Sometimes a painting is just a painting. In the gutter? It ain't always just. Gutteral Screams continues.
Taking Art Seriously by Jack Strange, based on an email from Steve Davidson
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Back in the 90s I lived in New Brunswick,
NJ. There was a small diner just two blocks from my rental and I frequently
went there for coffee in the morning and lunch a few times a week.
As a regular, I soon had my own
booth they’d sit me in.
I also had my own waitress. She
was called Carrie and she always served me. We got into the habit of exchanging
pleasantries whenever I placed my order. Nothing deep, just stuff like:
“What’ve you got planned for this
weekend?”
“I’m going to Edison to see my
parents. How about you?”
“Working, unfortunately. Still,
mustn’t grumble.”
There was a painting on the wall
of my booth and I spent a lot of my time looking at it.
In the upper right, just
off-centre, was a farmhouse. Dominating the left of the painting was a brown,
weathered barn, one of its doors partially ajar, allowing you to see the
darkness within. Between the house and the barn was an open field of wheat.
One day as she took my order, Carrie
saw me staring at it.
“Do you like it?” she asked.
“I do, very much.”
“What is it about it you find so
appealing?”
I smiled, gestured at the painting,
and said:
“You can’t hear the scream
coming from the barn.”
A different waitress brought my
order over to the booth.
I ate lunch, noting that Carrie
was keeping to the other side of the diner, doing her level best to avoid my
gaze.
I
ought to take more care over what I say in future, I thought. Sometimes I make folk feel uncomfortable without meaning to.
When I’d finished my meal I left
a hefty tip and a hastily scribbled note:
“Please make sure Carrie gets to
share this tip and tell her I didn’t mean to upset her. What I said was just a
joke in very poor taste.”
Before leaving my seat I made
sure she was in the kitchen, so I wouldn’t have to walk past her, possibly causing
embarrassment on my way to the exit, and I left the place quickly, without
looking back.
As I walked the two blocks to my
rental, I reflected on the fact that it’d been a mistake ever to get into the
habit of speaking to Carrie. I’m a very private person, even though I have
achieved fame of sorts, and I like to maintain a degree of anonymity.
I resolved to eat at a different
diner in future, and to never repeat the mistake of getting familiar with a
waitress.
When I got home I carefully
locked the door and bolted it, as I can’t do with interruptions while I’m
working.
One of the reasons I’d chosen the
apartment was for its northern aspect. This guaranteed good lighting conditions
throughout the day.
The walls were covered in sketches
and detailed ink-drawings of muscle structures, skeletal joints, and internal organs
- intestines, livers, lungs, hearts, and so forth.
They’d all been made by me, and
they weren’t for sale; I can’t bear to part with my anatomical works, which I create
for my own satisfaction.
Perhaps I flatter myself, but I
like to think that these works were of such exceptional quality that they might
have come close in standard to those of Leonardo da Vinci. Indeed, some of my
paintings have, on occasion, been compared to renaissance masterpieces.
Painters today don’t take the
trouble to familiarise themselves with anatomy to the extent that was
commonplace in the past. This is why anything they do featuring the human form is
of a lesser standard.
It is my belief – a belief
which, incidentally, was shared by the greatest artists in history - that only
by knowing what lies beneath the skin can you hope to create a decent drawing
or painting of a person. You have to work from the inside out, as it were,
revealing in a portrait the sinews, tendons, and, of course, character of your
subject.
Landscapes and portraits are
what pay my bills. I have made something of a name for myself with them in New Brunswick
art circles, although a waitress in a diner couldn’t be expected to know that.
Nor, indeed, could many art lovers – I’ve taken care throughout my life to
avoid being photographed, and I sell everything I produce through an agent. So,
although my output fetches high prices, and my success as an artist is assured,
I am almost unknown and unknowable, in many important respects.
The painting in the diner was a
favourite of mine because it was one of the first paintings I’d sold. Moreover,
the farm it depicted was highly significant to me, because I’d spent some time sketching
in the barn.
Anyway, that afternoon I put all
negative thoughts about Carrie to one side, and made a detailed drawing of a
functioning kidney.
The young man who was helping me
wasn’t in any position to protest, being bound and gagged.
Living organs are so much more
informative to the serious artist than those of cadavers.
