The Cost of Education
During high school I became increasingly more aware of being observed. Curling up like a snail at my desk no longer gave me the sense of invisibility as before. My doodles dwindled away to nothing, dissolved by exposure of my classmates who where viewing everyone with a more critical eye. The age had been reached where we could no longer just be, we had to become. By default I had become an artist in spite of never having taped anything to a wall. I was asked by the student newspaper to make a drawing for their issue. I cannot remember the circumstances that prompted them to ask me but my guess is that they wanted a cartoon so I put my pencil to paper with a purpose. Beyond just displaying a lack of skill what I produced demonstrated what I consider an anti-talent. Constant erasing and redrawing could not force my numb fingers to make a single productive line. In spite of it being a completely awkward drawing I still had enough hope that I was being overly self critical. I gave the cartoon to the student who ask for it and she published it. Seeing it in print was like being shot in the chest. Drawing, which had given me so much joy in life turned on me like a Judas when exposed to public view plunging me into a chasm of depression. The drawing was horrible, so was the joke. I can't even imagined what inspired me to draw it, especially in a town where christian devotion was a given. It was not well received, in fact that was the point when I was no longer an artist by nature.
The only other artist that I knew about in our class was Roger Evens who could sculpt heads out of clay that looked like the came from a Roman coliseum. The heads were remarkably well proportioned and he was well respected but I rarely even talked to himand had no idea how he managed to pull off such a skill. Since there were no art classes the only thing displayed in the hallways were sports trophies until Jerry Hatch showed up in my junior year. He brought with him a degree of sophistication that invigorated everyone including the teachers. Tall, handsome and artistic, it was not long before he had a painting in the hall and in spite of his size and agility, was not interested in sports.
Alliance was a mom an apple pie-junk yard dog kind of town in the early sixties. Unaware of social changes beginning to take place in the rest of the country with an unquestioned belief in American exceptionalismexcept my closest friend, David Bunnell. David's father, Hugh, was the editor of the local newspaper and had been a war correspondent during WWII and had a broad world view that he passed down to his son. A world view that included our country's imperialist adventures. A worldview that got Dave into many heated arguments. Jerry Hatch was more aloof than confrontational but he also had a broad intellectual take on life so the two of them became friends and by default my friends.
Dave was the first student to befriend after my father went into the hospital. I am positive he reached out because he knew my story. The Alliance Times-Herald where Hugh worked was only two blocks from the neighborhood grocery store my mother ran while Father was sick. Hugh came by everyday for cigarettes and coffee and he had to have learned from my mother what was happening in the little house behind the store so Dave had to know also when he first approached me. How we continued to be friends is a mystery because as docile and soft as I was he was intense and hard driving. He played basket hard, tennis hard and ran so hard the heel of his shoe hit his butt during each a stride, a stride that made him the Nebraska State cross country champion. He also read hard, thought hard and talked hard. I listened hard.
Jerry was mysterious, unconventional and exotic, by my standards anyway. He drove a used Saab for instance, a car I had never heard of with a shape completely uncommon by US standards. The Volkswagen Beetle looked tame by comparison. Beyond that he was a self declared artist. Not a paint a flower or pretty pattern kind of artist but a glue scapes of wood and peaces of old road signs on canvas and paint on them kind of artist. He was like Marco Polo back from exotic lands with visual spices to delight teachers and students alike, especially the female students. I was in awe. I think my decision to study art came more from him than any internal passion.
I was not completely culturally feral before Jerry's arrival, being aware of the paintings of Normal Rockwell on the Saturday Evening Post. The Life magazine articles on modern artists like Picasso, Miro and Pollock taught me that there were artists out there in the world that were famous as movie stars and live in wonderful places like the Rivera or Paris. As much as I wanted to live like them I felt no connection to modern art. Realism is what interested me, it was understandable; quantifiable. Either it was good or it wasn't. My inspiration was from bible illustrations, action figure comics, illustrations in magazines and what classical paintings I may have been aware of. I could have used some how to draw books. I began by trying to draw popular rock and roll musicians and rock stars.
Alliance was a mom an apple pie-junk yard dog kind of town in the early sixties. Unaware of social changes beginning to take place in the rest of the country with an unquestioned belief in American exceptionalismexcept my closest friend, David Bunnell. David's father, Hugh, was the editor of the local newspaper and had been a war correspondent during WWII and had a broad world view that he passed down to his son. A world view that included our country's imperialist adventures. A worldview that got Dave into many heated arguments. Jerry Hatch was more aloof than confrontational but he also had a broad intellectual take on life so the two of them became friends and by default my friends.
Dave was the first student to befriend after my father went into the hospital. I am positive he reached out because he knew my story. The Alliance Times-Herald where Hugh worked was only two blocks from the neighborhood grocery store my mother ran while Father was sick. Hugh came by everyday for cigarettes and coffee and he had to have learned from my mother what was happening in the little house behind the store so Dave had to know also when he first approached me. How we continued to be friends is a mystery because as docile and soft as I was he was intense and hard driving. He played basket hard, tennis hard and ran so hard the heel of his shoe hit his butt during each a stride, a stride that made him the Nebraska State cross country champion. He also read hard, thought hard and talked hard. I listened hard.
Jerry was mysterious, unconventional and exotic, by my standards anyway. He drove a used Saab for instance, a car I had never heard of with a shape completely uncommon by US standards. The Volkswagen Beetle looked tame by comparison. Beyond that he was a self declared artist. Not a paint a flower or pretty pattern kind of artist but a glue scapes of wood and peaces of old road signs on canvas and paint on them kind of artist. He was like Marco Polo back from exotic lands with visual spices to delight teachers and students alike, especially the female students. I was in awe. I think my decision to study art came more from him than any internal passion.
I was not completely culturally feral before Jerry's arrival, being aware of the paintings of Normal Rockwell on the Saturday Evening Post. The Life magazine articles on modern artists like Picasso, Miro and Pollock taught me that there were artists out there in the world that were famous as movie stars and live in wonderful places like the Rivera or Paris. As much as I wanted to live like them I felt no connection to modern art. Realism is what interested me, it was understandable; quantifiable. Either it was good or it wasn't. My inspiration was from bible illustrations, action figure comics, illustrations in magazines and what classical paintings I may have been aware of. I could have used some how to draw books. I began by trying to draw popular rock and roll musicians and rock stars.
At some point in those early years desire for girls in my class exploded like a lightening storm and burned through me like a never ending wildfire. From a photo in my year book I began drawing a portrait of a girl I was particularly inthralled with. Using the emotion stew of lust love and longing to drive myself through multiple disappoints in an attempt to make a beautiful drawing of her. Either too exhausted to continue working on it or deluded that I had achieved my goal, I gave it to her. She was delighted but before any significant conversation could take place I dove into the crowded hallway and disappeared. Finally, months later she confronted me directly and asked why don't I ask her out. In shock I just turned away. I can not imagine what she saw as I reacted. I would have like to have known, liked to have corrected the situation.
That moment was the beginning of a pattern that lasted for the next twenty years driving me to continuous spasms of desperation as I tried any mental trick not run away at the precise moment when contact was offered, no matter how blatant the invitation. It was that desperation that drove me to psychiatric center to take a seat in the waiting room to meet the volunteer doctor of the week.
That moment was the beginning of a pattern that lasted for the next twenty years driving me to continuous spasms of desperation as I tried any mental trick not run away at the precise moment when contact was offered, no matter how blatant the invitation. It was that desperation that drove me to psychiatric center to take a seat in the waiting room to meet the volunteer doctor of the week.
