Gradually, Just Gradually...
Although highly distractible the boy knew he eventually wanted to paint pictures. Early on he managed to fit in some saleable drawings for folks who knew little about art, but simply wanted something nice to look at. He did his best work when he was alone. His ability improved when he drew by himself because there was no one to ask questions or time him. He thought the school's studio was where one learned techniques; so, when there he'd find the most challenging perspective to draw any still life. This initially affected the quality of his work as there was much he needed to learn, so he garnered little attention from his instructor. However, when away from her there was no assignment on perspective, no stopwatch; so art was more like meditation for him. Also, when he looked at his art, any art, legions of questions would march into his brain like soldiers who await detachment. He would draw, look, read and think to figure out the answers; for these reasons made things struck him with quietness. Mostly people paid for pictures in compliments; therefore, he grew less apprehensive and loved to discuss his work. Until as an adolescent in his tenth year, just before his studio period, he brought his art teacher a drawing he'd done at home. He realized his limited experience was unable to answer questions that made certain demands on him. On this occasion, he only wanted a few pointers but before he could speak his teacher asked, "did you do this?" She didn't wait for an answer, rather, she said with abrupt doubtfulness, "you didn't do this". He first thought her blat to be a set up for a compliment, but no, she was sincerely incredulous. She really did not believe it was his fist that drew that. She stared at the drawing for a moment, then asked to hold it at her desk. The work was returned at the end of class without another word about it. Gradually he learned the few involuntary words followed by silence confirmed a general notion among some academics, to them it was unlikely for one such as himself to have gotten away with talent. Nevertheless, these taciturn moments soiled and seeded his mind with the idea that he could do better than just draw nice pictures for friends. How much better? Time will tell. You see a desire to understand the universe, even God would run parallel to his propensity to draw and eventually paint pictures, one cannot "slave for two masters"; however, he would gradually understand the master is in the motive. That moment with the art teacher began the requisite disorientation all painters go through before they set up shop. For some reason those who choose oil paint as their primary medium are prepared to be what amounts to a side dish. The process sometimes begins with a question: what do you want to do for a living? A one word response can siphon any prospective support for the boys' future. All he has to do is say paint, and the prep work begins. First he is lightly patronized and made to simmer, then brazed with sarcasm, ridicule, criticism and overt apathy. Understandably, most artistic minds are seared over, but this locks in one's creative juices and makes what's inside more tender, which thus improves quality. Next, well, many painters find their particular sauce and henceforth get stewed. Finally the painter is prepared to be served to the world and comfortably digested, but before the reveal he is delicately garnished with suspicion, thereby successfully placed as a side dish. He is marginalized. This prep-work is undertaken by everyone, not to mention left brains. It wittingly sops up good will toward the potential painter so he is more easily devoured. Able to discern the possibility of this eventuality, he tried to quit, but it wouldn't take. You see, without the tools of a painter in hand his quirks seemed lunatic. At least when he drew and painted there was an explanation for certain habits, he had an identity. Really though, he need not have worried, painters are unmistakable. Mediums may be as varied as the measurements of a face, yet the artist who paints craves to finish canvases in oil and egg. So, eventually drawing became painting, it couldn't be helped, the boy breathed what the dutchman ate. Consequently, he gradually nurtured what came naturally and began to paint as he was so inclined. He did however, find his inclination rather steep.
By George Tuber
