Frank

by Fred Petrovsky

  Anyway, what I do isn’t fine art. Never seen it that way. For me, brushing pigment on a canvas is who I am. My identity is entirely wrapped up in it. That people pay grotesque amounts of money for what I do is something that still amazes me. What’s that all about? The materials that go into one of my paintings can’t be more than a hundred dollars or so. But I cannot live without my art, and it’s been that way since I was very young.

  I always have an answer when people ask me how and why I became an artist. That is simple for me to articulate. But if they ask me what my paintings mean, well, I just turn and walk away. My feelings about a particular canvas are meaningless. My inspiration for the work, or the feelings I’m trying to convey, are valid only for myself. I find an idea. Always in different places. While driving. Hiking. Listening to people talk. Usually, though, I find stimulus in unexpected places. These ideas come to me in flashes.

  For example, I remember once, last year, I went grocery shopping for Elly. She was cooking and suddenly discovered to her horror that she was out of a critical ingredient. I tried to convince her to leave it out, but she called me stupid and pushed me out of the house. I don’t remember the ingredient. Maybe it was capers. I think it was. Doesn’t matter. I was going up and down aisles, getting completely lost, when I came upon a woman. She was very old. I remember she was wearing a blue dress and a white shawl. She wore a scarf over her head and she had sort of a hump on her back. She was reaching for a can of peas. She moved slowly, her arm rising haltingly. She sensed my presence and looked at me. Just for a second. Only a glance. Then she put the peas in her basket and turned away, pushing her cart. She sort of swung her body as she walked. Her shoulder caught my eye. Nothing was strange about it. Just a shoulder. But the way she hunched it up to put the peas in the cart made me understand something about her. It’s hard to explain. But I felt I knew her. Understood her. There was something universal about the woman. I imagined things that may not have pertained to her. Loneliness. Desperation. Hours of solitude sitting on a couch. She was someone’s daughter. Someone’s mother. Someone’s something. And whatever that “something” was, it was fading. I got all that from her shoulder. Sounds kinda silly, I know. But that’s what I took from her. I found Elly’s capers and rushed home to sketch that woman. But I changed her. In my world, she became a man. And he wasn’t in the grocery; he was on a bench below trees that had already dropped their leaves. He was tall and slim, perhaps a bit malnourished. But he had all the forlorn aura that I saw around the woman.

  The canvas took about six months to finish. During that time it became a technical thing. Like all my paintings. They start out as emotion and end up technique. Still, I never lose the moment of inspiration. The woman’s shoulder. That sort of thing. I can’t even describe what it means by the time I finish. But people want to know. What does that mean? What am I trying to say? That’s what they ask. And I always say the same thing to them: What does it mean to you? Because that’s exactly how I feel. Once I finish a canvas, it doesn’t belong to me. I created it, true. But when it’s done and hanging on a wall somewhere it belongs to whoever is looking at it. And that person’s belief about the painting is just as important as my own. Perhaps even more.

  But when they ask me why I became an artist, well, as I said, I lay the truth on them.

  I always liked drawing. I was a big doodler. It was fun. But, as a youth, being an artist wasn’t something you could really do. I was a normal kid. Not that I’m not normal now, but I did the things other kids did. Went to school. Played Little League. Went to summer camp. In fact, the only time I really did anything you could call creative was during regular art classes in school. Those once or twice a week hour-long sessions where you learned to draw perspective and draw color wheels. The fourth grade art teacher was very encouraging. I don’t think I ever heard her say a negative thing to any of us. Every drawing was “marvelous” or “unique” or “scrumptious” to her. She felt that many of my projects were worthy of the annual school awards program. I entered all my drawings, clay sculptures, and paintings in the contest.

