Dundee had been painting for about 10 years. He wasn’t an artist, but he had
been painting for that long. What he really was, was a patient. He had been
forced to retire 20 years ago for health reasons. He was a heart patient, a
cancer patient, a diabetes patient, and high blood pressure patient. He had
almost died twice and had been placed on disability from the government and was
waiting to die. I suppose you could say he was in fact a professional patient.
He watched TV for the first ten years and finally decided that he wasn’t being
productive, that he had wasted ten years of his life, so he taught himself to
paint. It seemed that he wasn’t going to die after all.
He painted portraits for three years, nothing but portraits. He loved
peoples faces; they were so telling. He painted portraits in imaginary settings,
of imaginary people, with imaginary smiles, and imaginary glints in their eyes.
His portraits hung on his studio walls. There were 30 portraits, hung without
frames, one next to the other in a line all along the top of one wall.
He would turn the lights on high in his studio and sit in his recliner
chair, with his feet up, and analyze each painting, remembering what he was
thinking when he painted this, or what he was thinking when he painted that one.
He had assigned each painting a name that matched the look on the person’s face.
Although many of the people were smiling, they didn’t look like happy people.
There was an eeriness in the room as his portraits stared back at him. Sometimes
he wished they weren’t there, that he hadn’t painted them, but didn‘t have the
compulsion to take them down. He thought out loud, that he was simply not being
productive.
He branched out and purchased books about famous artists: books about
Vermeer, and Albrecht Durer, Van Gogh, and Michael Angelo. He read books on
practically every artist and style that existed and tried to paint like all of
them, in many different styles, with some success I suppose you could say. His
paintings were quite good actually.
Dundee thought even though he was not an artist, if I could sell some
of his paintings, he might receive some recognition as a painter. Being 60
years old, he made the realization that he would never be an artist, but quite
simply a “patient.” Artists had degrees in art and years of training; he had
nothing but his artwork as proof of anything.
Deciding to sell a couple of his painting, he looked for a small gallery
that might take them. He went to a gallery in the city and approached the owner.
She said that she would be happy to take the painting and try to sell them.
Several weeks afterward he brought two small still life painting to the gallery.
He stood before the owner of the gallery with a painting in each hand and
explained that he’d talked to her about the paintings before and that he had
brought them for her to see. She took a business card from her desk and without
looking at the paintings, handed it to him and said they didn’t have space for
them at this time. Don’t call us, we’ll call you.
It had taken him a great amount of soul searching to muster up the
courage to try to sell his paintings. He was very unsure about the quality of
the paintings and wondered if they were any good or not. Embarrassed by the
rejection, he was humiliated. She could have just as well stabbed him in the
heart. He returned home totally dejected and depressed. She hadn’t even looked
at the paintings.
He tried several galleries with the same outcome: Total rejection. Not
knowing what to think about this, the only thing he could assume really was that
the paintings were not good. Should he be embarrassed about these paintings?
He stopped trying to sell the paintings, rationalizing that if he sold the
paintings, chances were they, after a time, would wind up stuck away in
someone’s basement, or in the trash, never to be seen by anyone. If he kept
them, at least he had proof he had painted them.
There were over a hundred paintings by this time. They covered every
wall in his studio from ceiling to floor and corner to corner. Sitting in the
studio was surreal for him; it was like looking at his mind, displayed on the
wall. Practically every thought he had about art was on display. He sat in the
imaginary world of his studio and imagined that he was happy, but he wasn’t.
Dundee had met several people over the years who called themselves
“artists.” All but one had degrees in art. He thought if they could just see
his work, perhaps they could discuss it, analyze it together. He imagined what
the conversation might be like. After inviting them over to his home and taking
them into his studio, he waited for their comments.
They walked silently around the room, and one of them finally said that
he certainly had a lot of paintings and there were a lot of paintings about
Jesus. He said yes that he supposed there were. That was the extent of it;
nothing else was said. Not one compliment was uttered. He had seen their work
and had been extremely complimentary of it. Would it have been so difficult to
say something nice about his work? Dundee promised himself that he would never
compliment another artist about their work ever again. Once more he supposed the
paintings were not of high quality.
