The Art Critic

John Gideon Edwards is an art critic extraordinaire. Well, perhaps cynic extraordinaire is more appropriate. He is also a snob. His father was a curatorial assistant at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York for many years.  John Edwards Sr. had grand ambitions for his son, hoping he would someday become a world-renowned artist. He enrolled him in the educational art program at the museum itself. Its purpose was to teach various techniques and methods while exposing children to the museum’s vast works of art. John Jr. excelled. After twelve years of study, he graduated at the head of his class.   His knowledge of art and the history of art surpassed all others. So it was in this vein he decided to become an art critic.

 John is a tall, slender forty-year-old man with an exemplary posture. He wears tailor-made suits, most dark in color. His shoes are Italian, his shirts are the finest linen, and his ties are all silk. He wears his hair straight back and well pomaded. John’s facial expression always suggests that he smells something offensive.

John and I were at an art gallery for a young artist’s first exhibit the other day. When the young man saw John enter, he was both thrilled and horrified at the same time. With a subtle wave of his hand, John approached the artist, asking in a monotone voice, “Is this your work?” The young man stammered, “Y-Y-Yes, Sir, it is.” From the inflection in his voice, you can almost hear him saying, “Your Majesty.” John does not look at any of the paintings individually but takes in the entire exhibit in one quick glance.

 He turns to the artist while fiddling with his diamond pinky ring. “What is your name?” “Richard Richards.” the artist answers. 

John pulls his eyebrows together, accenting the “I smell something sour” look. 

“Richard Richards?” he exclaims. “Your parents had about as much imagination in naming you as you have for your paintings.” Then, with a glint in his eye, he quips, “Well, never mind, I’m sure there are people out there that will take an interest in this.  “John pauses and continues with a swipe of his hand,” type of thing.” With that, John turned and left. Poor Mister Richards is left with his mouth gaped open. “Why that pompous ass!” he exclaimed. I tried patting his shoulder to soothe his ire. “ Now, now, my dear Mister Richards. Please try to take no offense, though I will admit John can be a bit crude.”

Pointing in the direction that John just exited, Richard bellowed, “Crude! That man didn’t even refer to my work as art! Instead, he called it some type of thing! That is a far cry from crude, Mr…, pardon me, but what is your name?” “Louis, Louis Langdon.”  Richards’s eyes grew large. “Louis Langdon?! Why isn’t that one of your paintings hanging over there?“

Langdon smiled. “Yes, it is. The Castle Kilkenny.  It was built in 1195 for the first Earl of Pembroke. It was an interesting study. Every day, I needed to start painting at the exact same time to keep the shadowing. It took me two years to complete.”

“I find it dreamlike. It pulls me in and makes me think about what living in those times must have been like.” Richards proclaims. Langdon bows slightly. “Thank you, but would you like to know what Mr. Edwards said about it? He rested his chin on his thumb and forefinger and drawled, “I see you’re into architecture now. I’ve often thought that’s what happens when a great artist runs out of ideas.” Langdon chuckled.  “I got a compliment and a slap in the face simultaneously.!”

Richards scrunched his forehead while scratching his chin. “And you say that you two are friends?”

“Yes! We went to art school together. However, the problem John ran into was that, despite his knowledge of art, he didn’t have the talent to paint. And to tell you the truth, I don’t think the problem is even that. I believe John has the capacity to be a great artist. He’s afraid of being a common artist, like you and me.  He feels as though he has failed his father.  However, you are correct that he has become much more arrogant, and I shall have to talk with him. If he continues along this path, soon no one will invite him to their galleries.  Now, Mr. Richards, I couldn’t help but notice that delightful painting of the field. It wouldn’t be for sale, perchance?” 

Richards smiles. “But of course! That’s how artists make money.” He retrieved the painting and handed it to Langdon. “It’s an 8x10 that I painted from a photo I took one day when I was out for a drive. I often paint from photos I’ve taken.” Langdon noticed on closer inspection that the painting was rich in detail. “Your wheat field looks most genuine, and I love the shadow cast upon it by a bird flying overhead out of view.” Richards points out a little field mouse nibbling on fallen wheat in the lower right-hand corner. “See, your man Edwards blew all this off.” Langdon nods his head. “I promise I will speak to him and try to get him to speak to you directly.” They finish their transaction, and then Langdon returns home.

