Was An Artist
#120 - . . . then slowly stood up and sauntered away over the rolling meadow into the oaks and was gone. Never looked back.
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Was An Artist
Ben pulled up to the driveway just as he was leaving. He waved.
Ben waved, unsure who he was waving to.
“Who was that, Granddad?” Ben asked as he entered the house.
“Did you see R.L.? Yeah, R.L. Latimer. Robert Lee to his mom and dad. He liked R.L. better. You must have been five or six when he left. Do you remember him?”
“I’m not sure.”
“He lived next door to us over on Taylor. He was a few years older than me.
“He was a painter. A real artist. Painted anything and everything. That’s all he did. He was good, a real whiz at anatomy, you know, painting the body. Looked like AI before there was AI. Left home for New York, looking for fame and fortune. I think he found it. He was famous to me. I would see his name in the paper every so often. He’d come into town once in a while.”
“I remember him, now. He had a nice car, and a daughter.”
“That was Sophia. Not his daughter. His girlfriend. He met her in Europe.
“They came home just after his dad died. A year later his mom passed on. That was fourteen, fifteen years ago. He’s in his sixties now.
“They stayed in the small cottage out back of his parent’s house. I’d see him occasionally. Then he was gone. His sister’s family lives in the main house now.
THE CHANGE
“This was the first time I’ve seen him since.”
“He said, ‘I’m no longer painting. Or chasing the next sale or gallery showing. I just got tired of it. Tired of the runaround trying to make things work. The same old, same old. Was tired of me being me.
‘I loved painting, but it wasn’t fun anymore; it was a job. I had gained some notoriety, made some money. Had a few clients who paid good money for personal portraits and landscapes.
‘I loved it and resented it at the same time. It was more than burnout. That happens regular enough, and you just get through it. It’s the business end of it I don’t care for. It robs you, drains your soul. I just rebelled against it.
‘It was all I knew but I couldn’t stop thinking that there must be more. Another way to live. Maybe painting just for the joy of it would return one day.’”
Granddad told Ben, “He seemed to be trying to figure it out for himself more than explaining it to me.”
“You know what happened?” he said. “I was at a ranch near Jackson. It’s up in the foothills near Sacramento. What a spread this guy has. Thousands of acres. Horses and cattle. You could see the Sierra in the distance.
”His daughter commissioned me to do a couple of paintings of the place.
“It was late spring, and they had just mowed the alfalfa fields. The sweet earthy smell of hay filled the air. Crows were heckling hawks that came too close, shooing it out of their territory. The air was rich with smells and sounds.
”I was set up in a field at my painting spot since mid-afternoon and just at sunset, a hoped-for golden glow fell on the mountains and valley. I was at my easel, brush and palette in hand when I felt the craziest thing. Like someone was close by, watching me.
“I stopped, looked left and right, then looked behind me over my right shoulder and there, not five yards away was a mountain lion, sitting on its haunches just looking at me.
“It startled me. The lion almost bolted but steadied itself and stayed put.
“It was splendid, its tawny fur wrapped tight around its trim muscled body.
”It looked young. It moved its head slowly side to side and up and down; its pink nose sniffing and huffing the air. I bet it was my paints that got its attention.
“It sat there just staring at me for what seemed the longest time, then slowly stood up and sauntered away over the rolling meadow into the oaks and was gone. Never looked back.
“I think that was the best moment of my painting life.
“The sunlight was perfect as I continued painting. I thought, could it get any better than this?
“Heading back to the ranch house in the twilight, lights revealed other homes and buildings dotting the landscape up and down the broad central valley. On the western horizon in the purple twilight, atop the hills, one light stood out like a beacon.
“I mentioned the light and the mountain lion to Francine when I got back to the ranch. She commissioned the paintings.
“She said the light is atop Sutro Tower in San Francisco. It’s a hundred miles away. From sunset to sunrise, if it's not cloudy or overcast or hazy, we can see it from here. We are up high enough to see over the East Bay Hills.
“You probably saw a curious juvenile. Maybe just weaned. Rare to see an adult. Quiet, wasn’t it? They stalk, and pounce from behind. You wouldn’t have known what hit you. We have a few of them up here. We’ll lose a colt or calf to them occasionally. They have wide-ranging territories.
TRIGGERED
“He took a sip of the coffee I’d brewed up, his eyes focused elsewhere.”
“I remembered the mountain lion” he continued. “It walked away and never looked back. I wanted to be that lion.
“After my mom passed, I just quit. I put it all behind me. Didn’t even call my agent.
“I just traveled.
“Speculation was that I had died, but no info on my death appeared. It became a newsworthy event for a while. There was a bump up in my painting sales. Pretty funny.
“I can get by with the money I've made. Some of my stuff has been digitized and is on the internet. I get a small stream of income.
“I’d been moving toward pencil sketching. So simple. A set of colored pencils, paper, and a small table is all I need.
“No more oils, acrylics, canvas, easels, brushes, cleaning solutions. They get out of hand real quick. They're bulky.
“I’ll set up at a fair or some such and do portraits to get some ready cash. I like it. There’s a circuit. I see the same guys all over the country.
“New Orleans at Mardi Gras is the best. I set up on Jackson Square.
“I look different now.
“Only once was I recognized. I was in Duluth. A young woman said I drew like R.L. Latimer. Same style, she said. I said “Who?” I’m not sure she believed me, but she didn’t question me further.
“It’s a simple life, but I’m free.”
“We talked about small stuff. He has a place up near Branson. He winters there. And how his sister and I were the last remaining connections to his early life. Then he said he had to go. Said he’d be back.”
“Did he ever marry?” Ben asked.
“I don’t know, he didn’t say. Sophia is still with him but is visiting her home in Italy.”
“Do you think R.L. is happy, Granddad?”
“I think so. He has a sparkle in his eyes.”
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For my new Subscribers - a post from Feb. 16, 2024,
The Boy and the Bird Whistle
Joey is an active, precocious, healthy and happy, towheaded ten-year-old.
He is also autistic.
Image by DALL-E 3
There is a lot to think about here, cowboy. I think a lot of artists keep plodding on even after the shine has worn off--when it's no longer art for art's sake but art ( songs, writing) tailored to sell. I guess R.L. was like that mountain lion, observing for a while, then disappearing into the hills when he had had enough. Good for him, I say.
"I loved painting, but it wasn’t fun anymore; it was a job." "It’s the business end of it I don’t care for. It robs you, drains your soul."
I think this is true most of the time with artists and musicians ... and, dare I say it, writers! The creative, artistic temperament and the business temperament are rarely found in one person. ( I guess that is what agents are for. ) As soon as we monetize, as soon as it becomes a business, the joy starts waning. In my experience, anyway. RL is a person I would like to know. Nice work, Ron.