terrible story of an even earlier fountain on the same spot. In 1367, this piazza was turned upside down when a servant of the visiting Pope Urbano V of Avignon (who was passing through the old Papal town) walked up to the old fountain and plopped his little dog in for a bath. A woman waiting in line to access the water screamed in protest—insulted by the French visitor. The locals, for whom this was their primary source of drinking water, went crazy, resulting in a riot between the residents and a number of the Pope’s men. Soon more Viterbo citizens joined the fight, as did more of the Pope’s soldiers.

When fighting finally ceased, the original protesting woman lay dead and the leaders of the neighborhood rebellion were arrested (later to be killed). The fountain that stood here was completely destroyed as punishment for the rebellion. 

In the two evenings that I drew in the piazza, I was a more welcome and polite guest. A friendly woman who recognized me from the internet (I draw in Viterbo yearly) brought me a bottle of cold water. People with dogs passed by watching and smiling. Being a student of history, I did not clean my paint brushes in the fountain.

Paradise Lost

I’ve been to Renaissance gardens before—and have found them to be overwhelmingly beautiful —amazing man-made paradises. But this year, this one, affected me differently.

In the small Central Italian town of Caprarola, everyone looks up at the enormous and elaborate Farnese Palace (Palazzo). No one looks down upon it. The scrappy town’s main street was reconfigured long ago to lead up the steep hill to the Palace’s elevated entrance. It appears that no expense or effort was spared to build this country home for a family that produced powerful Cardinals and Popes in the age of the Renaissance. The word “magnificent” comes to mind when you visit—and that's not a word I think about very much.The Palace itself is a giant pentagon, with three stories of elaborately painted rooms. In the center of the structure is an open courtyard. Classical and biblical references are everywhere. The frescoed ceilings are so mesmerizing that your neck hurts from all the gazing. And the circular staircase is a marvel of elegant design. Behind the Palace unfold the extraordinary gardens. A long and winding path leads to the most elaborate series of cascading fountains that you could imagine. Beyond the rushing waters you pass by huge river god sculptures, and then enter a wide maze of shrubbery, leading to an elegant casino which overlooks it all. The place is beyond belief. I wondered, how could I put this in a single drawing and feel that I’d captured it?

After a few false starts, I turned instead to trying to capture my other feeling of that day—one of discomfort. While all the man-made beauty was undeniably impressive, I must say, I walked around wincing, as much as wide-eyed. I’ll have to attribute that to the political times in which I live, here in the United States. Daily newscasts showcase ostentatious wealth and self aggrandizement. This climate has completely changed the way I looked at this Palace—an extraordinary exhibition of wealth, power and ego.

In the end, I settled into a shady corner of the gardens where I found a composition which could better illustrate what I was seeing and feeling—one that was hollow in the center.

Wedding Day

Most of my time drawing in Central Italy is spent in tiny, old, quiet towns - drawing alone. There is no doubt that my sketching excursions are quests for a quiet escape and a contrast from my busy life near Boston, Massachusetts.

On the Saturday afternoon of this drawing, I watched as a bar filled with locals mixed with the guests of a fancy wedding in the nearby church. Due the extreme heat, a steady stream of celebrants dipped into to the cafe for bottles of cold water. All the while, the chirping owner of the place perched at the perimeter, guarding his nest. He kept an eye on me, as well as everyone else. We spoke briefly and from then on he called me "Boston Man." He checked on me and my drawing often. Later, he offered me a bottle of homemade wine. The day wasn't as quiet as I would have liked, but it was a terrific show.

Bagpipes and Magpies

Edinburgh, Scotland is a charming city with castles, pubs and friendly people. On the first of two days that I spent there, I marched down crowded streets with all the other tourists (and there were plenty of them). But it was the second day, that I'll probably remember more fondly. That's when I set off to a quieter part of town to wander the side streets and to soak up the city through sketching.

While many busy corners of downtown Edinburgh featured the sentimental screeching of bagpipes, little Gloucester Lane and its offshoot, Gloucester Square, serenaded me differently - with the low rumbling of cars over cobblestones and the distant call of magpies from the ever-changing skies.

Stirling Views

Above the windows and doors of in Stirling, Scotland's Boy's Club (built in 1927) are mottos written in stone for all to see: "Play the Game," "Keep Smiling," and "Quarreling is Taboo." The building, seen in the middle of the drawing above is part of a gathering of charming buildings known as Old Town on the hilltop of this small city, midway between Glasgow and Edinburgh. It was to visit my son who is studying for the Spring at Stirling University, that my wife and I came to the charming area. In the coming weeks I'll post the more works that I created on that weeklong visit. Lucky for me, I was able to sketch between the raindrops for a week.

By the Medieval Church of the Holy Rude, is where I found the Cowane's Hospital, built in 1637. My favorite feature of this interesting old building is the sculpture of Sir John Cowane himself who looked to me like William Shakespeare gazing up to the heavens. It was Cowane - a wealthy Stirling merchant - who left the funds for the building of this almshouse (home for the poor) of the merchant guild. A plaque on the front wall says "At midnight stikes at New Year, the staue of Cowane - known as Olde Staney Breeks - comes down to dance in the courtyard." If true that would not be much do do about nothing.