Someone asked me recently who my favorite artist is and what is my favorite painting.

Tough questions. I like Matisse and Thomas McKnight for totally different reasons. I love Matisse’s colorful paper cutouts and his unconcern with perspective in his paintings, and the look of expectancy in McKnight’s paintings of room interiors or Mediterranean balconies. These spaces are waiting for someone to reappear and finish the half empty drink on the coffee table. I like many different kinds of art — each for its unique style.

However, the painting that came to mind when the question was asked was a surprise to me. On our dining room wall, there is a picture of a white haired lady and a young woman holding a baby. The two adults are looking out toward the sea. Their clothing is early 1900s and their long hair, one gray and one brunette, is pulled back, somewhat wavy, into large, soft buns. The grandmother is wearing a soft light blue dress with white collar, and the mother is in a darker blue-grey suit with a white blouse. The baby is wrapped in a soft blue blanket that drapes casually down the front of her mother’s skirt. The sun is setting, casting a yellow glow on the side of their faces and the child’s blanket and across the waves rolling on to the sandy shore. Dark blue shadowy trees are in the background along the shoreline.

The picture is serene and hopeful, peaceful. What are these women thinking of? Are they waiting for their fishermen husbands? Are they dreaming of emigrating to a distant home and a better future for the child? Are they simply enjoying the peace and beauty of the seascape?

This picture is in an old frame with a tattered paper backing. The frame is wooden with a chip in one corner. And the protective paper on the back is tattered, discolored and very fragile. There is almost a whiff of burnt wood if you hold it close. The water stains and torn paper might indicate a fire long ago. Maybe, maybe not.

After my Aunt Bertha’s funeral, and after her immediate family had sorted through her belongings and saved the pieces that were special to them, my sister and I had the chance to visit her home. This picture was hanging on the wall in the porch. When I asked if I could have it, the others looked at me strangely, as if to say, “Why on earth would you want that?” But they were too polite to say it outright, and I gratefully took it home. It has always been important to me, although I could never explain exactly why.

The picture of the women and baby looks like it possibly was a calendar page that Aunt Bertha framed. Yet the paper on the back has a professionally applied appearance. Is it a print from a painting that I have missed in studying art history? Or is it a picture that is only significant to a few and never achieved the status of fame?

For many years I have been buying original paintings from friends and artists I admire — people from southern Minnesota who may or may not make a name for themselves in the art world, but whose work I enjoy. Consequently, our home is filled with originals, photos, and museum posters of paintings by the masters, each one important for a different reason. None of those pieces even entered my head when the “favorite painting” question was asked.

Somehow, I find a special significance in that old, faded picture. Maybe it is the expectant looks on the faces of the women, or the idea that life moves from generation to generation and everything and nothing stays the same. Or maybe it is the water, the constantly changing surface, whose waves will continue to brush the shore many years after the present generations are gone. Maybe I see my mother and myself holding my tiny daughter and wondering about her future and ours.

I don’t know why I am so fascinated by the images on that faded picture, but I am.

Bev Jackson Cotter is a member of the Albert Lea Art Center, where the August show is unique and fascinating artwork by our talented area art teachers. The galleries and Art on Broadway gift shop are open Tuesday through Saturday 10 a.m. to 2 p.m.