8.8.18. Wow … and I love the number eight, so I guess I have to write something today.
In the ‘Life In Art Is Good’ department: I’m excited about three new commissions — two girls (on separate canvasses) and a dog (sketch). I’d hoped to compose the girls on a larger board, with meaning-rich background elements, but the family wants two, so that’s good. Those big paintings are coming soon enough, and then I’ll probably miss the days of the small ones.
Here’s what’s monumental about the transaction: we are trading two paintings for a car. It’s a funky, convertible car … and for some reason feels like a better fit than the ubiquitous SUV whose payments are overly burdensome. But even more symbolical than the car itself is the actual transaction.
It’s an artist thing. Over the past two decades in the arts — traveling, working, and interacting with fellow artists much of the time, I came to see myself as a player at the artist-lifestyle, but not a fully committed, wholly integrated member of the tribe. The stark truth is this: I was afraid to take the leap …. to risk it all (whatever “it” was) .… and see what I’m made of, as my father used to say.
From my one-foot-in-one-foot-out perch I observed that living the life came with all sorts of quirky business transactions. Not the DC-insider-money-laundering style of quirky …. more like the painting-for-a-car or pencil-sketch-for-dinner situation. So the way I bought my car, just like the way I bought my funky-village house, would for some suggest diminished circumstances. But not for me, just the opposite … I finally landed in the life I’m supposed to live.
Also finally, I understand something my teacher, Ben Long used to yell at me, “you’re nothing but a dilettante!” I always shrugged it off because and I didn’t believe it. Plus, he yelled at me all the time anyway. There was this one occasion I remember … love this story .... here we go:
We were seven: myself, five foul-smelling male artists, and a Basset Hound (whose name has left me) — in the lobby of a Paris hotel checking in for the night. Ben, for some crazy-ben-crazy reason had predictably insisted we share a room. All seven of us.
As usual, I didn’t protest … instead I went over to another check-in person, handed her my card, and proceeded to book my own room. Predictably, the Maestro exploded. He violently ‘dropped’ his baggage and paraphernalia (artists travel with lots of stuff … another artist thing), the dog howled, and he marched over to my queue to set the world right.
Trying to whisper, I explained why I preferred not to stay up all night playing poker, drinking, and smoking cigars. The exchange went on for a bit, and I seem to remember only that my usual tactic of giving Ben a little space wasn’t going to work this time. Next thing I knew the former-Marine reached out his giant hands ….
…. wait a minute … back up. Do you remember that scene in Gone With the Wind where Rhett Butler wrapped his hands around Scarlett’s head and SQUEEZED? It was later in the movie, in the Atlanta house. Amazing scene, really. I’m sure you remember.
Well that’s what happened. Ben wrapped his hands around my head, raised his eyes to heaven, and bellowed … (Yes, “bellowed” is exactly the proper verb choice.) … he bellowed: WHY ARE YOU ALWAYS THINKING YOUR OWN THOUGHTS! I’m fairly sure he howled the eternal question several times.
There was no oxygen left in the lobby. There was no proportional response. Everyone stood statue still until he took his hands down and began to quietly pick up all the brushes, bottles and tubes on the carpet. Even the dog was quiet.
Needless to say, the Basset Hound and I had a lovely, restful evening in my room.
