Portrait of the Late Bloomer As An Artist

So here sits the 51-year old man who’s long felt that he has what it takes to be a writer, an artist.

Very little formal training in the written word, years gone by without devoting concerted effort to his calling late realized.

Never a word published, not so much as a letter to the Editor. Trouble imagining himself inhabiting the mental landscape of an artist, much less living real life in the world of the arts.

Fear not, Dear Reader. Click you not away from this post, for the going takes a happier turn. Mere slice of life though this is, it’s the recounting of a meaningful 36 hours, 36 and counting…

Yesterday, 15 November 2008, saw my wife, my son and myself in a real-life setting straight out of my imagined World of the Arts. At the request of the adoption agency that found us our beloved children, a well-known photographer was to take a portrait of our handsome 11-year old. From a messy home in the Long Island suburbs, an hour’s drive had brought us to Brooklyn, a series of settings from a long list of movies.

The funky multi-charactered neighborhood, a jumble (a jungle?) of mechanics’ shops, ancient factories and warehouses, both disused and converted to residential and commercial use. Playgrounds sitting comfortably under roaring overpasses. Upon meeting our friends from the agency, the too-perfect ride in a truly grungy freight elevator to:

An Artist’s Loft In Brooklyn. The whole schmear; a huge open space, big windows and skylights, hardwood floors appropriate to a living area-cum-workspace, and this factory or warehouse’s original rough brick walls. Spare, lovely furnishings dotted the place, mixing with lights, reflectors and state of the art cameras.

The photographer and her husband were welcoming and truly friendly but clearly living in another world, one that I’d give much to call home. They evinced not an ounce of pretense, and my wife and I were guileless in expressing our near awe at the setting. Perhaps we could have pulled off pretending not to be impressed, but there’d have been no point.

The beauty of the place extended to their living area. The modestly equipped kitchen was decorated with industrial shelving filled with antiques of every stripe. Ancient telephones of American and European design, crockery from exotic locales. The place was functional, comfortable and arty.

I think it a good bet that these two are living lives that they love. As the photographer worked with my son, I stumbled into a conversation with her husband about his occupation, one of several, apparently. The man manufactures high-end audio equipment. It matters not that it’s truly high-end, just that he’s doing something he obviously loves doing and in yet another field that fascinates me.

I don’t even crave his wares, particularly, I just admire his life in yet another corner of the world I’d love to live in. (Make no mistake though; if someone gifted me with a set of his $17,000 speakers and high-powered, ultra-high-fidelity amplifiers—tubes, of course—I wouldn’t turn them down. It’s just that my requirements could be satisfied by something far more modest.)

The photographer’s session with my son ended, and we were shown quick proofs. Having seen the images on her website, we weren’t surprised by the fine quality of her work. But combined with our child’s undeniable good looks, the results were breathtaking.

Time came for us to leave, so that another family invited by the adoption agency to experience this privilege could have their session.

This had been stirring stuff for me, both daunting and inspiring. These people work in different fields than I’m aiming for, but my path toward their world of creative satisfaction sure looks like a long one, and I’m still working on what could reasonably be labeled remedial craft. I could barely bring myself to discuss my mixed feelings with my wife. How the hell am I going to get to where these people are? I don’t mean their level of material success, although that sure would be nice. Hell, they’re not even household names, but they’re doing what they want to do for a living.

West on the BQE, I drove under a cloud of self-doubt that paced our car. It darkened my mood, but didn’t block my vision. My target seemed so big and so clear, but so far away.

In some ways, I’ve always been pretty good at not kidding at myself. I pinged ideas and desires off the inside of my own head and soon realized that there’s only clear path for starters:

Especially because you’re still learning the craft, do the work and don’t stop.
I suppose this also applies once an artist is truly accomplished (or cruddy but successful, as Stephen King sometimes admits to being.)

‘Learn your craft, keep writing and don’t stop’ does not conjure a vision of comfortably, confidently leaving your nine-to-five to spend your days at the keyboard, living the life of an artist. King and other writers talks about the badge of honor that is their pile of early rejection letters.

Well, writers with 100 times my drive don’t end their journey with that eventual acceptance notice, their I’m On My Way At Last certificate.

No matter. It has to not matter, or all is lost.

The simple map of my path, despite the desolate climes through which it passes, is its own odd comfort because there’s only one thing to do.

See the above if you’ve already forgotten it. This last is a note to myself as much as an ironic note to you, Dear Reader.

So, back to the Long Island suburbs and an afternoon of folding laundry and doing dishes. The most gratifying thing in store for the remaining daylight hours was to be my forty-five minutes on the cross-trainer.

Quite some time ago, this account passed the Long-Story, Short mark.

It’s not over.

For my wife and I to go into the City twice in one day is nigh onto unprecedented. However, we had tickets for an off off off Broadway show that night, at a non-profit theatre whose website I maintain. So, a hundred-mile round trip to Brooklyn in the morning, an afternoon of domesticity, and then an eighty mile round trip to Queens Theatre in the Park, home of the Outrageous Fortune Company, who use the basement performance space of QTiP’s lovely facility, sitting in the shadow of the Unisphere at the old World’s Fair site.

Here I was again, with Art, right in my face. The Outrageous Fortune Company hardly shares in the gaudy glory of the Theatre District proper, but that only made for another draught of that potent Hope And Intimidation Cocktail.

Y’see, Dear Reader, I am not intimidated by the likes of Bruce Springsteen, the Coen Brothers and Joan Didion. They operate at such a high degree of success and quality, that they don’t represent a target I have to fret over falling short of.

Something like Outrageous Fortune Company, straddling the line between Off Off Broadway and community theatre, is a different proposition. Theatre companies running at this level occasionally produce works by new playwrights; though hardly Arthur Miller, these folks are significantly closing to being Arthur Miller than I am. This, I fret over.

Matter of fact, OFC this night was producing a work by an established playwright: Yellow Face, by David Henry Hwang of M Butterfly fame. However, I’m on a first name basis with the company’s producer, these actors were all Equity but none were famous and here I was again, accessible art being practiced right in my face.

To be continued…