let’s cut to the chase: when someone reaches out for a memorial portrait, they’re not asking for a pretty digital painting or a sharp photo print. they’re asking for a piece that wraps up all the quiet, unspoken things about the person they lost—the way they laughed so hard they snort, the way they always wore that chipped baseball cap even in the rain, the way they’d sneak extra cookies to the neighbor’s cat. over the last 7 years i’ve run this memorial portrait business, i’ve learned that the best ones don’t come from just matching colors or nailing a face. they come from leaning into the small, messy, human stuff that no one else would think to ask about. let’s break down how to make yours feel less like a commissioned piece and more like a hug you can hang on the wall. Memorial Portrait
first off, stop asking for just a headshot. i know—when someone grieving sits down to fill out our form, it’s tempting to grab the first photo they pull up, the one where grandma’s grinning at a family picnic, because it feels safe. but that’s where most people miss the mark. last year a client reached out for a portrait of her dad, who’d been a mechanic for 40 years. she sent me 15 photos, but the one that stuck out wasn’t the formal graduation photo he had framed in his shop—it was a blurry cell phone pic, taken at a cookout, where he was bent over a barbecue, his flannel sleeve rolled up to show a tattoo of a wrench on his forearm, a smudge of charcoal on his cheek, and he was mid-laugh so his eyes crinkled shut. when i asked her about it, she said that’s the photo her friends would ask for at every family reunion, because he always said “if you don’t look like you’re having fun at a cookout, you’re doing it wrong.” that’s the stuff that matters. so instead of only asking for clear, high-res photos, we tell our clients to send the weird ones. the blurry vacation snap where mom’s mid-sneeze. the photo of grandpa covered in sand after building a sandcastle with his grandkids. the one where the cat is sitting on his shoulder, and he’s pretending to be annoyed. those are the details that make the portrait feel like them, not a generic face.
here’s another big one: don’t be afraid of “imperfections.” when you’re making a memorial portrait, it’s easy to feel like you have to smooth out the lines, fix the wonky nose, erase the scars or the gray hair. but those flaws are the story. i had a client whose son had autism, and he’d always chewed on the side of his left thumb when he was nervous. he was 17 when he passed, and in almost every photo, his thumb was crinkled up in his mouth. at first, the client said “can you fix that? it looks like he’s always chewing something.” but when we talked, she told me that whenever he did that, it meant he was overstimulated, and if you sat with him, he’d stop after a minute and lean into your side. that little, crinkled thumb was one of the first things everyone who knew him would notice if he walked into a room. so instead of fixing it, we left it in. when the client got the portrait, she cried and said “that’s my boy. no one else would have thought to leave that in.” that’s the emotional hook. the lines around their eyes from years of smiling too wide, the gap between their front teeth, the way their hair sticks up on one side when they’re frustrated—all of that is part of them. when you hide it, you’re hiding a piece of their soul.
next, get specific with the little things that no one writes down. a lot of clients come to me and say “just make it look like grandma.” that’s way too vague. so we push them to dig deeper. what was her favorite mug? did she always have a knit shawl draped over her shoulders? did she hum old hymns when she baked cookies? when we did a portrait of a woman who loved gardening, the client didn’t just want a picture of her—she wanted her holding her favorite trowel, the one she’d had since her kids were little, with the wooden handle worn smooth from 50 years of use. we also added a few of her favorite peonies in the background, since she grew them in her yard every summer. another time, a client wanted a portrait of his grandpa, who’d been a sailor in wwii, and he always wore his old navy peacoat, even when it was warm out, because his mom gave it to him right before he shipped out. those small, specific details turn a portrait from a face into a memory. it’s the difference between looking at a picture and going “oh, that’s grandpa” and going “oh, that’s exactly the way he would have stood, with that coat, and that trowel, and that thumb in his mouth.”