  That year I won four first-place trophies in the competition. Totally unexpected. I remember a big ceremony at night in the auditorium where they announced the winners. And they kept calling me up to win top prizes. In every category. Something like that makes an impression on you. It made me feel happy. Made me feel like I was good at something. Special. And I guess it validated that part of me. Maybe I was just impressionable. When I went to bed that night I lined up the trophies on my desk. I lay in bed and shined my flashlight on them, sending sparkles exploding around the room, dancing across the ceiling.

  The day after the awards my father came home from work with a large, thin wooden box. My father was a wonderful man. He’s been gone for many years, but he looms large in my life. I think about him often. Miss him dearly. I watch old home movies of him and think how nice it would be if he were still here and we could just sit and watch TV together or go to a ballgame. He was just about the most perfect human being I’ve ever known. When he came home from work that night he came into my room with that box and handed it to me. I asked him what it was. He told me to open it. I laid it on my bed and released the latch to reveal rows and rows of colored pencils, chalks, and oil paints. A dozen brushes of different sizes were included, too, as were erasers and a sharpener. It was a gleaming, perfect display, and I remember that I didn’t say a word, just fell against my father with open arms and hugged him tightly.

  I used the art set often, but always kept it neat. When I was finished with a pencil it went back in its original slot. The oils were kept in the same order. Sometimes I’d take everything out and count them, dusting them, making sure nothing was missing. I kept it under my bed and felt good knowing it was within reach. Right there, it was all over for me. I knew my mission and where my life would lead. I think I was the only fourth grader who really knew what he wanted to do with his life.

  I don’t know if my father ever really understood just how important his gift was and how it set the rest of my life in motion. When he got sick, though, I tried to tell him. I brought the paint set to the hospital and made sure he saw it. I told him to get well soon so I could paint his portrait. I never used the paint set again after he died, but I still have it. Other than myself and Elly though, the only person who knows about it is Howard Lavery. I showed it to him once. He seemed to understand its importance.

  I don’t know how or why Howard became such an important figure in my life. It’s one of those go-figure things that have happened to me so often over the years. I can’t explain it. It just happened. Now I can’t seem to function without him. And I mean that quite literally. When he disappeared I came to a complete standstill. Until then, I didn’t know exactly what he meant to me. I knew he was important, of course. Both professionally and personally. But when he was gone I was completely useless. I couldn’t create. I spent all my time working on old paintings. He was my muse.

  I cornered his son, Neil, and managed to get to see Howard. It was a brief meeting, but one that has shaped my life in a new direction. I can’t put it into words. But I’ve made use of it in my art. After seeing Howard, I went straight home and took out the biggest canvas I had and started in. A self-portrait. I’d never attempted to capture myself before except for a few rudimentary exercises in school. But this portrait was different, this was a deep, swirling morass with me at its center. It was a gyrating black hole, and I was tumbling into it. I gave myself a long neck, exaggerated my beard, and spent a great deal of time on my arms and hands as they attempted to grab onto something.

  I knew what I was reaching for: Howard, of course. He was like an alien embryo inside me, spreading his tentacles throughout my organs, latching on to me, becoming a part of me. Elly was disturbed by the work. So was I. How had I allowed another human being to become so crucial to my existence? Why did I feel so empty and useless without him?

  Elly could sense that I was floundering. She to
ok me away from my studio for a few days. We drove to the coast and stayed at a small bed and breakfast in Harston Bay, a quaint, now-defunct fishing village that was now home mostly to flower growers and odd shops. We walked along the shore the first day, then spent some time in the many antiques stores that lined the old wharf. At night we sat outside with other guests and sipped iced tea and told stories. Then we retired to a big brass bed that was too soft. There, Elly cuddled up close and told me that she loved me.

  We slept in very late the next morning. Probably could have stayed in bed all day. That’s how tired I was. I think it was noon by the time we left the comfy confines of the bed and breakfast, and only then because Elly dragged me out of bed and into the shower. She took charge of me. She brought me to a fishing museum a few miles up the road, which was very delightful. It was situated in an old home, with wood floors and tiny rooms throughout. We held hands and drifted by displays. Neither of us was inherently interested in fishing, but the smallness of the museum and librarylike atmosphere made it endearing.

