My Bloody Grandfather

Men who were within my everyday view out in the real world influenced me from a very early age. I was 17 months old when my mother's father, my maternal grandfather, was in his mid-forties. I was too young to form any memories of him. I don’t believe anyone can process and retain memories when they are so young.

In my imagination, I envision him strictly in black-and-white. Half his face is obscured in darkness. He’s in vague Western wear as he leans against his mid-century car. That man made front-page news in the slow little town where I was born. He murdered his wife–my mother's mother–who was only in her forties. He used a shotgun to kill her at their kitchen table. Then he used the weapon to blow his brains out.

Listen to the voice of artist Madeira Desouza explain what happened…