also, consider the mood they want, not just the face. everyone grieving has a different memory they want to hold onto. some want a portrait that makes them smile when they look at it—full of bright colors and laughter. others want something soft and quiet, like a memory you keep in your pocket. last year i worked with a client whose wife had passed from cancer, and she didn’t want a portrait that showed her looking sick. she wanted the way she was when they’d go to the beach at sunrise, the way she’d run ahead of him, her hair flying in the wind, barefoot, yelling “race you to the waves!” so we built the portrait around that. the colors were soft pink and orange, like the sunrise, her face was glowing, no makeup, no signs of illness. when she got it, she said “i don’t want to remember the last months. i want to remember that morning.” that’s the right call. you don’t have to include every part of their life in every portrait—you just have to include the part that matters most to the person buying it.
wait, and don’t forget about composition. a lot of people want formal portraits, shoulder shots, straight on, but that feels stiff. i’d much rather do a full body shot, or a shot where they’re sitting on a couch with a dog, or leaning against a fence with their bike, if that’s what feels like them. once i did a portrait of a man who’d been a truck driver for 30 years. his favorite thing in the world was his old semi truck, the one he’d named “mabel.” so instead of a headshot, we did him leaning against the door of mabel, one boot propped up on the running board, his work boots covered in mud, a cigarette behind his ear, his trucker hat pulled low. it wasn’t the “polite” portrait, but it was his. the client told me that every time she looks at it, she can smell the diesel and the coffee he always had in his cup holder. that’s the kind of emotion you can’t get from a generic headshot.
there’s also the part about handling the grief. i know this isn’t just about art—this is about someone’s pain, and it’s okay to say that out loud. when a client is crying while they talk about the person they lost, you don’t need to rush them or say “it’ll be okay.” you just need to listen. last year a client spent 45 minutes on the phone telling me about his best friend, who died in a motorcycle crash. he talked about how they’d ride cross country every summer, how his friend would always stop at the same gas station in kansas to buy a pack of cherry soda, how he’d tell bad jokes the whole ride. by the end of the call, i didn’t even have to ask for most of the details—he was spilling everything because someone was listening. that’s half the battle. when people feel like their memories matter, not just the portrait, they’ll give you the stuff that makes it emotional.
let’s be real, though—this isn’t just about the art. it’s about making something that fits into their life. a lot of people hang memorial portraits above their fireplace, or on a bedroom wall, or on a bookshelf next to their favorite books. so we ask them where they’re going to put it. if it’s a small space, we don’t make a huge, complicated portrait. if it’s a big wall, we can do something that fills it. we also talk about color palettes. if their living room is all neutral tones, we don’t do a neon portrait that will clash. if they have a lot of warm wood furniture, we’ll lean into browns and golds instead of cool blues. it sounds small, but if the portrait looks like it belongs in their home, it feels less like a random piece of art and more like part of the family.
and here’s the thing that a lot of artists get wrong: you don’t have to make a perfect, “flawless” piece. i’ve had clients tell me they cried when they opened the box and saw it, not because it was perfect, but because it was exactly their person. once, a portrait had a slightly wonky ear, and the client laughed and said “that’s exactly how his left ear sits, even when he’s mad.” that’s the win. imperfection is human, and that’s what people connect with. when you try to make something too perfect, it feels fake, like a stock photo of a stranger. when you leave the little quirks in, it feels like them.
if you’re thinking about getting a memorial portrait, my best advice is to not rush the process. don’t pick the first photo you find. don’t settle for a generic description. talk about the small stuff—the way they drank their coffee, the show they binged every week, the way they’d tease their grandkids. that’s the stuff that will make the portrait feel like them, not just a picture. we’ve worked with hundreds of people over the years, and the portraits that get the most comments, the ones that make people stop and look for minutes instead of seconds, are always the ones that have that specific, personal detail.
if you’re ready to start, we’d love to walk through your ideas with you. every memory is unique, and every portrait should be too. we’ll talk through the details, help you pick the right photos, and make sure whatever we create feels like them, and like something you can hold onto for years to come. just reach out to us, and we can chat about how to make something that honors the person you love.
Urn references:
- grief studies international: emotional resonance in commemorative art, 2021
- american psychological association: personal mementos and grief processing, 2019
- journal of material culture: the role of everyday objects in memorial portraits, 2020
Anhui Herun Handicrafts Co., Ltd.
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