The Men Of Millville: the calamitous attempts at boyfriends by my mother.

Acrylics on wood panel by R. Kilroy

The Men Of Millville

 By Richard Kilroy

My mother had a terrible instinct for knowing exactly who was
wrong for her and once determining with certainty who that
person was, she’d make her move toward them. This pattern of
seeking the calamitous was, strangely, in honor of the image she
held of her perfect father. His portrait finely sketched in
indelible rapidograph ink. A banknote engraving or one of those
stippled portraits in the Wall Street Journal. Her father’s
suicide didn’t coincide with her portrait of him and so, she went
about the repairing of catastrophized men from there forward.
Dovetailing with this was Mom’s great hurt that a father who
would rather die than stay with his children created a sense of
doom, a misery in the place of self-esteem. Seeking out ravaged
men in her life was another way of saying that she didn’t
deserve much better.

After the second suicide in Mom’s life, the self-inflicted 38 short
colt bullet to the abdomen by her second husband, Big Larry --
Mom fell into a series of misadventures characterized by
sadness, madness and an ordinate quantity of cold duck.
Mom was 44 and even after having given birth to 7 children, she
managed to keep her Atlantic City beauty contest figure. Skirts
got shorter after Big Larry’s death. Heels got higher after Big
Larry’s death. Scarves had more color. New hair styles were
auditioned before her children to see which look was most
effective before a night out at the Friendly tavern.

“Whatdya think kiddo?“ she’d ask me after an hour of curlers,
blow drying, teasing and a great cumulous cloud of Aquanette.
“You look like a movie star.” I’d tell her hoping it was the right
thing to say to make her smile. And then she would smile.
“Movie star. I’d like that.” She’d say before she misted herself
and the room with one of her Avon perfumes. She’d notice a
frayed strap to her high heel, exhale softly and say to herself,
“ah, whatda gonna do?” and head out into the evening.

We were living in a small town outside of a small town in
Millville, New Jersey and finding a single man who didn’t own a
gun collection was not as easy as it sounds – even for a woman
who once won that beauty contest on the boardwalks of Atlantic
City.

Of Mom’s list of boyfriends following the death of Big Larry –
first there was Danny Becker. He was twelve years younger
than Mom and needed two teeth in the front but that’s not to say
he wasn’t handsome, just a man with no dental plan. Mom fell
hard for Danny Becker and went about buying him those
missing teeth, telling us after doing so,
“See? Right as rain, it’s amazing what filling some gaps can do.”

Danny Becker and Mom lasted only a few summer months
before he decided to head back to West Virginia, now that he had
fixed his smile. He aimed to make up with the wife Mom never
knew he had. She drove Danny Becker in her peach colored
Rambler to the Grey Hound station on High Street one early
morning in late July and paid for his bus ticket home. She even
wore his favorite Avon perfume, ‘Wishful’. The brass colored
bottle was shaped like a Genie’s lamp. I always thought it a
shame to have wasted such a wish on such a man.

My real father was out of the story long ago. Mom, while
pregnant with me, picked up and left Dad in the middle of the
night, their six children herded away – momma duck and her
ducklings risk the freeway crossing. Later, she wouldn’t talk
about Dad much except when scolding me. “You are acting just
like Jimmy!’ she warned. It made me feel good when she lobbed
accusations of behaving just like my father. Somehow he and I
were connected then, even if he never wrote or called.
Connections don’t need greeting cards and stamps or postmarks
I figured – they go deeper, more interior than that.

Mom stayed in most nights in the autumn months after Danny
Becker took that bus ride back to his wife. But Helen, Mom’s
girlfriend from the clubs, telephoned, wanting to hit the taverns
for the holidays. Helen and Mom were the widows of west
Millville and used to laugh over bourbons and the dried leaf piles
they had made of their lives. Helen was a good ten years older
than Mom and had a number of surgeries in hopes of keeping
the years off her face. “I need to lighten the load” Helen would
say before heading off to Philly for another touch up. Helen had
been under the knife so many times that her face long ago lost
any semblance of reliable fact and had become a work of fiction.
Mom loved Helen though, like an older sister that never judged,
no matter the misstep.