Ten Years. . . For what? What had been the reason for spending ten
years of his life, painting art work that nobody ever saw, or if they did see
it, didn’t like it? Or even if they did like it, didn’t have the common decency
at least to say “nice work.”
He continued to paint but took his time now. There was no rush to get on to
the next painting and he felt the excitement and passion was gone from it,
painting I mean. It had taken ten years for his enthusiasm to die - But die it
had. One of his current paintings had been in progress for over a year; another,
six months.
Dundee talked to god about his painting and asked him why he had allowed
him to continue with something for so long and have absolutely no success. God
didn’t answer him.
Last Christmas, Dundee’s wife bought him a computer. It was something
he had asked his wife to do for him. He planned to put pictures of his
paintings online, because he thought someone might see them.
By chance, he stumbled onto a website called “Critiquecircle.com.” It
was a workshop for writers. Writing short stories was something Dundee had done
as a child. He became a member.
Dundee began critiquing stories that he read online. His critiques were
rudimentary. He loved many of the stories he read but was very reluctant to say
anything negative about any of them. He wrote stories of his own and submitted a
few to the group and had several in the works. The critiques of his stories
weren’t particularly good and he figured he had a lot of work to do. He was
told by one member that he needed to work on the ‘mechanics’ of writing and that
he needed to read more ’serious literature,’ in order to see how really fine
stories were written; he assumed this member was referring to his own stories.
Working diligently, revising story after story, he became more skilled
at writing. The critiques became more positive and it was said by other member
that his stories were bordering on being almost proficient. He worked on the
‘mechanics’ of his stories, concentrating on grammar, spelling, punctuation,
character development and story line. He received the feedback about his writing
that he had never been able to receive about his paintings. It didn’t matter to
him whether his stories were published or not.
He still held out hope that one day he would receive the recognition of
his paintings that he had hoped for. But now . . . Dundee sat in the surreal,
imaginary world of his studio, at his computer, painting pictures with words,
writing imaginary stories, with imaginary settings, about imaginary people, with
imaginary smiles, and with imaginary glints in their eyes . . . He was happy . .
. It seemed that god had answered him after all . . . Imagine that . . .
been painting for that long. What he really was, was a patient. He had been
forced to retire 20 years ago for health reasons. He was a heart patient, a
cancer patient, a diabetes patient, and high blood pressure patient. He had
almost died twice and had been placed on disability from the government and was
waiting to die. I suppose you could say he was in fact a professional patient.
He watched TV for the first ten years and finally decided that he wasn’t being
productive, that he had wasted ten years of his life, so he taught himself to
paint. It seemed that he wasn’t going to die after all.
He painted portraits for three years, nothing but portraits. He loved
peoples faces; they were so telling. He painted portraits in imaginary settings,
of imaginary people, with imaginary smiles, and imaginary glints in their eyes.
His portraits hung on his studio walls. There were 30 portraits, hung without
frames, one next to the other in a line all along the top of one wall.
He would turn the lights on high in his studio and sit in his recliner
chair, with his feet up, and analyze each painting, remembering what he was
thinking when he painted this, or what he was thinking when he painted that one.
He had assigned each painting a name that matched the look on the person’s face.
Although many of the people were smiling, they didn’t look like happy people.
There was an eeriness in the room as his portraits stared back at him. Sometimes
he wished they weren’t there, that he hadn’t painted them, but didn‘t have the
compulsion to take them down. He thought out loud, that he was simply not being
productive.
He branched out and purchased books about famous artists: books about
Vermeer, and Albrecht Durer, Van Gogh, and Michael Angelo. He read books on
practically every artist and style that existed and tried to paint like all of
them, in many different styles, with some success I suppose you could say. His
paintings were quite good actually.
Dundee thought even though he was not an artist, if I could sell some
of his paintings, he might receive some recognition as a painter. Being 60
years old, he made the realization that he would never be an artist, but quite
simply a “patient.” Artists had degrees in art and years of training; he had
nothing but his artwork as proof of anything.
Deciding to sell a couple of his painting, he looked for a small gallery
that might take them. He went to a gallery in the city and approached the owner.
She said that she would be happy to take the painting and try to sell them.
Several weeks afterward he brought two small still life painting to the gallery.