  Elly had some tricks up her sleeve. Directly next to the museum was an art gallery, and next to that another. It was this small town’s equivalent of gallery row.

  “I don’t want to go in here,” I said.

  “Come on, it’ll be fun.”

  “No, really. I don’t think I can take it.”

  “Why? Because you’re not creating? Because you’re missing Howard? You’re an artist. We’re going in here. I don’t care what you say.”

  It was less of a gallery than a craft shop. Throughout were shelves with ceramic bowls and glasses from local artists. My attention was captured by a wall that was completely devoted to a series of very small oil canvases all by the same artist, and all depicting the same quiet scene of a small blue boat without a sail drifting near the shore. There were twelve of these paintings, all showing the same boat from a different angle. This one from the shore. That one from the sea looking toward land. The next one as if the artist was in the boat. And so on. Each was tagged with a small label that carried its title and price. BOAT AND TIDE, $75. BOAT AND SEA, $75. BOAT AND SWELL, $75. BOAT AND SMALL WAVE, $75. Each was signed in the lower right corner in a careful, tiny script: FALCONER.

  I felt myself being drawn into this repetitive world of boats and water and wondered what had possessed the artist.

  “You like them, don’t you?”

  The voice had come from an incredibly old man who appeared at my side.

  “What?” I asked, startled, pulling away from the wall.

  “The paintings,” he said again. “I saw you looking at the paintings. They are quite amazing, aren’t they?”

  I looked around for Elly, but she was gone. “The paintings? Well, yes. They’re very nice.”

  “Done by a lady in town. She lives in one of those stilt bungalows down the beach.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Yes, they’re very nice.”

  “I saw you come in. Your wife is a good-looking woman.”

  “Did you see her?”

  “She’s in the back with my wife. I’ve got a pretty one, too. I think they’re cooking up some coffee or something. I’m Emile Zemilpucker. Glad to meet you.”

  We shook hands.

  “Nice to meet you,” I said.

  “A lot of people look at these paintings the same way you do. Just stand there like that. Can’t seem to tear themselves away from them. Don’t know why. I think they kind of capture you is what I think. It’s quiet inside the frames there. That’s what I’ve come to understand.”

  “I see,” I said. “Yes, they are nice. You said they were painted locally?”

  “I said that, didn’t I?” he said, sounding a little irritated with me. “Annie Falconer. Lives not too far away. She’s good. But I wish she would give me some more variety. If you know what I mean.”

  “I do,” I said.

  Elly came into the room holding a large, steaming mug. She was joined by a wrinkled but well-kept woman I guessed to be Mrs. Zemilpucker.

  “There you are,” said Elly. “I see you met Emile. This is his wife, Bonnie. Isn’t that a pretty name?”

  “It is,” I said.

  “They’ve invited us to stay for lunch.”

  They really were a very nice old couple. Emile put a CLOSED, WE’LL OPEN AGAIN AFTER LUNCH sign in the window and we retreated to the back room where Elly poured me some chocolate-flavored coffee and we had lunch. Bonnie whipped up some salami sandwiches.

  We were sitting there, eating and sipping coffee, when Elly looked at me and said a bit artificially, “Earl, did you know that Emile and Bonnie have run this gallery for thirty years? Isn’t that amazing?”

  I nodded. “Thirty years? Congratulations.”

  “They’re thinking of retiring,” said Elly. “Would you believe it? Wouldn’t that be a shame? After all those years, to close this place?”

  “In the scheme of things I guess it’s not too long,” said Emile. “But it’s long enough for us. We’ve got some grandkids we want to be near. We don’t have many years left, you know.”

  “Oh,” I said, letting the realization wash over me. Elly had set me up. She’d purposely brought me here. “You’re thinking of selling the place, are you?”

