from Lemon & Rain
Sara: Poetry and Palettes
“The poetry of your presence brings art into the room,” Porter says as Sara rushes past, ten minutes late for the art class. He knows these young people, knows how to get inside their hearts and force them to open up. Sara is a prime example. She places an apple on his desk. It is painted blue.
“Thought you might appreciate that,” she says and seats herself at the edge of the drafting table across from her teacher. She holds back on the 'my mom's car was stolen this morning and that's why I'm late' attention-getting bombshell, not wanting to distract or detract from the merits of her artistic presentation.
“Sara’s been in the Garden of Delights. It’s not poison, is it?”
“No, just blue,” Sara replies, “my blue.”
A week earlier Porter had told the class, “There are many shades of hue, but only one will do – you have to decide, as you have to decide what stroke to apply, what shape to contrast, you decide the form and the function within the frame. You decide, and when you do you are creating art. It doesn’t have to please anyone but you. You keep going until you’ve made something that touches you.
Don’t worry about what others think. If you’re true to your being, something universal will get conveyed.”
Porter picks up the apple, studies it momentarily, “A blue apple? Does this inspire anyone?”
Sara raises her hand shyly. Ryan raises his hand higher, as if it’s a transmission tower with an important signal. The students consider Ryan to be the most talented artist in the class so his vote gives Sara a big boost of confidence. She smiles at him as a payback for the loan of his status.
“Well, I like it too,” Porter explains, “This says I like my apples blue, even if god doesn’t. Now that’s a statement!”
“Actually, I thought painting it blue would have the effect of seeing the apple for the first time,” Sara admits, “like Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. That appreciation, that wonder.”
This is an unexpected and appreciated observation. It takes Porter a moment to comprehend how much thought went into it. “Very good,” Porter says admiringly.
Ryan stares knowingly and winks at Sara who then blushes. This causes her to flashback to their first class assignment four weeks earlier -- recreating your own skin color. Porter had introduced himself: “I was a “black” to society; “chocolate” to my girlfriend. But I discovered in the art world that I am a man of color -- these skin tones are formed from the three primary colors, blue, yellow and red.” He wrote on the board:
GREEN (blue & yellow) + RED = chocolate man = Porter
“Primary man. I cannot tell you how uplifting that awareness made me feel. It changed my life, my perspective, my world. There are no black men. There are no white men, either. Peach perhaps, but white, no. Art teaches us to see and appreciate the variety of hue and not fall back to clichés that demean or stereotype a person. Art celebrates the uniqueness of the individual and the color of the spirit. Now, begin...Start with red. The red is blood. Is the life force beneath all living things...”
“This is a good idea. Let’s take an everyday thing, like an apple, something we take for granted, and find a way to rediscover it, like painting an apple blue.” Porter motions the students to begin.
“Isn’t that wasting an apple though?” a student speaks out, “The form and function of an art object you talked about seems contradictory, given that you can’t eat painted apples.”
Porter points to his head, “I’m digesting it right now.”
“Hey, teach,” one of the disinterested students interrupts, “is that art?”
“Art brings thought and beauty into the world." Porter responds patiently, "A blue apple. What is and isn’t art is a great question. Shows that you’re thinking.”
“Well?”
“Keep thinking... now get busy.” Porter walks around the room as if he’s tending a garden -- a little water, a little sunshine, a little trimming (good, keep going, narrow that down). Eventually he’s amazed at the variety of creations. Triple moons, green suns, red grass, four-armed, four-eyed multi-toned people.
Ryan draws humans with lazy-Susan joints – hands, knees and necks that turn 360 degrees. “Flexible spines that bend back and forth,” Ryan explains.
A student remarks, “...you can kiss your own ass.”
“-- or have sex with yourself,” another whispers loudly.
A student holds up a picture of stick figures converging on a cliff and falling off into a void. He declares, “This is as good as some of those million dollar pictures.”
“You’re right. Don’t forget that.” Porter says.
“I’m joking,” the cliff killer admits.
