Nurse the Hate: The Painter

He first picked up a paint brush at age 31.  He took to it immediately.  It was like he already knew what to do, to execute on the canvas what had formed in his head.  In no time at all he was a very good amateur without any training whatsoever.  He had come to the idea of painting one day as he installed a sink in a rundown apartment in a five story walk up.  His life had become a gray cloud of “is this all there is” glumness after his plumbing certifications had been earned.  He would start each day thinking “only another 34 years to go” before climbing into his dirty overalls.  He began to think of the overalls as prison garb.  He could never be sure why painting had been the answer, but there was never any hesitation.  It flashed in his mind like something he had been trying to remember and then came to him fully formed.  It felt natural.

He set to work to become a better painter with the same diligence he had applied to everything.  He tried to make sure, steady progress, always methodically pushing.  When he felt confident enough in his work, he tried to find a dealer that would sell his paintings.  This proved to be a challenge.  It appeared the art world was not extremely interested in slightly unsettling landscape paintings from a Midwestern plumber.  He could almost recite the rejection letters by memory.  “While we appreciate your interest in our gallery, we do not have a place for your work in our portfolio at this time.  Please keep us in mind in the future.”  He diligently sent out more sample portfolios to any gallery he could find that looked even remotely possible.

On a damp cloudy Wednesday he received a tattered letter from a small unfashionable gallery in Brussels he had contacted on a whim.  “We would be interested in showing two of your paintings in our upcoming emerging artist exposition if that would be agreeable to you.”  He carefully prepared shipping boxes, checking their sturdiness with the same precision he had learned from plumbing.  With a tinge of regret, he sent the packages and waited. 

He had begun to correspond with Emilee, the assistant at the gallery.  She would send him email and he would respond only with hand written letters.  The correspondence began as strictly business but then began to cautiously take a more personal tone.  The time lag between the email and the slow journey of the handwritten letter gave the time for more measured correspondence and narrative.  It created anticipation.  It also allowed him the indulgence of mentally placing himself into the world of struggling Flemish artists of the past.  Emilee was unlike anyone he knew at the beer joints near his home.  She was bright, viscously funny, and had a beautiful sadness around her edges.  She began to creep into him and his work.  He waited for her responses with great enthusiasm. 

Everyone at the gallery must have known.  His paintings had elevated.  They had even begun to sell.  There was now more depth.  There was an emotion to them that had always been lacking but never been evident until after his gradual correspondence with Emilee had blossomed.  She had also begun to champion his work which provoked side glances from other employees.  She was right though.  He was close to becoming noteworthy.

He had begun to paint with greater confidence.  It was evident on the canvas.  The work poured out of him.  The gallery had decided to run a month long feature on his work.  There was pressure to produce his finest work yet.  Emilee provided him consistent inspiration.  He had become completely devoted to her despite never being in the same physical space.  She was a constant companion in his consciousness.  His work days dragged as he counted down the time until he could paint again.  He was focused and perhaps for the first time, happy.

He received the small handwritten note eight weeks prior to his due date for his show.  The black ink printing was small and very neat, letters perfectly formed.  The paper was high quality with a careful fold.  He had never seen Emilee’s handwriting before.  “I cannot communicate with you any longer.  Do not try to reach me.  I will not respond.”  There was no explanation, no other rationale regardless of how many times he re-read the letter.  He called the gallery in a panic.  Emilee had resigned her position and moved.  No one knew where.  She left no contact information.  He had been split open with desperation.

He threw himself into his work.  He produced painting after painting, each better than the last.  He found no joy or release in it.  It offered no therapy.  He knew the work was good, but it gave him no satisfaction.  It was like gazing upon an open wound on himself.  He boxed them and sent them to Brussels, hoping to never see them again.  He ignored the excited emails from the gallery owner filled with praise for the paintings.  They sent him an airline ticket to attend the opening.  They pleaded with him to respond.  He ignored it all.  He continued to paint, lost in his grief.

The show was a hit.  He had arrived as an artist.  Small influential journals were effusive with praise.  Serious collectors began to make inquiries.  Opening night was the largest crowd the gallery had ever had with small groups of wealthy patrons whispering to each other while sipping white wine.  Gazing in the front window from the chill outside was Emilee.  She had the trace of a smile at the corners of her mouth.  The work was inspired.  She knew he had it in him.  She adjusted her gloves and walked briskly to the train station filled with satisfaction.  She had done it.  He had become a real artist.