Mom’s next boyfriend was ‘Beer-belly-Bill’, a ruddy-faced man
with dollop of sandy hair, a huge handle-bar mustache and, well,
that beer belly. His eyes were perilously close together and he
spoke in a mumble as if too embarrassed to be understood.
Naturally, no one knew what Beer Belly Bill was mumbling
about but we would nod and smile just the same. Mom thought
all of this was terribly endearing.

Sometimes Beer-belly-Bill would rumble out a low frequency
sentence and then erupt in to a fit of laughter. I was never quite
sure if he was expecting us to laugh along or if he had just
ridiculed us.

Then there was ‘Gigolo Jerry’ who would zip up to our home,
slueing into our drive on a lemon colored scooter, the engine of
which sounded like electric clippers from the barbershop.
Gigolo Jerry fashioned himself as some sort of James Bond
villain although I believe in reality, he managed a fluorescent
lighting business. Dashing in butterscotch hued faux leather
jackets, stretch-turtleneck sweaters and orange hair that was
whipped and molded like meringue. Gigolo Jerry also had an
accent that was suppose to come from Austria but he had
trouble keeping it consistent, like a remiss parent keeping little
track of their child who was running wild in the aisles of Sears.
Mom was smitten with that sometimes accent and whipped hair
and lavished all of her Avon cologne samples on him. She also
bought him dinners at Sizzler’s and would sing ‘Edelweiss’ to
him as they sipped cold duck from Dixie cups. When Gigolo
Jerry found out that mom didn’t own any property outside of
our modest home, he stopped coming by. Mom smiled at the
thought of this, promptly giving him the ‘Gigolo’ moniker and
said, “Ah, whadya gonna do?”

One day Mom brought home Dominic Cantiello Jr. – or as he
preferred, just ‘Junior’. Junior was an Irish/Italian bus driver
with strongly etched features and dark glittering eyes that
never seemed to blink. Junior claimed to have been a
professional boxer – that is until his ankles gave out. Junior
had pet phrases like, ‘That’s life in the big city’ or ‘don’t put nice
things away in a box if you like looking at those nice things’. I’m
pretty sure that second phrase was a Junior original.

Junior was also a sometimes-songwriter. His career-high was called, ‘Hello Operator’ and placed third in talent contest in a tavern somewhere near Wildwood.  He sang the ballad, an ode to his lost mother,with the conviction of a choir boy in a quivering tenor while strumming his banjo-ukulele. “Hello operator – can you get me through – to a place called Heaven, it’s just around the moon.” Junior, sitting just a throw pillow away from Mom on our plaid sofa, wooed her with love songs. Mom’s eyes filled with effort, hoping to take meaning in each line of lyric. It wasn’t long before Junior composed a ballad especially for her: “ Eileen – Eileen/ prettiest girl I’ve ever seen/ and by the way, her name is Eileen”.

After hearing this lyric Mom confided to me, “I think he’s the
one kiddo.”

When Junior would visit he would bring his younger brother
Tommy. It was whispered that Tommy was ‘slow’ and also
Tommy ‘couldn’t’ take an interest in girls. Tommy was pinned
to his brother like a note on a bulletin board, a reminder that
family came first.

Tommy also had a fondness for washing pots. While Mom and
Junior sang love songs on her cross-hatched couch, Tommy
busied himself in our kitchen washing mom’s pots. I’d watch
Tommy – a stub of cigarette dangling from his thick lips as he
methodically scoured and rinsed Mom’s fryers and doubleboilers.

