Cantankerously Yours
Old Dog Learns New Tricks
By Wendell Abern
Dear Fine Art Fans,
One day, about a month ago, I took a look around my condo and realized I didn’t like any of my paintings. I mean, they were okay. Some landscapes and cityscapes. Handsome enough, but lacking in color.
I decided they all had to go. And since I can’t afford to go buy a whole slew of new ones, I decided to paint my own. What the heck, I could always draw pretty well as a kid. I figured I’d take a few art lessons and then I’d be Rembrandt.
I called my kids in Chicago. “I’m about to become famous,” I said.
Daughter Amy: “Dad, are you in jail?”
“No, I’m not in jail! I’m going to take some art lessons and start painting some bright, colorful stuff to hang on the walls here.”
Son Joel: “Good for you, dad.”
“And I’m going to use a nom de plume. I never used a pen name as a writer, but now that I’m a painter, I’m going to call myself Henri Matisse the Third.”
Together: “Dad.”
“You know, with three Roman numerals after the name.”
“Dad.”
“Who would know? Let people think I’m his grandson, what could it hurt?”
“DA-ad!”
“A basketball player changed his name to World Peace, you know.”
“Joel,” Amy said as if I weren’t even there, “I told you he can’t be our real father. Tomorrow, we’re going for DNA testing.”
“Very funny,” I said. “But when you see what I come up with, you’re going to want me to sell my paintings for ten grand apiece.”
Coincidentally, my friend Jon Kitner was giving art lessons to members of my Unitarian Universalist congregation, River of Grass. Jon, a superb artist, retired from MiamiDadeCollege a few years ago, where he had taught art for 37 years, which included one year in England on a Fulbright Teaching Fellowship. Renowned in South Florida art circles, Jon has won numerous awards, exhibited at many one-person shows, and many of his paintings now reside in private collections.
Imagine how lucky we all felt to have such a renowned artist as our teacher! But I secretly thought to myself, some day, Jon will brag to everyone about having me as his student. And he’ll probably steal the line Haydn used after instructing Beethoven for about a year: “There’s nothing more I can teach him.”
As part of our preparation, Jon had made a drawing of a studio set-up. I rearranged my small office accordingly, setting up an easel next to my small desk, moving my sofa bed against the wall, and exulting in my metamorphosis into a neo-Renoir,
According to Jon’s instructions, we were to use a large piece of glass for a palette. He suggested asking a glass retailer for leftovers … or even a car dealership. I had a better idea. I went to Good Will, where I bought a large clear serving tray for only one dollar because it was senior-discount Tuesday, and I’m old.
Time to paint! Jon said we should have all of our paints available on our palettes, so I dutifully squeezed all fourteen of my colors onto my serving tray. However, when I picked it up to move it, it slipped out of my grasp. Trying to catch it, I only managed to turn it upside down so it landed face down on my carpeting, thereby emblazoning it with fourteen bright colors in an almost perfect circle.
Later, when I told my son about this accident, he said, “See, dad, most people put an old sheet or something on the floor before they start painting.”
“Most people,” I said, “would not have the kind of vision that I have. I did that deliberately! I now have a spectacular design on my carpeting. I’m going to cut it out, frame it and submit it to the Museum of Modern Art.”
Long pause. Finally, “Who are you, and what have you done with my father?”
I spent the rest of that afternoon cleaning off my carpeting.
The next day, I started again (spreading an old sheet on the carpeting first). Then I propped my small canvas against my easel, ready to join Monet, Picasso and other peers.
I stared at my canvas. It was white. Very white. Terrifyingly white. I went to the pool and smoked a cigar.
The next day, I replaced the canvas with a large tablet of drawing paper, thinking I’d start slowly with rough ideas. I opened the tablet to the first page. It was white. Horribly white. Ugly white. Cigar time.
The next day, I decided to get serious. I set up my tablet of drawing paper on the easel, dipped my brush into my paints and began a simple abstract: an oblong box with a few ornaments on its side. I worked furiously for fifteen minutes, stepped back and stared. I had painted a Rorschact Test.
I tore the sheet off and threw it away. I looked around. I thought I’d paint Murray, my cat, who was asleep on the small sofa-bed. After a few hesitant strokes, I kind of got into the swing of things. My daughter called just as I was finishing up.
“Hi dad, how’s the painting going?”
“Actually, I’m painting right now. I just painted Murray.”
“Great!”
“Right now, he looks like an anteater with a goiter.”
“It’s okay, dad. Keep at it. I’m sure you’ll do fine.”
Later, I tried other abstracts. I looked at them carefully and decided it’s going to take me a while before I master the art of painting. Perhaps another 60 or 70 years. Since I’m now 81, that’s going to be tricky.
Cantankerously Yours,
Wendell Abern
Wendell Abern can be reached at [email protected].