“What does it matter how someone else values it? If others like it, good; but if you like it, great. Listen, there are creators and there are consumers. The joy is in the creation, not in the ownership. Don’t get it mixed up. It’s all about creativity – that’s where the power is. Creators versus consumers; Creativity versus consumption. One will enrich you; the other will fatten you. One will grab you, the other flab you. The only thing you’ll ever own is what you do. Figure it out. Consumption is the illusion – the black death, figuratively speaking.”
Sara has figured it out. Porter spoke to her, even when he wasn’t speaking, he touched her. She had hated art and anyone who practiced it. In her view artists were doing therapy then passing it on as some kind of special contribution to mankind – mankind being the non-artists who saw through them and their self- deceptions. But Porter had something – he sketched a tree the previous week that came alive in minutes. He drew it in blue and made it look so surprisingly natural; it made her feel as if she had been color-blind. Trees had always been brown. Try blue and see what happens. Porter is right.
Infatuated with a teacher a full generation older. He’s appearing in her dreams, the ones just before dawn, the vivid ones, the ones that nudge you awake, with fragments that remain and pop up all day. A man with brains and talent. He could be her lover, her first lover. When Porter leans in to see her sketch of a flower swirled in rainbow colored petals, he says, “yeah, that would make a great tattoo,” Sara is speechless and completely forgets about the my car has been robbed – I need a hero’s guidance.
Sara had a sculpted, intelligent face and a petite compact body aching with mystery. Ryan could see every hidden curve while the palette in his head filled it with sensual shading -- rose under her chocolate teat breasts, lavender navel, midnight blue pubic mound... Technicolor bliss. Last week Ryan had painted such a portrait and hid it anonymously in her backpack.
But to Sara, it is Porter who has opened the Garden of Eden. He’s the most creative, most sensual being she has ever known. Sara believes Porter painted her portrait, her portrait, and no one had ever done that, and ever so secretively snuck it in her backpack. This wonderful adult man sent her imagination flying. He created a universe for her. A new world.
"Hey, Porter, my car was stolen this morning!"
"Poetry & Palettes," from Lemon & Rain, ©2003 by John Kirkmire, © 2013 Kirkworkshop, All rights reserved.
return to stories page
Sara: Poetry and Palettes
“The poetry of your presence brings art into the room,” Porter says as Sara rushes past, ten minutes late for the art class. He knows these young people, knows how to get inside their hearts and force them to open up. Sara is a prime example. She places an apple on his desk. It is painted blue.
“Thought you might appreciate that,” she says and seats herself at the edge of the drafting table across from her teacher. She holds back on the 'my mom's car was stolen this morning and that's why I'm late' attention-getting bombshell, not wanting to distract or detract from the merits of her artistic presentation.
“Sara’s been in the Garden of Delights. It’s not poison, is it?”
“No, just blue,” Sara replies, “my blue.”
A week earlier Porter had told the class, “There are many shades of hue, but only one will do – you have to decide, as you have to decide what stroke to apply, what shape to contrast, you decide the form and the function within the frame. You decide, and when you do you are creating art. It doesn’t have to please anyone but you. You keep going until you’ve made something that touches you.
Don’t worry about what others think. If you’re true to your being, something universal will get conveyed.”
Porter picks up the apple, studies it momentarily, “A blue apple? Does this inspire anyone?”
Sara raises her hand shyly. Ryan raises his hand higher, as if it’s a transmission tower with an important signal. The students consider Ryan to be the most talented artist in the class so his vote gives Sara a big boost of confidence. She smiles at him as a payback for the loan of his status.
“Well, I like it too,” Porter explains, “This says I like my apples blue, even if god doesn’t. Now that’s a statement!”
“Actually, I thought painting it blue would have the effect of seeing the apple for the first time,” Sara admits, “like Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. That appreciation, that wonder.”
This is an unexpected and appreciated observation. It takes Porter a moment to comprehend how much thought went into it. “Very good,” Porter says admiringly.
