Saturday morning, Dad ready to go and Mom checking me over. I was on my way to my very first art exhibition, a portrait of Abraham Lincoln was my entry. I do not remember entering this exhibit. I believe Sister Bernardo and Mom entered my drawing for me. Drawing was the one thing I was good at in school. I couldn’t spell, couldn’t read aloud, had a speech impediment, and couldn’t pay attention for more than a minute. I found the new church being built next to the school more interesting than catechism.
Hiding behind Tom Erath, drawing, was how I spent my time in school. Somehow I managed to absorb what was being said in class. When Dad asked me to name the seven deadly sins I rattled off all seven and what they meant. What that had to do with taking me to the art exhibition I didn’t know. Every so often dad would ask a random question like with spelling. Spelling was always my downfall. While giving me my monthly haircut, he’d throw out a word and say, “Sound it out.” I’d hear myself mispronouncing it, and then spelled it my way. They tried a speech therapist with me, I swallowed the marbles she put in my mouth. Doctor Balthazar assured mom I’d pass them. She checked to be sure. The therapist switched to bananas. To this day I don’t enjoy bananas and still mispronounce words
Arriving at the fair grounds, Dad pointed out where the art exhibit was as he headed for the old steam tractors. I was to meet him at the tractors exhibition. Entering the big barn, a man from the Aurora Art League greeted me assuring me I was in the right place as he led me to the old milk shed part of the barn where the children’s exhibition was. The fair grounds were once a working dairy farm . Now there were paintings, handmade jewelry , jars of pickles, and quilts on display where the cows were milked. A lady took my drawing from me, another handed me an entry form to fill out. It was like test time in school - wishing I had studied, I just stared at the paper. I filled it in best I could. A watercolor set on display was first prize for the winner. Like my papers in school this lady corrected nearly everything on my entry form, only the F was left off. Abe Lincoln was taped to the white walls of the milk barn and my name was there to see. Thirty kids from all over the county had their work on that wall. That watercolor set was mine, I was sure.
Looking at the works in the adult section I got the idea some art is created simply by throwing paint at a canvas. “Abstract “ I heard the man say. It would never be on the cover of the Saturday Evening Post, I was sure of that. A painting of an Indian was next to the abstract.
The painting that really stopped me was a painting of a lady standing in her kitchen. She was not attractive like those ladies in magazine ads. She looked worn out, like Mrs. Martin, our neighbor in back. In the painting this woman stood in front of her stove, that needed cleaning. Maybe there was rhubarb cooking in the pot in the painting. Rhubarb was what mom was always sending me over with to Mrs. Martins. I found myself standing there looking at all the things the artist had put into that painting. A tea pot like ours, dishes waiting to be washed, towels hanging from an open drawer. I didn’t know it at the time but it was a painting that was going to stay with for a lifetime. Something so real about it, could have been our kitchen. It was the only painting that grabbed me. The next time mom sent me over with rhubarb to Mrs. Martins I was going to check out her stove.
Years later, walking into the American Academy of Art for the first time, there, in the office, hung a painting of a girl setting a table. She was lit by sunlight coming through slotted blinds just like the light in our dinning room. The painting was by Richard Schmid. Those two paintings set me on the path of doing things that were familiar to me.
