The Grasshopper On My Arm

A silent conversation with a grasshopper was my introduction to art, that came out on paper as a pink hollyhock. A whole two blocks from home I sat on the steel rails of the train tracks that ran along the junkyard. I could see the crane with its fingers, like steel pincers, grabbing car parts and old rusted ice boxes. Lifting them, and other metal things, and then dropping them into an open top railroad car. Along the corrugated steel fence a few hollyhocks managed to grow and they were the first subject of my first venture out to draw. Mom did say, “go draw something,” I’m just not sure she meant for me to cross High Street and head to the foot of Pigeon Hill to draw hollyhocks, I was just 5 at the time. That was the start of my passion for art.

Drawing the hollyhock and watching the hand of the crane rise up over the fence with its load of interesting things, I was joined by a large grasshopper who seemed to take an interest in my drawing. He sat on my arm, munching on the tall grass that leaned into me. My drawing drew his attention. Twice he hopped to it and returned to my arm and the tasty grass tickling it. I would have brushed the grass away but I liked his company and he liked the grass so I sat there drawing with a grasshopper on my arm. The giant steel hand rose again and again, dropping car parts into the train car. Where did all that junk go? Where would my new friend spend the night? Or would he become dinner for one of the blackbirds hanging around…? The grasshopper looked up at me; I'm sure he was saying it was time to go home.

I watch a bike dropped from the steel hand and a red wagon. My drawing, even with all the distractions, was coming along. Only the heat was getting to me. A thirst for a glass of cold water was the real distraction. I closed my sketchbook and said goodbye to my friend. Threw a rock into the pine trees scaring off the blackbirds to give my friend a chance, and started up the hill to home. At home, I checked under the back porch to see if my red wagon was still there. Mom asked how my drawing was and I showed her my drawing of the hollyhock. The rest of the story is mine. 70 years now and that story is still in mint condition.

A Face Is A Story Untold

Figurative work, to me, has always been more than working in the studio from a model. My first experience with a model was an educational one. I learned not about artists and art, but rather the history of Vietnam. He was a student at Columbia who spent his time protesting the Vietnam War.

My next model was also a student at Columbia, and was an exchange student from Paris. She told me about life in Paris. Her parents ran a cheese shop there and sold cheese only. I could not conceive of a store that only sold cheese. She told me about where the cheeses came from and the little farms that produced different types. Her little stories were wonderful to listen to, and I was lucky to get a painting of her done.

Every model I hired while living in New York had their story, and I discovered I had a talent for pulling their story from them. I think I could have been the next Johnny Carson if painting had not been my real love. To this very day I love hearing my models tell me who they are, tell me about their families and their experience. One model told me about her dad, who did not believe in girls going to college. She joined the army just before the first Gulf War. She served in Kuwait as a tanker truck driver, got her college degree and stayed in the army. She is twenty years in now.

Not all stories I hear are great stories, some are of abuse. I listen to each, some I keep to myself, others I smile while sharing them to friends. Meeting one model's dad, and hearing him talk, I grabbed my paints and did one of my best portrait studies. For me a face is a story untold. I lay out my paints and let the person before me tell me the colors to use with their story.