He stood before the owner of the gallery with a painting in each hand and
explained that he’d talked to her about the paintings before and that he had
brought them for her to see. She took a business card from her desk and without
looking at the paintings, handed it to him and said they didn’t have space for
them at this time. Don’t call us, we’ll call you.
It had taken him a great amount of soul searching to muster up the
courage to try to sell his paintings. He was very unsure about the quality of
the paintings and wondered if they were any good or not. Embarrassed by the
rejection, he was humiliated. She could have just as well stabbed him in the
heart. He returned home totally dejected and depressed. She hadn’t even looked
at the paintings.
He tried several galleries with the same outcome: Total rejection. Not
knowing what to think about this, the only thing he could assume really was that
the paintings were not good. Should he be embarrassed about these paintings?
He stopped trying to sell the paintings, rationalizing that if he sold the
paintings, chances were they, after a time, would wind up stuck away in
someone’s basement, or in the trash, never to be seen by anyone. If he kept
them, at least he had proof he had painted them.
There were over a hundred paintings by this time. They covered every
wall in his studio from ceiling to floor and corner to corner. Sitting in the
studio was surreal for him; it was like looking at his mind, displayed on the
wall. Practically every thought he had about art was on display. He sat in the
imaginary world of his studio and imagined that he was happy, but he wasn’t.
Dundee had met several people over the years who called themselves
“artists.” All but one had degrees in art. He thought if they could just see
his work, perhaps they could discuss it, analyze it together. He imagined what
the conversation might be like. After inviting them over to his home and taking
them into his studio, he waited for their comments.
They walked silently around the room, and one of them finally said that
he certainly had a lot of paintings and there were a lot of paintings about
Jesus. He said yes that he supposed there were. That was the extent of it;
nothing else was said. Not one compliment was uttered. He had seen their work
and had been extremely complimentary of it. Would it have been so difficult to
say something nice about his work? Dundee promised himself that he would never
compliment another artist about their work ever again. Once more he supposed the
paintings were not of high quality.
Ten Years. . . For what? What had been the reason for spending ten
years of his life, painting art work that nobody ever saw, or if they did see
it, didn’t like it? Or even if they did like it, didn’t have the common decency
at least to say “nice work.”
He continued to paint but took his time now. There was no rush to get on to
the next painting and he felt the excitement and passion was gone from it,
painting I mean. It had taken ten years for his enthusiasm to die - But die it
had. One of his current paintings had been in progress for over a year; another,
six months.
Dundee talked to god about his painting and asked him why he had allowed
him to continue with something for so long and have absolutely no success. God
didn’t answer him.
Last Christmas, Dundee’s wife bought him a computer. It was something
he had asked his wife to do for him. He planned to put pictures of his
paintings online, because he thought someone might see them.
By chance, he stumbled onto a website called “Critiquecircle.com.” It
was a workshop for writers. Writing short stories was something Dundee had done
as a child. He became a member.
Dundee began critiquing stories that he read online. His critiques were
rudimentary. He loved many of the stories he read but was very reluctant to say
anything negative about any of them. He wrote stories of his own and submitted a
few to the group and had several in the works. The critiques of his stories
weren’t particularly good and he figured he had a lot of work to do. He was
told by one member that he needed to work on the ‘mechanics’ of writing and that
he needed to read more ’serious literature,’ in order to see how really fine
stories were written; he assumed this member was referring to his own stories.
Working diligently, revising story after story, he became more skilled
at writing. The critiques became more positive and it was said by other member
that his stories were bordering on being almost proficient. He worked on the
‘mechanics’ of his stories, concentrating on grammar, spelling, punctuation,
character development and story line. He received the feedback about his writing
that he had never been able to receive about his paintings. It didn’t matter to
him whether his stories were published or not.
He still held out hope that one day he would receive the recognition of
his paintings that he had hoped for. But now . . . Dundee sat in the surreal,
imaginary world of his studio, at his computer, painting pictures with words,
writing imaginary stories, with imaginary settings, about imaginary people, with
imaginary smiles, and with imaginary glints in their eyes . . . He was happy . .
. It seemed that god had answered him after all . . . Imagine that . . .