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Starving Artist
Previously written in 2004
Old Man Henry trudged through the soft, loose sand to his destination on the beach. Once he arrived, he began setting up: he placed an easel, a toolbox full of paints and brushes, and a wooden chair.(hard “p”) Then he set down his portfolio case and carefully unzipped it, pulling out a canvas double-wrapped in plastic to protect it from contact with inanimate objects, sunlight, or unauthorized dust particles. He meticulously peeled back each of the five pieces of tape to reveal his painting.
He gingerly placed the unfinished piece of art on the easel and gazed upon its glory. As his face began to take on the smug expression of pride, he turned away to reset. He wanted to pluck out his eyes and find a neurosurgeon to rewire the part of his brain that derived selfish satisfaction from the artwork. For his enjoyment was not the purpose of this painting.
After a breath, he looked back at the view with unbiased eyes. He double- and triple-checked, comparing each stroke to the original artwork crafted by God’s hand.
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Old Man Henry opened his toolbox, grabbed a tube of yellow ochre, a small bottle of linseed oil, and a small brush, and arranged them neatly next to his palette. For this was all he would need. He squeezed, poured, and mixed, then he sat. He sat and he sat. He waited. He didn’t know exactly when it would happen, but sometime soonish, that dune ahead and a little to his left would cast the shrinking shadow he needed to capture. And then, the masterpiece would be complete.
“Once upon a time, there lived this old ass man.” It was Victor, or the “overseer of the beach.” He wore a flowing, all-white outfit that made him look like a black man on a cruise. But, who knows? These days, kids get paid for doing anything, everything, and nothing.
“Not today, Victor. Swear to God. I’m almost done, and if you make me miss the perfect moment–”
“Relax, old man. I just want to tell you a tale in celebration of your soon-to-be-accomplished goal and whatnot.”
The old man relaxed, for who could resist a story from Victor?
“So… Once upon a time, there lived this old-ass man. Technically, he was on point as far as artists go. He’d set up on the beach and paint whatever people wanted, on whatever they wanted it painted on. A portrait of a family pet on a tote bag? Sure. A kid’s name on a T-shirt? No problem. An intricate reproduction of the Sistine Chapel, complete with tapestry, on a sand dollar?(“P” poppin, “tote” bag, juicy mouth) He’d make two—one for the sister as well. I’ve even seen him paint a man’s face on that same man’s face. You know—anything for a buck.
“But like all artists who try to shove their passion into a career, he started questioning where the line between 'independent and genuine' ended, and where 'commercial and sellout' began. Before long, he stopped considering himself a 'real' artist.
"One night, God came to him in a dream. The Almighty spoke unto him, saying, ‘Make no more artwork for others until you create a painting that is important to you.’
"The old man said, ‘How am I supposed to do that, God? I’ve gotta eat.’
"God replied, ‘Do you believe in the one who gave you life?’
"And of course, the old man said ‘Yes.’ So, when he woke up, he pondered, ‘What is important to me?’
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"He thought and walked. He walked and thought. What was important to him? He wrestled with this frustratingly simple question all day as he wandered around the neighborhood, ignoring waves from the locals. He walked to the beach and down the coastline. He walked and thought for so long, that he didn’t even realize that night had fallen again behind him, and the day was before him, the sun was now rising by his side. And as that beautiful ball of renewal rose in the eastern sky, he looked down the shore toward what an artist would call a 'vanishing point' and that’s when he saw it."
“‘Puntos Cardinales,’” he said.
“Puntos Cardinales?” the Old Man interrupted.
"Puntos Cardinales," Victor continued, "where the sky meets the sea, meets the land. Or God. In His representational form, of course. The land He created and gave man dominion over, the ocean that brings forth life—an ever-replicating invention—and the sky to show God's limitless... well, limitless everything."
"Oh, that brain of yours, Victor," the old man said.
"What? It’s the truth."
"Truthish."
"Due to the presence of perception, interpretation, and perspective, every recounted event is 'truthish.'"
"Alright," the old man said, "anyway."
"Anyway," Victor continued, "the old man was a local celebrity due to his creation of intimate, customized artwork throughout the community. So when the townsfolk heard about his new endeavor, they all met him on the beach to celebrate the start of this new excursion.