                                                         …

Edwards has a standing reservation for breakfast at the Four Seasons, one of New York’s finest hotels. When Langdon walks in, he notices that Edwards has already ordered his meal, his usual eggs benedict, crisp bacon, and a hot cup of Dragon Pearl Jasmon tea.

“Good morning, John.” Langdon intones cheerfully as he pulls out his chair.

Edwards sips his tea, “I hope you don’t mind, but I was starving, so I ordered ahead.” Langdon smiles, “No, not at all. I can tell just by looking at you that you must have been fading away.” Edwards arches one brow without looking up from his morning paper.

When the waiter arrives, Langdon informs him,” “I’ll have what he’s having.” Edwards intervenes, “Put it on my tab.” Langdon thanks him. 

“John, I want to discuss something with you, so I’ll need your full attention.” Edwards dabs his lips with his napkin. Taking another sip of his tea, he encourages Langdon to proceed.

“John, about that young artist’s exhibit we attended the other day. I feel as though you were unnecessarily rude.” Edwards sighs deeply and returns to his paper. “Is that all?” “No, John! That is not all!” Langdon raises his voice a bit too loud. The couple at the next table turn to look. Edwards scowls, “Watch your tone, Louis, you’re embarrassing.”  Eyebrows arched, Langdonjesters with his open hands, “Well, that’s how I felt yesterday listening to you! I mean, really!” John snorts and rolls his eyes. “Comparing his work to art would have been like comparing Bob Ross to Monet.” Face flushed with annoyance, Louis presents the package he had brought and tears away the brown paper wrappings. “I bought this painting from Richards. At first glance, it looks like a simple field of wheat. But look at it, John. He has painted the wheat so realistically that you can imagine them swaying in the breeze. Furthermore, Richard included a shadow of a bird flying somewhere out of sight, giving direction as to where the light is coming from. He contrasts the other colors and blends them to reinforce that. It makes it seem alive!  Then, for fun, he added a little fieldmouse that was eating its lunch.  This is no Bob Ross! This is an example of a talented artist’s imagination. And you just fluffed it off as inferior. A distinguished critic like yourself can make or break a young artist’s career. But you never even gave him much of a chance. I believe you owe him an apology. Today is the last day of his showing. What do you say?”

Through steepled fingers, John glares at Langdon. “ And if I should refuse?” Langdon tightens his lips and sighs. “We’ve been friends for as long as I can remember. If you refuse to apologize and change your ways, I will see that you won’t be invited to an art showing in this town ever again. John’s eyes fill with rage as he snaps his fingers. “Check!”

                                                                …

An hour before the closing, Edwards and Langdon arrive at the museum. Edwards turns and sees that Langdon is still seated in the car. “Aren’t you coming, Louis?” 

Langdon shakes his head, “No, I feel this is something you should do on your own. I’ll be here when you return.” Pulling himself up to his full height, Edwards enters the exhibit.

Inside, Richards is having an animated chat with a woman reporter from the Evening Gazette. From the corner of his eye, he sees Edward’s approach but ignores him. Edwards waits somewhat patiently while fiddling with his pinky ring. At last, the young lady leaves and Richards turns to Edwards.

“Ah, Mr. Edwards, I see you have returned. Perhaps you wish to insult me some more?” Edwards drops his head but quickly snaps it up again. “No, Mr. Richards, I am here to apologize. You see, I was in rather bad spirits yesterday and would like a chance to study your art better and write a review.”

Richards studies the man before speaking. “You made me feel like a failure, Mr. Edwards. Perhaps if you tell me what could have placed you in such a foul mood, I might be able to forgive. Edwards purses his lips and swallows hard.  “You see, Mr. Richards, my father wanted me to be a great artist. He had me attend the Metropolitan Museum of Art for twelve years. I graduated at the top of my class, and my father was most proud of me. One of the first things he wanted me to do was to paint his portrait, which I did with great joy. It was on yesterday’s date that I presented it to him.”  

“And did he like it?”Richards queried. 

“As a matter of fact, no. My father told me it was the worst work he had ever seen!  He stormed out of the room. We haven’t spoken since. I am sorry for letting my personal life almost infect yours. Again, I would be grateful if you would allow me to review your art.

Richards extends his hand, “Yes, but only on one term.” Edwards knits his eyebrows together, “And what might that be?” Richards smiles while shaking hands, “That you will take up painting again.”