Simon's Sisters

An all-boys Catholic Military School was my High School. Military classes, Latin classes, English class, but no art class. Not even one art book in the school library. Father Mario, who ran the school library, had a few prints of these big-eyed kids in his office. The idea of art was out of the question at Marmion when I was there.

I did not dare try sketching in any of my classes, like I had done in grade school. My Latin teacher, Father Leonard, carried a nine iron golf club to keep you loving Latin class.  The history teacher just whacked you up alongside the head if you weren't quick enough with an answer. It was hard making it through the day without having someone taking a swing at you. Some teachers threw erasers so hard they put cracks in the walls. Seems like all the teachers had their own way of keeping us boys in a state of fear. Homework was always on time, your brass polished and a spit shine on your shoes when you showed up for school . The military teachers were the only ones that didn't have some way of killing us. 

There were trips below the hill where you went to settle things, when there were disagreements between students. It wasn't always the expected winner who returned with a smile. Sometimes the gym teacher set up boxing matches when he knew there were plans for below-the-hill events. 

I had no time for trips below the hill, or for marching off demerits. I walked the line and away from trouble, except for mopping the mess hall floor Simon's sisters were... Simon was the main cook for the "day dogs,” the name for us kids that went home every day. "Border rats" was the name given to the kids who lived at the Butterfield Campus. Simon's two beautiful sisters had me rush from my last class to get to cleaning the mess hall and my dirty pots. The real purpose for rushing to scrub floors and dirty pots was to see Simon's sisters. They served the faculty their lunches in a small private room and washed the dishes. They were usually leaving just as I was getting there to begin my work. Jet black hair with dark brown eyes… I didn't mind working for a penny a minute with them there. I got to sit with them and sketch them for a few minutes if I was lucky. Mike the Barber said I would have to take up charcoal if I want to really do them justice. Not sure how those sketches of them led to commissions, but soon I was getting commissions from other students to draw things for them.

I learned you should not use oil paints to paint Woody Woodpecker on a white jacket... It came off onto his dad's car seat on a date. Cleaning the seat was the real lesson there. I illustrated my homework when I had to write about Jack and Jill running up the hill. Took a queue from one of Mike's Barber Shop detective magazines. My story was a hit in class with my fellow students but not with Father Maindard. That illustration disappeared. I did get permission to start an art club and they brought in Adrian Fraziser from the Aurora Art League to guide us. We made trips to art exhibitions and learned about fine artists. Frank, one of the club members, continued drawing his funny caricatures of the teachers, Jim continued drawing hot rods and I continued drawing pretty girls - something I still do. 

Barber Shop Art Lesson

Memories of collecting paper route money creeps into my art these days. Those chilly, snowy nights gave way to space heaters in my studio. Warm homes with girls curled up on couches, bathed in warm lamp light, are coming forth from the running colors dripping from my brush. Scenes from long ago stir in me as my eyes see lines forming a possible hip.  

Standing just inside a front door I observe one of those pretty girls, curled up on a couch with open textbooks peeking out from under an arm or on a colorful rug. Some with cookies or cake crumbs on a plate that rests on the arm of a stuffed chair. I still remember the windows with warm glowing lamps and houses with  slippery steps. Dogs were sounding my approach even before my frozen finger rang the bell. The smell of a finished dinner and sounds of children playing, as the Mrs.’s search for thirty five cents to pay me. The running colors are speaking of long ago…

Jordan drops the book and closes her eyes as I dash a color here and there, recalling that scene from my childhood. A vision of Bobby Hearst appears and it's time for a break. His sister was much nicer to recall, but his appearance calls for fresh colors to be laid out on my palette. Jordan slices an apple, as she returns to being my paper route girl. 

Summertime meant colorful gardens with those girls I love in hammocks, or on porch swings. Trying not to stare, I focused on the nameless flowers lining the side of the Ms. Micheals house.  Lynn Michaels, busy up a ladder scraping paint from a second floor window. “Toss me that wire brush, will you! “ I blushed looking up at her, pretty girls did that to me, even those in overalls covered with paint scrapings. Again, Jordan took on the part of Lynn Micheals. This time it was my memory of Lynn scrubbing clay flower pots out for Father Headermen I brought to canvas. Lynn was always doing things teen age girls weren't supposed to do, like changing the oil on her mother's car. At Mike's barber shop, guys told how they saw Lynn covered in black dirty oil changing spark plugs at Tossing's garage. Mike said Lynn sounded like the kind of girl you would want for a friend. None of us had cars, we said.     

It was at Mike's I got my first art lessons, like which colors were fugitive and what acid free paper was. Mike was the one who asked Lynn to pose for me, and said I should draw from life as much as possible. Lynn was my first model. The portrait I did wasn't the greatest but Lynn liked it and asked for it. I didn't know it then and wouldn't know it till five years later but I had just taken a step to becoming an artist.