To Paint is to Dream

Preston slowly exits Ferguson Art Gallery with his portfolio tucked under his arm. The passing crowd pays no attention to the man in the shabby brown suit with his head hanging low. Preston’s breathing grows heavier with each passing second until he finally explodes with rage. Everyone scatters as he flings his artwork onto the pavement and begins to stomp on it. Spittle flies from his lips as he curses the gallery for their short-sightedness.

As his anger subsides, he looks around, embarrassed by his public display of emotion.  Sheepishly, Preston begins to pick up his destroyed possessions. A young girl stops to help and gasps as she sees a lovely landscape with a large hole in the center. She hands the painting to Preston, “I’m so sorry. I hope things get better for you.”  Preston tries to respond but cannot speak. He only nods.

He shuffles back to the car and places his life’s work onto the back seat. Wiping away a tear with a frayed cuff, he flops down behind the steering wheel.

He sighs, “What am I doing wrong? What is it that I’m missing? My work looks just as good as everybody else’s. Why can’t I get recognized?” Preston sighs again and thinks, “I know what I need. I need a drink! I’m off to Clancey’s.”

The entrance to Clancey’s is down a narrow side street that looks more like an alleyway. Each time the door opens, the gay Irish music reverberates off the buildings across the way, filling the air with fun and laughter.

Clancey enjoys watching his patrons sing and laugh until he notices a dark cloud slither in and park itself on the corner stool of the bar.  Clancey places a glass before the young man and pours in some Hennessy’s brandy. “What’s the matter, Preston? Another bad showing?”

Preston grumbles, “The hell with them!” and tosses down his drink in one gulp. The brandy burns as it slides down the back of his throat, causing Preston to wince.

“What is it, Clancey? You’ve seen my work. Is it that I can’t paint?”

Clancey pours a little more brandy into the glass. “You’re a fine artist, Preston. Flawless in your detail, every stroke perfect, if you ask me. But…” Preston’s eyes narrow as he leans toward his barkeeper friend. “But what?”

Clancey rings up the cost of a beer. “Well, you are just as good as any other painter, but I can’t help thinking that might be part of the problem.”

Preston shakes his head, eyebrows arched. “What do you mean?”

“I think the galleries may have enough of those types of artists. Have you ever considered quitting the Bob Ross landscape style and creating something uniquely you?”

Preston ponders while swirling the amber liquid around in his glass.  “I’m not sure I understand. Can you give me an example?”

“An example, uh?” Clancey draws a Guinness from the tap and slides it down the bar. He dries his hands on the apron around his waist as he tries to devise an example. “Now, we all know that rich people sometimes spend their money on silly things they consider art, like that bloke who taped a banana to the wall or who paint a canvas all black.  There’s no true talent in that, but it is unique. I’m not suggesting this is what you should do.  I’m trying to show the vastness of the world of art.   Your work is immensely detailed, but I must ask, “Where is Preston Richards in the composition?” When I was a young lad in Ireland, my dear old granny used to paint. One day, while watching her, she asked me what I thought painting was. I told her she was making pretty pictures. She admitted I was partially correct but considered art this way-- “To paint is to dream.” Granny thought if you could paint what is important to you and catch that on the canvas, you are sharing yourself with the world.”

Preston smirks.  “ So, my paintings have no soul. Is that it?”

“Preston, your art tells us that the artist can paint but not who the artist is. Why not go home and think about it?”

Preston throws back the rest of his brandy and laughs. “Clancey! You make one hell of a good counselor, you know that?” As Preston leaves, Clancey shouts, “If you think I’m good, you should talk to me barber!”

Preston arrives at his Eastside studio apartment and begins fumbling with his keys. The apartment door across from his opens, and he hears the kind voice of Mrs. Adelstein. “So, how did your appointment with the gallery go?”

