As much as I would like to believe that the dark grey velvet curtain that is my seasonal clinical depression has lifted because some aged prick that calls himself a weatherman and pronounced that it is now spring, I know in my heart of hearts that I have a few more weeks of winter. The sound of spring's first robins calling for mates only helps to entertain my thought that I made it another year and how I could possibly fuck the whole summer up.
Nothing about the past winter was especially brutal. I had absolutely no excuse to get some creative shit done. But, as I sit alone in my studio looking at piles of empty dollar store pudding cups, I have come to the realization that maybe I should give the art shit up. I mean, I am one step below working at Starbucks part-time.
When I started down this path as a full-time artist, I gave myself rules that I would follow.
1: I would have to pay for my own art supplies.
2: I would treat my art as a business.
3: I would not let anyone take advantage of me.
My wife added her own rules for me....
1: No sleeping at the studio.
2: I would have to find a way to pay for my studio.
Within the first year, I broke every rule. I have really tried. Hand to God, I tried.
This week I learned some news that forced me to take a good hard look at my chosen life as an artist.
If you are a follower of my blog, you know that last summer I organized a pien air oil painting group. Our painting klan met several times but fall brought colder weather and we decided to take a seasonal siesta. Of all that took part, we always had a few core regulars that brightened the landscape. Kay was an older woman who enjoyed hugs. Wayne was Kay's son and was at first very sceptical of our painting hobby, but soon warmed to it. Bob was a gentle soul who always seemed to have a creative side trapped within him. Finally there was Susan, she brought an air of seriousness and professionalism to our outings.
Well, I had not been in contact with anyone from our group since last October and had not thought of painting landscapes until last Tuesday. I was a little drunk and alone in my studio when I got a bug up my ass and felt like drunk dialing people. For the life of me, I could not find one phone number of any of my old girlfriends and had to settle with calling Bob from my painting group. Bob had always been friendly to me and I thought it would be fun to shoot the shit for a while.
When you are drunk, you never know if people think you are a complete asshole. Even though it was well past two in the morning, when Bob answered the phone, I don't think he thought I was an asshole. To be honest, I think he was awake and not alone. The whole time we were talking, I could hear "Who is it?" in the background. We talked about the past summer and art. He asked if I was doing anything interesting and I told him that my entire winter was a waste and that I didn't do anything but try and finish my Presidential Pantyhose Engraved Booze Bottles. (They are still available on Ebay if you are interested)
Bob asked if I needed help. I told him that having someone else engraving the bottles might be cheating. That was not what he meant. He told me that he had been following my Facebook posts and thought that I may need help in another way. It was not for another three day after the phone call that I understood what he meant. Oh well, he dropped the offer when I asked if he was ready to paint landscapes and get the gang back together. The phone went silent.
"Bob? You there?"....
"Topher, Kay died".
Maybe it was the pint of Wild Turkey in me, but I began to cry.
"When? ..How?", I sobbed.
Bob told me that Kay died just after Christmas (they think). He told be that her son Wayne had planned on using the money earned from selling his NASCAR memorabilia to spend the winter in Daytona and attend the big race in February. Wayne had left for Florida Christmas Eve, right after opening his gifts with his mother and enjoying her Holiday ham dinner.
"When Wayne returned in late February he found Kay dead in her trailer bedroom", Bob added.
Bob told me that Wayne thinks Kay suffered a heart attack while playing bowling on her Wii. All the neighbors thought she had gone south with Wayne since her car was gone and never thought of checking up on her. While anyone that did call only got voicemail because Wayne took their only cell phone with him to Florida and left it at a Waffle House in Lima, Ohio.
I was still sobbing from the news of Kay's death when Bob gently reminded me that it was three thirty in the morning and he had to work at eight. I apologized and told him that we should keep in touch. Bob's last words to me were "Get help". Again the idea help didn't phase me and I told him "good-night" as I hung up.
When someone dies, there is an unwritten rule that you need to drink booze. So, I poured a fresh one for Kay. The sharp sting of cheap booze mixed with the saline of my own tears. The next thing I remember was my cell phone ringing. It was my wife and she wanted to know if I was planning on "Sleeping at home this evening". Before I could explain to her that I didn't think I should drive and that Kay was dead, the phone went dead. She was not interested in the fact that I had AGAIN broke her first rule of me becoming an artist and around eight the next morning she left a message on my phone reminding me of her second rule.
Living the life as an artist is the hardest thing I have ever done. Spring is in the air. I think I may give myself one more summer for my art to blossom.
Kay would have wanted it that way.