"Men, women, and children, shopkeepers and restaurateurs, turtles, dolphins, and cats all gathered around the old man as he set up his canvas, easel, and art supplies. He dipped his brush into—what was it—a brownish-orangish color, I believe artists call it 'raw sienna,' and slowly approached the blank canvas."
There he stood, with the poise and regal stoicism of a statue of Michelangelo, reaching out to make the first mark on the Sistine Chapel (had there been a statue of the famous artist sculpted). His audience held their breath. He inched closer and closer, and they leaned in more and more until… a single stroke was added to the gesso-covered surface.
The people cheered. Someone released balloons. Two young boys high-fived. A timid bachelor proposed to his on-again, off-again girlfriend. And as they celebrated, the old man began to pack his things.
As the excitement of the joyous occasion died down, little Cindy Lewis, the granddaughter of the old man’s very first customer, approached him.
"Old Man Hen—Harry. Old Man Harry. Mr. Old Man Harry, where are you off to?"
"I’m done for the day, dear. I’m going home," the old man said.
Henry had to laugh. He remembered that day fondly.
Throughout the year, the old man would paint. He would paint and paint. Paint and paint. But only—*and I repeat, only*—if the scene before him was as perfect as it had been on the day of that golden sunrise. If a cloud he didn’t like crossed his path, he’d pack up and go. If a rogue wave distorted a gathering of seashells, he wouldn’t work. Hell, if a tiny ant walked across the sand, leaving its small footprints, he would call it a day. With so many variables in play, it’s a wonder he managed to work as many days as he did. But don’t doubt him. When one does something for the being who has given him thoughts, it is always done with complete honesty.
“If he was tired, he painted. If he was sick, he painted. There was one time the man became so focused on a particular patch of sand in the distance that he forgot to eat for twelve days. He just stood there, staring at this spectacular color—one no man had yet managed to recreate in tubes of pigment, binder, and solvent. He must have spent the equivalent of eight days mixing and mixing. On the thirteenth day, he finally got the color perfectly. He dipped his brush in the paint, added it to the artwork, and then collapsed, dead from starvation.”
Victor stopped. Old Man Henry sat in his wooden chair, smiling, arms crossed over his stomach. It took him five whole seconds to catch up to Victor’s silence.
“What?!” Old Man Henry exclaimed. “I die?! What kind of abrupt nonsense is—”
Then he saw it. The scene ahead was picture-perfect. Old Man Henry jumped up, dipped his paintbrush in the last color, and approached the canvas. He was shaking. Old Man Henry was nervous! You would be too if you could only paint now and then, for brief moments of time ranging from a few minutes to a few hours.
“There,” Old Man Henry said with a smile. He turned to Victor. “How’s that for ‘Puntas Cardinals’ or whatever the hell you call it?”
He turned back to admire his work, glancing at the scene, minus the square masterpiece that blocked a small part of the view. But the painting was gone!
“What in the name of J. Edgar Hoover’s left test—”
“Ah, forget about that,” Victor said, throwing an arm around the old man and gently guiding him away. “You didn’t let me finish my story.”
“So after the old man died, the townsfolk came together to figure out what to do with the beloved man’s unfinished artwork. They wanted to keep it close to the beach, in the spirit of nostalgia. They decided the best place for it was the restaurant across the street. The old man ate there often, he had been good friends with the owner, and there was a space on the wall that was the perfect size for it.”
“It made for a great story piece—the last artwork of a community staple. Townsfolk would often sit in the booth underneath the painting and share stories about how Old Man Harry touched their life in one way or another.
“One day, the restaurant owner opened his diner and wouldn’t ya know it the painting had been finished, in the exact style of the deceased at that! Some believe the restaurant owner did his best to complete the artwork himself to rustle up more business through the apparent phenomenon. Others believe it was the posthumous act by the dearly departed himself, however, that goes. But now you and I know the truth.”
The old man lifted his head. In his befuddled daze, Victor had walked him across the street from the beach to his good friend’s restaurant. They stood on the sidewalk and looked in at the finished painting hanging on the wall.
“Puntas Cardinales,” the old man whispered.
“Blasphemy!” Victor said “That’s a mere copy. Come on. They’re waiting for you to sign the original.”
“Where?”
Victor looked up to the sky above. The old man followed his eyes.
“Man,” Victor said, “This is gonna make a great story.”