Four little stories

My first big commission was to illustrate a book of poetry.

Back then I didn't think a church going person would ever cheat me, and I didn't think twice before I handed over 15 pencil drawings to the fellow who hired me.  He said he'd mail me the check.  Two years went by and I tracked him down and asked for payment, or to have the art returned.  He accused me of trying to take the food right from his children's mouths.  He said he'd fallen on hard times.  I said I'd just take the drawings back and forget about the payment.  "But I love them!" he lamented. I never got the art, but I got the hard earned lesson of the need of having a contract.  Also, a backbone is helpful.

*****

The next commission I remember was a portrait of a woman's grandparents.  They were Native American, and dressed in elaborate tribal tunics.  I drew the 2 x 3 foot portrait in pencil, and soon learned that $65 had been far too little to compensate me for the dozens of hours spent drawing tiny shells and tassels, and achieving a crisp reproduction of their faces.

When I brought the drawing to her she took one careless glance, and without a word about the image (or of thanks, for that matter), she took the drawing, gave me the money, then shut the door.

*****
There was a third, really involved commission.  It involved a contract (now that I had learned my lesson), and adequate payment.  I felt like I had done everything right.  It was a huge painting (for me) of a mountain lake with a man standing near the edge.  The painting had been commissioned by the man's employees, and with the covert help of his wife they had delivered several reference photos to me to use.  I even painted small "thumbnail" paintings to show what the final painting would roughly look like, getting signed approval on the contract, and set out.  With two little boys and one very pregnant belly, I did my best.  It took me a while, but once it was done, I was very pleased with the final painting.

I walked to the office to deliver the painting to the woman who had hired me.  Upon seeing it, she paused, raised an eyebrow, and said "Oh,  that's, uh... nice."

"You hate it." I pointed out with a questioning tone.

"Oh, I don't hate it." she replied as though to clarify that what she felt was slightly less strong than actual hate.

"Oh my gosh!"  I said with eyebrows raised, "You HATE it!"

"Well, I mean, I just thought it would be brighter, is all.  And that maybe there would be some flowers in the grass, and maybe, like, a critter, or some bird footprints..."

The words "bird footprints" echoed over and over in my head.  I felt dizzy.  And small.  And bad... bad at art.  I took the painting back home.  I spent hours making it brighter, adding little flowers, and yes, birdy footprints.

I learned later that the dentist didn't like the painting.  It was lovely and all, but apparently in the reference photo I had been given he was wearing his fishing hat, not his hiking hat.  It looked off to him.  No matter.  By that time I didn't like it either.

*****

Several years ago I was at a midwives' convention with my friend Francine.  We had a booth and were selling our birth, pregnancy and breastfeeding themed artwork.  A young father came up to our booth near the end of the day.  Born a generation too late, he was the perfect hippie.  As he looked over my paintings, he stopped on one.  He stood staring, and then gently picked it up.  He asked how much.  I told him $20.  "Are you kidding?  That's not enough!"

 He just stared at it, and in a moment he looked up and I saw that he had tears in his eyes.  "It's just like the day our son was born.  I love it."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled $20 bill, and said, "I don't know where we're sleeping tonight, but I know I have to have this."

Now, I'm not saying that one should ever opt for artwork over shelter.  But that day, I learned that I could make art that people loved.  Not everyone, but one person could.  I also learned that they could love it at first sight, without even telling me what to paint.  No plan, no commission, no contract, no thumbnail.  Just my intuition.

I have been on the receiving end of that process; I've seen a piece of art that calls me, sings to me, asks to come home with me.  Vincent price once said, "I have never regretted any of the art that I have ever bought; only the art I haven't."