Christmas Dinner in the Studio

Since the intrusion of the i-Phone, Christmas dinner has become a pain. One side of the table is always busy texting. I am just about sure the younger side of the table were texting the ones around them... My efforts to start a conversation were like driving on ice, tires spinning and getting nowhere. This year I decided to skip Christmas dinner with my nephew and nieces. I headed to the studio and found an uplifting conversation with myself. Paintbrushes and pencils make great company. We talked about Elizabeth's 4-H project and getting kicked by her new calf. Learned where not to stand that day. The big white canvas that's been staring at me asked when I was going to unwrap it's gift. Christmas Day seems like a good time. 

Laying out fresh colors I wondered who my nieces were texting with, while the rest of us chat away. Selecting brushes I thought of Jake’s and the day I sketched the people at the next table. Two girls in their early teens, their mother and grandmother all sitting in front of open face sandwiches, texting. Even the grandmother was texting. Wanting to see if any of them took a bite of their sandwich, I began to really watch them and compare them to those Christmas dinners at my brothers. I listened to my friends while keeping eyes on that table. Sketching might be my form of texting, I thought... George asked if I was listening, which I answered with a yes, as I sketched the figures at the texting table. 

Over the years I have filled several sketchbooks while studying people at Jake’s. Before Jake’s it was sketching pretty girls at the Pizza Hut and trading the sketches for beer or a pizza. Without being aware of it I was learning about people and myself.

After a few reflections, it was time to unwrap my canvas and see my Christmas gift. 

This One's For Dad

Sitting in my car, staring across at the Hubbs building, I recall Dad taking me to the Crosby Sporting Goods store that resided in it. Dad wanted me to take up an interest in something other than drawing on his good writing paper, so we were there looking at baseball gloves. 

I was in awe seeing the things there, handguns in glass cases, shotguns in racks on the wall. Bows and all sorts of arrows. Another glass case had flies for fly fishing lures of all colors and shapes. Mr. Kish used to sit on his porch making such flies for fishing. 

I followed Dad to the baseball gloves, staring at the bats and balls of every size. Two floors of everything a boy would want. Dad paused at the Boy Scout uniforms, then said, “Your Mother can make one for you.” We passed a scout pocket knife -I was going to become a real boy that day. No more moping around doing nothing - that's how Dad referred to my drawing. I had my paper route, my yards to mow and gardens to take care of, but Dad wanted me to have fun, not just work.  

I took a picture of the building and roughed out a drawing for a possible painting of the Hubbs building before heading to the studio. More memories came back as I blocked in a design on a fresh white canvas. I explained to Henry, “This one's for Dad.” Henry paused from gnawing on his rawhide, he was a good listener. Laying in the lines of the widows with Indian Red, I told Henry of my venture with sandlot baseball and my first meeting with the Heuertz boys. The two brothers who were so good at baseball they couldn't be on the same team together, they were just so good. Scrubbing in the red of the bricks, I told Henry about playing baseball. Curled up on his pillow, he missed the green trees I laid in as the scene was coming clearer on the canvas. With a smile, I laid out more colors on my palette and picked out just the right brushes. A sigh from Henry, his way of saying that was enough of resettling on his pillow. With painting came flashes of Dad and Crosby's appearing and fading.

This is painting for me, always visiting the past. No interest in doing paintings of buildings - except this one because it stirs up images of Dad and the gang I played ball with. Painting is about making myself smile and possibly putting a smile on another's face. Like a warm blanket, art is there to comfort, thats the way I see it.