  “That’s right,” said Bonnie. “We hate to. Really hate to do it. But it’s time. Actually, it’s been time for a while now. We don’t want to part with the place. But we’ll do it if we find the right folks to take it over.”

  “Elly,” I said, “you wouldn’t know any buyers, would you?”

  * * * *

  We didn’t buy the gallery. And I wasn’t mad at Elly for attempting to maneuver me into the purchase. I don’t think she wanted to live there anyway. But I was touched that she had made the effort.

  “I love you,” I told her. “But it’s not home.”

  “I know,” she said, and kissed me.

  I didn’t walk out of the gallery empty-handed, however. I bought up every one of the Falconer paintings. Go figure, right? I couldn’t leave without them, but didn’t know what I’d do with them.

  Once back home, though, I unwrapped the Falconer paintings, lined them all up along the floorboard and stood there looking at all the little boats.

  That’s when I called Catherine Lavery and told her that I wouldn’t let her off the phone until she’d agreed to sell me Howard’s gallery, which she did.

  It made sense to me on so many levels. A place to hang the Falconer paintings. A place to call my own. The next best thing to having Howard back in my life.

  30: Neil Lavery

  I sat with my dad a while yesterday and tried to figure out what was bothering me. As if I thought he could help me uncover my demons.

  He was not in very good spirits. A lot of two- or three-word answers to my questions. That wasn’t like him. Usually he would go on and on, talking in elaborate sessions, his hand trembling and talking so fast that it was sometimes difficult to follow him. But today his favorite sentences were “yes” and “no.”

  I gave him one of his injections and told him anyway. About me and feeling lost, and not knowing where I was going in my life. Baldwin buying the gallery. A family I’d unwittingly pushed away a little. I was neglecting them. Not in a terrible way that couldn’t be patched with some effort, but it was a discernible slippage all the same.

  It was nice sitting with Dad even if he didn’t say a lot. I liked being there. It was cozy in a crazy kind of way. I’d grown fairly used to the way he looked. I mean his new body. I’d gotten over being weirded out by it, though I still couldn’t help looking at him and thinking about the man whose body looked alive but was really dead.

  My mom sat with us, too, and it was like old times. My old nuclear family. I felt like a child with them, as if any minute I’d be reminded of curfew, to feed the dogs and clean my room. Was there something for which I would have to seek their permission? I was a kid. Definitely inferior. Couldn’t help thinking this.

  But now as I sat w
ith my parents I felt sad and afraid. Sad because one day, sooner or later, they would be gone. I never thought about that much when I was younger. No reason to. You never really think about your parents dying when you’re busy running around here and there, talking to them and having holidays and everything. I never thought about it before the accident. Now, though, the subject visits me often. Sometime in the future one of those calls in the middle of the night will wake me with news. A turn for the worse. A car accident. A fall. Five, ten, twenty years or twenty seconds from now. One day they won’t be here. That’s the part about being afraid. Lately, I’ve been having a hard time with my own mortality. I don’t know how I will handle such solitude. A funny thought, since being independent had been my goal for so long.

  I’ve been thinking what a waste I’ve made of my life so far. I pretend that isn’t true. I look at my children with pride. But the feeling doesn’t last long. I can’t help falling into a circular mind fuck that tells me over and over that I’m lost on this planet. I’ve done nothing worthwhile. And nothing is in the works to change it. I feel sorry for myself and about as trapped as my father inside that skull of his. He can’t go anywhere. Can’t do anything. He drifts off more and more now, and I wonder what his reality is like. Can’t be less meaningful than my own.

  When I was a kid I secretly dreamed that I was special, that I was destined to be an important person. Make a difference. Be famous. For what, I didn’t know. But these private dreams enveloped me, spoke to me, and I expected greatness to whisk me away beyond the next corner. But it never came. I melted away into the hordes of other people trying to find their way, years slipping by.

  I got up from my father’s side and went into the kitchen to get something to eat. My mother followed.

  “He’s not doing so well today,” I said, peering inside the refrigerator.