Portrait of an Artist

Frank needed a nudge. He was twenty-one. His soul was just growing into his body.

Frank had been studying art history at Northeastern. If you asked him what he planned to do with his degree, he would tell you that he wanted to work in a museum some day. But if you watched him talk about his art, whether crazy animal masks or traditional studies in oil, you would have known that he loved to paint. He just didn't know, yet, that it was ok to paint what he felt.

Eric, with eight more years under his belt, knows that he wants to be a writer, professionally. Ask him his job today, however, and he'll tell you that he works as an administrative assistant. That, despite the fact that he has finished a solid draft of his first novel. An art handler and an admin. Jesus. Both of these boys need a publicist.

When I pushed him a while back, Frank locked himself away for an afternoon and painted. He created his first abstract piece (oil on canvas) that day. It took hours and looked nothing like the traditional studies he had completed of people, landscapes, or (please-shoot-me) bowls of fruit. When he told me he was ready for me to have a first look, I held my breath. What if I hated it? I had pushed him to paint!

Eric had completed the first draft of his novel before we met. I just had to push him to let me read it. Well, part of it. You see, so far he has given me just the first chapter.

Anyway, I had been waiting for a quiet night for a long time so that I could sit down and read the first chapter uninterrupted. When my dinner plans fell apart today, leaving me stranded in the early evening with nothing to do, I knew I had found the right time. It had been a stunning day, sunny and warm, with just the hint of a breeze. After grilling a quick meal on the roof, I had the quiet evening to focus on the piece.

I was less nervous this time around. For one thing, Eric wasn't watching me read. He wasn't even expecting my thoughts tonight. He had given me the chapter a couple weeks ago, and I had put-off reading it until I had space to concentrate. I needed to clear my head first. If I didn't get back to him for a few days or another week, he would not even notice. I had plenty of time to frame my criticism in positive terms if I hated his work.

As the sun set slowly between the Prudential building and the Hancock, I kicked-off my sandals. The sound of rush hour traffic faded from Washington Street five floors below. I leaned back on the not-quite-comfortable cherry picnic chair, my feet pressing against the matching table ahead of me. I was ready. I dove in.

When Frank walked me into his makeshift studio to see his first piece, I was stunned. Instead of fruit, he had painted what it felt like to emerge from the closet. Using dark tones and intertwined hash marks, Frank had established the feeling of being trapped in the piece. With a surge of warm bright colors out of that trap, he showed the relief of pressure, the explosive power, that coming out had had on him. It was the first time that I think Frank put himself into his art. It was amazing.

Instead of the bang that a painting can deliver, Eric's novel began quietly. To be honest, I expected that it would read like gay beach novel. When he told me it was a horror story, I explained it wasn't my favorite genre. What I meant was that did not expect to be drawn into the story. I was. I expected that reading this first chapter would be more intellectual exercise than experience; I didn't expect to lose myself by the end of the first chapter. I did. And while I can't comment on the rest of the novel until Eric gives it to me *cough*, I can say this: I can't wait to read it. Eric is a very talented writer.

There is something really wonderful about knowing talented artists. Perhaps it is the inspiration they provide, not just in the works they create, but in the risks they take by putting themselves out there to create them. Perhaps it's that I have so little artistic talent myself that I feel like it fills some gap for me. Secretly, though, I think that it is discovering that the "art handler" around the corner or the "admin" down the hall can create something that moves you. Knowing their art, when few others do, is like sharing a private conversation with them. It lets you exchange that private smile that two close friends share from time-to-time, when they converse a bit without speaking.

[Originally published on my old blog, June 20, 2004]