Golden Thread

Harry didn’t wait for his first art class to begin painting. He completed his first canvas before the instructor, Mr. Ambrose arrived. Several blanks leaned against the back of his chair.

Mr. Ambrose described his expectations. He required but one complete canvas by semester’s end. But he would decide what ‘complete’ meant.

“Paint what you like. Put your heart into it. Fill the canvas. This is Painting 101. Not cartooning. Not sketching. Explore the limits of the canvas. Use it. Whether a flower, a portrait, or a landscape, create a new universe. Free yourself from the confines of the known. Clearly portray the abstract or concrete. See. And whatever your subject, reveal something about it, and yourself, never seen.”

He looked upon the students peering from behind their easels. Some had experience. Others planned to dabble in a slough class.

“Questions?” As usual, no one responded. “Ladies and gentlemen, start your brushes. Paint!”

The students began in a flurry of activity. Loving the energy, he strolled the room, observing much and saying little.

Nearly invisible behind a large canvas and a bulging shoulder bag, a young woman stood in the doorway. Mr. Ambrose approached her.

“Am I too late? I’m sorry…”

He pointed to an easel at the back of the room, adjacent to Harry. “Not at all. You have all semester. Your name?”

“People call me, ‘Toots.’”

He smiled and checked her name on the roster.

She excused herself while navigating the maze of easels to the open spot. Mr. Ambrose summarized his opening statement.

Toots got organized. Here to paint, she brought what she needed. But, acutely aware of lost time, she needed to concentrate.

Harry watched her. Having already done two superior canvasses, he relaxed. His long legs stretched into Toot’s space. She glanced at them without comment.

Harry saw her look and retracted them. One knee bobbed up and down. His fingers tapped. Harry always appeared in motion or poised for the starting gun.

He said, “Can I help you set up? Toots, right?”

Embarrassed, she shook her head. He smiled but she focused on the assignment. Palette in hand, and a brush poised, she looked at the three foot canvas as if facing an opponent. Diving in, she applied the first daub of color, forest green. The stark, formless blotch floated in a sea of white.

Harry said, “Good start! The rest is easy.” Toots ignored him. “I already did two. Want to see?”

He held them up proudly. One suggested a sensuous strand of rising cigarette smoke. The other, a nude torso in chiaroscuro, lit by a single candle. Using bold, evocative strokes, Harry embraced the Japanese brush and ink style.

Toots returned to her canvas and dipped her brush in water. She aggressively spread the paint. Soon its boundaries had expanded to cover half the canvas.

She said, “It’s not a race, you know.”

Harry nodded. “Of course. I know.”

Toots came to paint, not chat. Silence met Harry’s attempts at conversation. He took the hint and nearly completed one more canvas before class ended for the day.

~

The class continued over weeks. Harry collected a dozen ‘finished’ canvasses. He brought more.

Mr. Ambrose commented, “As I said at the beginning of the first class, we are here to paint. Not sketch.”

Harry replied, “I think of them as visual poems.”

“You mean, like limericks?”

“My motto is: clarity, simplicity, economy.”

“Are you describing a bank balance?”

Harry could not respond.

“You have talent, Harry. Try stretching and actually paint something. You know, demanding more than wetting your brush for five minutes. Commit. Don’t just flirt.”

Mr. Ambrose walked away. Harry felt dismissed.

He glanced at Toot’s painting. An intricate landscape had emerged after weeks of steady work. One painting, yet it remained unfinished. Her focus on detail amazed him. ‘Who has the patience?’

Toots felt him watching her.

She sighed. “Yes?”

Taking the invitation, he examined the picture more closely.

“It’s beautiful. You’ve captured the scene so well. Better than reality.”

“I’m not finished.”

“But tell me, do so many brushstrokes matter? A single wave covers a beach as well as rain drops. At a penny per stroke, you could sell it for a million and still lose money.” Toots applied more paint to her canvas. “I mean, you work so slowly. With the time spent on this masterpiece, will it come to fifty cents per hour?”

Toots gave him a sly smile. “The racing stripes on your brushes are cute.”

Harry blinked. “Did you hear me tell Ambrose my paintings are poems?” Toots blended a detail. “…Yours are novels. So rich!”

“Thank you, Harry. It’s not that I’m not interested. But I need to work now. You have so much spare time. Maybe Mr. Ambrose…”

Toots had never said so much to him.

He blurted, “Great! Let’s get a drink after class.”

Toots felt painted into the proverbial corner.

She said, “But now I must work…”

“Great! It’s a date, then.” He left her alone until the hour ended.

After class, Harry led Toots to his favorite pub. He kept looking back, ensuring he hadn’t lost her.

‘Is he very thirsty, or just wants to show off his ‘catch?’’

The bar guy, Billy, delivered a pint to Harry as they sat. He looked at Toots. She ordered hot tea.

