A Boy That Could Draw
Chapter One
The First Painting
The year was 1966. A seven year old boy hurried down the sidewalk. He passed neatly groomed, small brick houses in the old suburban section of town. The streets were narrow, and the trees planted in the grass boulevards by the sidewalk were large elms and maples. It was still early in the day and the sunlight was tinted gold from traveling through the atmosphere at a low angle. Each brick house was unique in style and color of bricks. Dark rust, rosy pink and golden tan variations glistened like the rectangular stokes in a Van Gogh painting. Lush greens lawns and gardens completed the impressionist palette. The deep blue of a sky that was blocked out by the big trees, was replaced in the cold blue shadows cast by the very same trees. A red squirrel brought life to the scene, as it hopped across the cement path and bounded up onto an elm tree. It then circled the trunk to hide from the boy who skipped around the boulevard to see how close he might get. The boy was distracted for only a moment, and since he was already at the curb, he looked both ways and casually ran across the street. He turned west at the next street and the trees were more dense. The connected shadows and arching branches created the feel of a tunnel leading to his destination. The house he was headed toward was on the left side of the street near the end of the block. Each place had a narrow walk that connected the sidewalk to the front entrance, but the boy cut across the grass and jumped up the front porch stairs. From the elevated porch he could see a figure kneeling beside a flower bed in the backyard. So he skipped back down the stair and went around the right side of the tan brick house to announce himself, “Hi Nan!”
His grandmother patted the soil once more, and without looking up said, “Hi hon, isn’t it a pretty morning?” Pushing herself up off the ground deftly, she pulled the gloves off her hands and started across the yard to the single garage that was mostly her work shed. The 1963 Cadillac sedan Deville was usually parked in front of the house on the street.
'Nan' now walked in front of him to the garage. She was a small person but very athletic. She stepped quickly and her feet fell in line, like a performer on a tight wire. Her arms always swung free which gave her an air of casual confidence. She was a Wyoming girl who could shoot pheasants with any man, and yet had enough sophistication to be the club champion golfer. The tomboy attributes of his grandmother were often admired by the boy.
He was excited for today, but the subtle fear of failure added suspense to the occasion as well. Along with her other abilities, his grandmother was a talented amateur painter, and she was going to let him do his own oil painting. He had watched her paint several times, and on his last visit, they had decided he would portray the face of a cocker spaniel with real paint.
She was bringing an easel and paints out of the garage, and the boy nervously looked around in the trees for a squirrel that often came looking for hand-outs. The squirrel’s name was Rusty, and the probable truth is that Rusty may have been more than one squirrel.
The easel was assembled and she suggested they go in for something to drink. She brought the 9”x12” canvas in with her. There was sun light blasting in the kitchen window as the boy walked through to the dining room. She set the canvas on the table and stepped back by the sink to cut and twist some oranges on a hand juicer. When she brought the two very small glasses of juice, she suggested that they do the charcoal drawing in a den room where she often worked. This was the moment of truth.
The boy, who already loved drawing, expected it would be easy, and the forms would magically appear as they seemed to for his grandmother. He looked at the picture and pressed a few dark lines onto the canvas. With all kindness she said, “Oh here honey, a little like this. Let me show you.”
When she took the charcoal he was angry, and already wanted to quit. But he watched indignantly as she put down little reference marks to achieve proper proportions. He was irritated to no end. This process seemed like a waste of time. Didn’t she know that he could just draw that dog! But he held the displeasure inside, because adults never understood anything. She would allow him to make a few more attempts, but always corrected what he did. The boy could hardly stand the agonizing experience.
Fortunately the drawing was finished quickly, and the two of them went out to the easel on the back porch. Enthusiasm was renewed, for the boy thought; surely now the image will flow off my hand with ease. The neat oil colors will find their place much better than that stupid charcoal. She squeezed paint onto the round palette that sat on a garden table, and mixed up a tone of red. She handed the boy the brush and told him to fill in the background with the red, and he began.
The chalk dragged into the paint, and it was hard to keep from slopping over the edge of the dog’s outline. The paint didn’t look good and the boy got frustrated again. He stepped away from the painting and looked around for Rusty.
She relieved him and finished the red background as he goofed around in the yard. She then suggested they take the painting inside and finish it in the den. The boy agreed, but he didn’t feel like this was his painting anymore. He liked her, so he would go along.
She was persistent and patient with him for the rest of the very long day. The boy painted some brown on the dog’s forehead and then watched her paint in the eyes. Occasionally he would sneak off all together, and go down into the fascinating old basement. His father’s boyhood room was down there and his model airplanes still hung from the ceiling. His great-grandfather’s scary wooden leg was sometimes on a shelf and sometimes leaning in a corner by the workbench. He wandered in and out of the painting all afternoon.
One time when he came up the stairs, she was in the kitchen making diner. The boy snuck into the den and quietly painted around the nose by himself. When she came in, wiping her hands in the dish towel, the dog’s nose looked slightly off, but she left it and praised the artist. She showed him a neat trick, and dabbed on a white highlight to make the nose look wet.
She was back working on the painting, so he ran into the living room. He tried to quietly open the candy dish that was always on the coffee table, but she heard the clank and said, “Hey, not before dinner!” He quickly took one of the hard candies and popped it in his mouth anyway, and looked around at her other paintings on the walls. The one that always impressed him was a popular motif in the 1950’s. It was a portrait of an Asian Princess with a copper-green skin tone. The boy never thought to ask what the green skin meant. He didn't want to give an adult something else to explain. Most times just wondering was more fun.
Back in the den, his own painting was almost finished, and the boy became more enthusiastic about the work again. Putting on finishing strokes was far more satisfying. The dog looked really good now and that was exciting. Then his wise grandma hooked him on art.
She picked out a fine brush and swirled it in white. Handing the brush to the boy she showed him the sparkles in the eyes of the dog in the photo. Pride and intensity rose up as determination steadied his hand. He smudged the spot a little too big on the first eye, but she was quiet. He went for more paint but she said there was still enough on the brush. He dabbed the next sparkle perfectly.
The roast in the oven smelled good as she cleaned brushes and stood back to admire the painting he had done all by himself. Then, at that perfect moment, the boy’s grandfather came in the door from work. “Come look at the boy’s painting!” she called out. With shirt sleeves rolled up, and his collar open behind a loosened tie, the boy’s usually austere grandfather stepped into the small room and seemed surprised that the painting looked so good.
At dinner the boy forced himself to eat some green beans because his grandfather scared him slightly. His other grandmother came to pick him up after dinner; she honked the horn of her rose and white 1955 Chevy Bel-Air. The boy ran out the door and waved her to come in and see his accomplishments.
She came in, distracted and chatty like adults always are. When she finally made her way to the den, the still wet painting surprised her as well. Then she said they better get going. They had to make it to the variety store before it closed, to get some of the orange pop and creme soda that was a staple of the boy’s diet in those days.
He took complete credit for the painting from that day forward, but was always consciously conflicted about who really painted it. The conflict that began that day might have implanted a psychological tendancy the boy could never shake. He would always have an unusual aversion to studying the techniques of other artists.
To call something his own…it would have to be...his own. And most times it is really more of a problem than anything to be too proud of.
