My Own Art Form

As I have said many times, my friend Stephen was an artist. He was pretty good, too. He wasn't so talented to make millions, or even hundreds or tens of thousands. But he was good. He achieved what he wanted to, and I don't think one can be much better than that.

Stephen always wanted me to participate in art. I guess he never saw story writing as an art form. I guess I do. But I tried, at various time, to tinker with drawing, painting, and sculpture.

I remember in grade school one of our assignments was to do a report on a bird. We weren't allowed to pick our bird by desire. Instead, we drew them from a box. I got the Baltimore Oriole, which is now known at the Northern Oriole. Personally, I prefer the name Baltimore Oriole. I just do.

We had a nesting pair in our yard at the time. I remember being fascinated by the sack nest hanging from the little tree just to the north of the house. They're pretty birds. Later, when Spouse and I lived near the shores of Lake Minnetonka, we had no less than five (5) orioles make the rounds to drink from our hummingbird feeders. It's one of the things I regret about where we live now. There just isn't enough trees and shrubs to attract anything but blackbirds, robins, and a few sparrows. Occasionally we get colorful birds, but not often. Saw a cardinal once. That was a treat.

Anyway, part of the bird assignment was to draw an image of the bird and color it. I remember my oriole drawing turned out especially well. I can still see it clearly in my memory. What I can't see clearly is what happened to it. Well, if it wasn't destroyed before the fire it certainly was in the fire.

My sisters and I used to make things from Play-Doh and clay. Nothing was great. We'd make things and then smash them. There's something about smashing clay which is just fun. But when I was in seventh or eighth grade art class we were taught how to make coil pots. I was moving along fairly well in the class. I was far from the best, but I had been the only one who understood the instructions when Mr. C told us to draw a collage of objects in front and behind each other. (Then I botched the shading portion.) And when it came to the coil pots I was doing excellently.

My pot was going to be the largest in the class. With my large, strong hands I was able to roll out coil after coil and smooth them nicely into place to make a bigger and bigger pot. I took great care in putting it away at the end of each class, and then taking it out the next day to work on it again. Until it was gone.

I came in on a Wednesday. My pot was nearly finished. I was thinking I could finish it that day. But it wasn't where I put it. Not knowing what to do I started back for my work station. And then I saw it. Jessica was working on it. She had taken my pot! I challenged her about it, but Jessica was a popular girl, and she had three snooty friends at her station who backed up her claim the pot was hers. I went to Mr. C. He had seen me working on the pot. He would know the truth of it.

I explained to Mr. C what was going on. I'll never forget his reaction. He looked me right in the face and said, "Then you'd better get busy working on another."

I stood dumbfounded for a minute and then grabbed a tiny piece of clay and squished out a tiny ash tray. I quit trying in the class and never liked Mr. C again. It didn't matter that he was Stephen's favorite teacher. He had worked with Jessica to steal something important from me. "Jessica's" pot would get top grade. Mr. C actually held her up to the class as a model of achievement for that project - and he knew she had stolen it. Mr. C played favorites. Stephen was one. I wasn't.

Stephen got me into painting for a time. He started me out on acrylics instead of oils. I remember going to this huge art store and buying a large amount of paint, brushes, and canvas. We went to Stephen's house and set up a canvas on an easle. Stephen talked me through what I was doing. He was into abstract at the time, working with color and balance. He had me do some free splashes with blue and then red. Having done this, I was to look at what I had and try to imagine just what it was that was trying to be painted.

I learned it isn't wise to make jokes to an artist about the process of creating a work. They have no sense of humor about that.

To Stephen's disappointment, what I saw were furry monsters in battle. Hey, I like fantasy. What can I say? Stephen was hoping I'd see something beautiful, erotic, and/or meaningful. Instead, I saw monsters. Furry monsters with claws.

I have vague recollections of continuing to try and paint, but I don't recall Stephen ever giving me a lesson again. Eventually I sold off my paint supplies and white washed my canvases. Stephen took them after that. He was unhappy I had destroyed my work. But I did that a lot in those days.

Had I the money, I think I would set up an art studio and give acrylics a go again. I expect I would still try to paint fantasy images. But I like landscapes, too. Mountain backgrounds with river and lake valleys in the forground. Maybe some deer or buffalo grazing. It's where my happy place is. Thinking maybe I need to revisit the place. Maybe I'll write a story.

Writing is an art form. To me, anyway. And I can usually write what I want. So I guess I can't get much better, can I?