“You’re Toots, right?” She nodded. Harry raised his beer to her and drank. Billy continued, “This guy’s full on for you. Says you paint like an angel… and look like one.”

Harry set his empty glass down and grinned. She followed his gaze to the game on the wide-screen TV.

Billy returned with another pint and hot tea. Toots touched his raised glass with her steaming cup.

Harry said, “Billy’s great. Best friends since we fought in grade school.”

“You like my painting?”

“Of course! Fantastic! But how do you work so slow?”

“Thanks…”

He leaned in. “Idea… We get tattoos together. Like twin-toos…”

“You mean tattooed? Or branded?”

“No, not that. Listen, I’ll pick for you and you for me.”

Toots thought for a moment. “How about a Diego Rivera mural? You know, across your back?”

“Like with a thousand people and flowers?” She nodded. “You just want me to get a thousand needle pricks.”

“What if I do? Isn’t that the point?”

Harry kept repeating ‘the point’ and laughing.

He said, “Didn’t he hang with some Hungarian chick?”

“Frida?”

“Yeah…! I’ll tattoo you… just her eyebrows.” Toots blanched. “That’ll be my official portrait of her.”

Toots sipped her tea as Harry downed his beer. Billy brought another.

Harry leaned in and said, “You know, Toots, we make a great couple. You could stay with me, weekends.”

“My, but you are fast. It’s football season, though. Sure you’d fit me in?”

“There’s always commercials, Toots.” He meant it as a joke but it sounded truer than not.

“Right, can’t miss the kick off.” He appeared to have lost focus. “Harry, we should go.”

Harry rummaged in his wallet and paid the bill. They returned to campus arm in arm. Toots deposited Harry at his dorm but didn’t go in.

“See you in class…”

~

The weeks passed. Harry and Toots worked side by side in class but did not socialize. Time pressure was Toots’ excuse.

The semester’s end loomed. Conversations focused on pending finals. Toots worked non-stop, and often stayed late. Although Harry churned out paintings, his prolific output got no love from Mr. Ambrose.

One day, Harry ventured over to view Toot’s landscape. She tried ignoring him.

He said, “It’s intense. A whole valley opens before us. Each autumn tree glows. Mist drifts off the waterfall. You can almost see individual feathers on the birds.”

“It’s not finished, Harry. Let me work.”

Harry continued, “By a campfire, on a stone, I see a cup. A thread of gold runs where the crack got mended.”

Toots slammed her brush down and turned to him.

He said, “How do you do that? That cup is the focal point of the picture. Why paint the whole valley in such excruciating, distracting detail? I could do fifty pictures of that cup in the time…”

She leaned back to see her work. “Maybe you’re right. I should start over.”

She reached for a brush.

Harry stopped her. “No! Don’t ruin it. It’s perfect.”

“It is? But I’m not…”

Mr. Ambrose approached. “What’s up Harry? You have an easel. Take your place. Do your work…”

Harry rushed to Mr. Ambrose. “Actually, I need to talk with you…” They left. Toots resumed painting.

~

The last day of class began with everyone sitting by their easels. No one worked. All eyes were on Mr. Ambrose. Toots wasn’t there. Harry looked out the window for her.

Mr. Ambrose glanced at the clock and spoke. “Welcome to the last day of class. I want to commend you all for your diligence and for exercising your imaginations…”

Toots appeared in the doorway. Mr. Ambrose stopped speaking.

She spoke as she navigated the maze of easels. “I’m sorry I’m late. Again. Can I just take my painting and go? I didn’t finish. I failed.”

“Take your seat, Toots. Let me finish. Then you may go.”

Toots sat and stared at the floor. She didn’t set her backpack down. Unable to make eye contact with her, Harry tapped his foot.

Mr. Ambrose said, “As I was saying, you exhibited a wide range of talent. Many of you worked very hard and reaped the results of your efforts.”

Harry and Mr. Ambrose looked at each other. The teacher held up a ribbon.

“Before I dismiss you, I want to present my personal award for ‘Best in Class.’”

Harry could barely sit still. Toots sighed. She couldn’t care less. Her classmates fidgeted.

Mr. Ambrose strode back to Toots and held out the ribbon. Harry clapped. She looked up and balked.

“No. That’s not right. I didn’t finish. This is wrong…”

Mr. Ambrose smiled. “This award is for the best work, Toots. You earned it. You have to know when to stop. I can’t teach that.”

Toots looked stunned. It made no sense. She nodded and took the ribbon Mr. Ambrose held for her.

“Harry and the whole class advocated for you.”

With tears streaming, Toots said, “Thanks. I had no idea…” She turned to Harry and embraced him.

Harry said, “Can I buy you a tea?”

She laughed and nodded. The class applauded.