Some days I'm sitting on a bench talking with Danny, a homeless gent who sleeps in plastic trash bags to keep out of the rain. The next day I listened to a man with eight polo horses explain the need for his eight horses, and just which ones he wants paintings of.
Danny, I pay to sketch him. Mr. Polo, I charge to draw and paint his horses. Never really think about what I do as an artist, just do what I need to, to get by. For ten or more years I spent my mornings sketching people in the different parks along the Fox River. I wasn't looking for possible paintings, just honing my drawing skills. Two men sharing a picnic table and sharing stories of grandchildren, perhaps… As I sketch people, I have always added my own story to each drawing.
A 12-year-old pushes her 5-year-old brother on a swing as her mother sits chatting with another mother, who is nursing a baby. For this one I break out the paints. Panic sets in as I lay all the colors out. “Calm down, just get what I can,” I tell myself. My entire body is into getting this painting done. “Keep sitting there please,” I whisper to myself, placing the first stroke.
Speed painting is something I practice a lot, but will it pay off here. With paint on the steering wheel, turpentine splashes , my paper towel loaded with paint falls to the gas pedal. My only concern is getting the one nursing’s, blouse just right - using one correct stroke. “Oh my goodness! A little girl has joined them! With a deep breath I add the little girl. The background I'll leave and finish later. The figures are my goal here. “What great legs, I must get them,” I think. My mind is racing now as I see my painting taking shape. The prize is mine now, and I even have time to put a tree in and some grass.
The next day I'm off to a polo match, to sketch horses and saddles and whatnot. This is what I do, This is what a lot of artists do. We drive noisy old cars that scare horses, stop polo matches and cause people to stop sipping their champagne. Women in beautiful summer dresses with big sun hats, stare at me. Men who stepped out from Esquire next to me with my diet Coke and paint splattered pants. A rider checks me out from the top of his handsome steed. He isn't pleased with my 13-year-old Cutlass, it needs work. The wood box in the back seat keeps the front seat up right. The struts and shocks beat out a nice cadence as I drive. It gets me to where I'm going. Then my host comes running with a smile and leads me to his horses. He runs and gets me some champagne. With champagne and Diet Coke, I am ready for some work.
