We've always, since the time we were in our early teens together, been attracted to 19th Century paintings. We both thought of them as the aesthetic epitome of beauty, grace and elegance. If anything, that attraction has just grown over the years. One of us has natural artistic talents, and it isn't me.

So when my husband retired twenty-two years ago from the active workforce he decided he would use his focus and latent talents to produce paintings of his own. He tried watercolours, and he ended up painting in oil on canvass, learning how to prepare the canvass, stretch it onto a stretcher he'd make himself, and eventually producing frames as well for his finished paintings. He's an omniverous reader and he availed himself of art books to enlarge his knowledge base.

He doesn't consider himself much of an artist, but I certainly do. I am beyond being impressed at his ambitions to attempt any type of artistic endeavour, from paintings to stained glass windows, to furniture-making and designs of all kinds along with the physical and cerebral labour that accompanies the creation of his end-products.

Last week for the first time in a year we went along to a rural antique show and sale. Dealers we thought we might see there with their genuinely good offerings weren't present. There was one man who had a few paintings that interested my husband and the prices he was asking dwarfed those of other dealers. So my husband bought two 19th Century paintings, one for $50, the other $85. The second, explained the dealer, was in dreadful shape because he hadn't bothered protecting it and several others when he loaded up his truck. The paintings fell over onto sharp objects in the truck and were repeatedly pierced.

Turns out this man, also retired, turned to art as well to occupy himself and fulfill his aesthetic sense of accomplishment; he paints and he sculpts. And he obviously collects objects for sale, the paintings among them. What amazed us is that a man who dedicates himself to producing art, had so little sympathy with the venerable creations of other artists in the past, that he hadn't bothered to shield the paintings he intended to sell from harm in transport.

My husband, on our return home, took the paintings downstairs to his workshop. In the days that followed, he took the paintings out of their frames, set aside the frames, and carefully washed the paintings with mildly soaped warm water. Years of accumulated dirt dissolved and released the paintings from dull obscurity. He repeated the process with the frames.

Then he set about repairing the canvas, gluing patches of canvas to the tears at the back. Then came gesso. And then came the oilpaint touch-ups. And finally the application of professional varnish. And the paintings were re-assembled back into their frames.

Now, my husband is searching out a place on our crowded walls to hang the paintings. A pleasant occupation on a dark, rain-filled day.