Preston smiles over his shoulder while unlocking his door. “Not so good, Mrs. Adelstien, but thanks for asking.” Mrs. Adelstein brushes off her apron as she leans against her doorjam. “That’s too bad.  What did they say?” Preston turns and rests his back against the hallway wall. “Oh, they thanked me for coming in and added that perhaps we could talk again in the future. But to tell you the truth, I think they don’t like my subject matter.”

“Landscapes? What’s not to like about landscapes? I love paintings of snowy mountains!”

Preston pushes off the wall. “That’s nice of you to say so, but perhaps they are right. Maybe I need a new perspective that will set me apart, you know?   I don’t know what that might be, but I’ll consider it. In the meantime.”  Preston retrieves a 9x10 canvas of a snowy mountain he’s painted and gives it to Mrs. Adelstein. “Hang on to that. It might be worth something someday.”

Preston has changed into his jeans, a patchwork of different paint colors, and a t-shirt. He strolls to his work area next to a giant three-pane glass window that allows the sun to shine all day. At night, it offers a spectacular view of the city. His workbench is a collage of paint tubes and brushes. Even his cleaning rags look like works of art.

Preston pulls himself up onto the tall stool that he uses for painting. Across from him is his easel loaded with a 24x36” blank canvas. He moves it from landscape to portrait, then leans back. The canvas has been blank for weeks, but now Preston is looking at it with a different eye. After a minute or so, he sighs. “Nope!  Still can’t see a thing.”

Preston hops off the stool and heads to the kitchen alcove to get a beer. Grabbing the fridge handle, he notices the off-white color of the door. It reminds him of something, something he has seen recently. He suddenly recalled the sidewalk in front of Ferguson’s, where he threw down his portfolio. Preston stands frozen in place as the image fills in all the minor details. The grayish color of the concrete, a cigarette butt, a wad of gum, plus a weed growing out of a crack. He smiles and mutters, “Still thinking in landscapes!” He sips his beer. “But still.”

Preston returns to the workbench and squeezes out dobs of watercolor paints into plastic paint trays: cadmium yellow, bright red, prussian blue, sap green, and some titanium white. Next, he fills two containers with clear water. Because of the canvas’s unusual size, he begins with a two-inch brush. He blends the yellow, red, and blue until he achieves a black color. Preston then adds enough white to create a light gray. He then paints the sidewalk with all its litter, flaws, and weeds. The sidewalk is the lower half of the painting, and the upper half is the brick storefront of the Ferguson Gallery. The bricks are a brownish red, with a few chips in the bricks here and there. Preston uses a blow dryer to dry the painting. Exhausted after hours of intense detail work, Preston leans back and revues his art.  “Well, it’s different! Even Clancey would have to admit that.”   He paces back and forth and, at one point, picks up his small Filbert brush to make some touch-ups but decides against it.

Preston sighs, “It’s good, but something is missing.” He sits in his recliner and runs his fingers through his hair. Suddenly, he sees exquisite dark brown eyes in his mind’s eye. Preston bolts up, shouting, “The girl! That’s it, the girl was there!”

Preston rushes to his workbench and grabs a number five flat brush. “What was it about those eyes that kept me from speaking?  I remember them being an amazingly rich dark brown, So dark they looked black. Their intensity was accented by the ability to absorb light, adding to their allure. It captured a mysterious phenomenon of seeing the purity of the girl’s soul.

Preston works feverishly, bending, mixing, adding warmth and depth, trying to express in color all the emotions he received when the young girl spoke.  “I’m so sorry. I hope things get better for you.”

Preston collapes back onto his stool. He stares at his artwork in stunned amazement. There before him is a piece of work he could have only ever dreamed of creating. It seemed to stand out from the canvas as if projecting itself in all its beauty. But her eyes have the maximum impact—their almond shape, the darkness of color, the texture, the depth. If you stared at them long enough, you would swear you saw them flutter and blink. After twelve hours of nonstop painting, Preston grins widely at his achievement.

The following morning, Preston strides into Ferguson’s Art Gallery with renewed confidence to present his painting “To Paint is to Dream.”