Ryan stares knowingly and winks at Sara who then blushes. This causes her to flashback to their first class assignment four weeks earlier -- recreating your own skin color. Porter had introduced himself: “I was a “black” to society; “chocolate” to my girlfriend. But I discovered in the art world that I am a man of color -- these skin tones are formed from the three primary colors, blue, yellow and red.” He wrote on the board:
GREEN (blue & yellow) + RED = chocolate man = Porter
“Primary man. I cannot tell you how uplifting that awareness made me feel. It changed my life, my perspective, my world. There are no black men. There are no white men, either. Peach perhaps, but white, no. Art teaches us to see and appreciate the variety of hue and not fall back to clichés that demean or stereotype a person. Art celebrates the uniqueness of the individual and the color of the spirit. Now, begin...Start with red. The red is blood. Is the life force beneath all living things...”
“This is a good idea. Let’s take an everyday thing, like an apple, something we take for granted, and find a way to rediscover it, like painting an apple blue.” Porter motions the students to begin.
“Isn’t that wasting an apple though?” a student speaks out, “The form and function of an art object you talked about seems contradictory, given that you can’t eat painted apples.”
Porter points to his head, “I’m digesting it right now.”
“Hey, teach,” one of the disinterested students interrupts, “is that art?”
“Art brings thought and beauty into the world." Porter responds patiently, "A blue apple. What is and isn’t art is a great question. Shows that you’re thinking.”
“Well?”
“Keep thinking... now get busy.” Porter walks around the room as if he’s tending a garden -- a little water, a little sunshine, a little trimming (good, keep going, narrow that down). Eventually he’s amazed at the variety of creations. Triple moons, green suns, red grass, four-armed, four-eyed multi-toned people.
Ryan draws humans with lazy-Susan joints – hands, knees and necks that turn 360 degrees. “Flexible spines that bend back and forth,” Ryan explains.
A student remarks, “...you can kiss your own ass.”
“-- or have sex with yourself,” another whispers loudly.
A student holds up a picture of stick figures converging on a cliff and falling off into a void. He declares, “This is as good as some of those million dollar pictures.”
“You’re right. Don’t forget that.” Porter says.
“I’m joking,” the cliff killer admits.
“What does it matter how someone else values it? If others like it, good; but if you like it, great. Listen, there are creators and there are consumers. The joy is in the creation, not in the ownership. Don’t get it mixed up. It’s all about creativity – that’s where the power is. Creators versus consumers; Creativity versus consumption. One will enrich you; the other will fatten you. One will grab you, the other flab you. The only thing you’ll ever own is what you do. Figure it out. Consumption is the illusion – the black death, figuratively speaking.”
Sara has figured it out. Porter spoke to her, even when he wasn’t speaking, he touched her. She had hated art and anyone who practiced it. In her view artists were doing therapy then passing it on as some kind of special contribution to mankind – mankind being the non-artists who saw through them and their self- deceptions. But Porter had something – he sketched a tree the previous week that came alive in minutes. He drew it in blue and made it look so surprisingly natural; it made her feel as if she had been color-blind. Trees had always been brown. Try blue and see what happens. Porter is right.
Infatuated with a teacher a full generation older. He’s appearing in her dreams, the ones just before dawn, the vivid ones, the ones that nudge you awake, with fragments that remain and pop up all day. A man with brains and talent. He could be her lover, her first lover. When Porter leans in to see her sketch of a flower swirled in rainbow colored petals, he says, “yeah, that would make a great tattoo,” Sara is speechless and completely forgets about the my car has been robbed – I need a hero’s guidance.
Sara had a sculpted, intelligent face and a petite compact body aching with mystery. Ryan could see every hidden curve while the palette in his head filled it with sensual shading -- rose under her chocolate teat breasts, lavender navel, midnight blue pubic mound... Technicolor bliss. Last week Ryan had painted such a portrait and hid it anonymously in her backpack.
But to Sara, it is Porter who has opened the Garden of Eden. He’s the most creative, most sensual being she has ever known. Sara believes Porter painted her portrait, her portrait, and no one had ever done that, and ever so secretively snuck it in her backpack. This wonderful adult man sent her imagination flying. He created a universe for her. A new world.
"Hey, Porter, my car was stolen this morning!"
"Poetry & Palettes," from Lemon & Rain, ©2003 by John Kirkmire, © 2013 Kirkworkshop, All rights reserved.
return to stories page