Lisa Rassenti

Seeing it All         

My first painting lesson took place in my grandmother’s garage when I was 4 years old. I distinctly remember sitting next to my sister on the cold concrete floor wearing an old, oversized T-shirt as a smock and staring at a blank piece of construction paper, waiting to hear instructions from my grandmother on how to start. She spoke to us in Italian and told us simply to paint a house.

“Dipingere una casa,” she said, and so my sister and I took to drawing a brown square in the center of the paper. My grandmother, however, was determined to make us proper painters and described that we were missing the flowers and the hills and the sunset. So she outlined the rest of the scene for us and suggested we fill in the colors. And while I’m certain that the piece of artwork that transpired that afternoon was nothing out of the ordinary for a preschooler to create, that first lesson stands out as one of my favorite memories.  

The lessons continued that way two Sundays a month for about three years, until it got to the point where my grandmother, or Nonna as we call her, didn’t have to do any outlining for us. Throughout the rest of my childhood and into high school, the lessons became more sporadic and, at some point, my sister stopped coming along. I enjoyed the process too much to ever quit.

Ever since that first afternoon in the garage, I have looked at my grandmother as a distinguished painter and master professor, but most importantly, 17 years later, I now credit her with teaching me how to see a whole scene and showing me how to make it come to life.

My Nonna started painting as a teenager in World War II Italy as a way to escape a terrifying world. Her first paintings were of flower fields and harbors—places she says she wished she could run away to. She never took a painting class or had anyone tell her how to hold the brush properly, yet she has managed to get her work into various galleries and Internet auctions. Not to mention passing the knowledge on to someone else. When showing me new techniques, she would constantly ask me if I was seeing everything.

“Which way is the sun reflecting off that window?” or “Is the grass really all one color?” she would question. At the time, it was frustrating because fulfilling her requests often meant a thousand more brush strokes. But now I realize that there was a much bigger lesson involved. She was teaching me how to open my eyes and really see something rather than just accepting it at first glance. 

 I believe my years of lessons with her have not only made me a better painter, but have also made me a more aware and critical adult. Very rarely do I form an opinion without having all the facts, and I’m certain Nonna wouldn’t have it any other way.   

These days, my Nonna has quite the set-up in her garage, and I make it a point to stop by and see her most recent creation every time I go home. Although I don’t have the time to devote myself to it the way she does, painting, for me, will always be a way to relax. Every time I pick up a brush I think of my Nonna and all those days spent filling in colors and watching pictures come to life on the cold floor of her garage.