Tommy would hum along to his brother’s music in a
tuneless rasp.
Junior said that Tommy only had one job in his life – about
fifteen years ago when he was a dishwasher in a nice hotel on
the Ocean City boardwalk. Washing Mom’s pots while his older
brother was on his date made him feel employed again.
I remember tugging on Tommy’s apron and asking him if he
wanted to do some of our glasses too. Tommy sneered at me and
never answered. He was not interested in glasses, only pots.
Eventually Junior and his brother stopped coming by – maybe
because the chemistry wasn’t right anymore with Mom or
maybe because Tommy had nothing left to clean, not wanting to
do glasses and all.

As much as I was uncomfortable with the various characters
Mom called her boyfriend – it made me sad when she eventually
stopped trying to date. She was always like that church steeple
jutting from the waters of a flooded town – something stoic and
determined remained no matter how ruined it was at its base –
and it pained me to see the waters finally overtake the spire.

Years later we talked about her men of Millville and she
laughed, likening them to the cantina characters in Star Wars.

“Did I really fall for that Eileen song?” “Yes ya did Mom.” And
she laughed even harder. Then she stopped herself and
thought on those years for a moment and exhaled softly.

We were quiet for some time.

“Ah, whatya gonna do?” I said to her.

And she looked at me with serious eyes. For the first time in her
life someone understood.

I painted a prophet to talk to my father.

Daniel on wood in acrylics (based on Michelangelo) by R. Kilroy

Meeting Dad and Other Calamities
by Richard Kilroy

For years my father was off limits. He was damaged, presumably by my mother who,
while pregnant with me, picked up and left Dad in the middle of the night, their five
children in tow. Besides, he didn’t need an unseen son from another lifetime bothering
him. Dad was troubled enough I was told. “You don’t want that Jimmy in your life.” Mom
would warn if I even hinted at contacting him. But I missed him no matter that we had
never met. And it took me until I was in my mid-twenties to even consider trying to reach
him. I suppose I was troubled enough too by that age and thought, well, at least he and I
have one thing in common.

I wrote to my father – a very kind and hesitant letter saying that I know what it must be
like to know of a son but not be ready to acknowledge him. How I knew the feelings of this
man – or rather, how I thought I knew of these feelings falls in to the realm of what I call
my superself, the gift of knowing what others are feeling at all times and knowing exactly
how to handle every situation because of this rare yet burdensome gift.

I wrote on for a few paragraphs – careful not to frighten Dad with expectation of result.
All of it sculpted, manicured, to reach the quietness. The quietness of the damaged man.
Inside this quietness I will reach him. I won’t use too many verbs. Verbs can be
confrontational. I’ll use whispered words and they will settle – snowflakes to a drift –
gently creating a larger slope. He won’t be offended or frightened because I will acclimate
him– he will see that my superself has found his silent self and I am offering him a chance
to step out of his cellar for just a moment. I can see this without even knowing him
because I can find thoughts inside the mind of the sufferer. I have these super powers and
have cleverly hidden them from the world so as not to be exploited by the government or
to be tested on news programs from lesser channels.

The letter will be brilliant and he will finally, finally respond. I’ll hear his words – know
the style of his handwriting (or would he type his reply?). We will have made contact.
Alien craft – fathership to send greetings to the earthson. I also enclosed a small color
copy of one of my paintings – the prophet Daniel. My father has never seen any of my
artwork and I figure this will certainly prompt a response. A prophet sent to do a
forgotten son’s bidding.

Weeks and months passed and he never replied. Too much expectation on him. I overplayed
my hand, my downfall. My superself always forgets my superweakness: I try too
hard. Instead of being patient and subtle, I create a flourish. Why paint landscapes when
you can paint Michelangelo?? Light the candle with a blow-torch. He won’t want to see me
now. He’ll believe I’m like Mom’s side of the family, boisterous, piercing. I’ll laugh an openmouthed
laugh and slam my hand on his knee when doing it. I’ll be too much. As he now
must see it, I’m probably hoping to be, God help me, an entertainer – that would really
send him fleeing.

But something happened months later. I get a call from someone I've never spoken to in
my life, Aunt Pat. She says, “Jimmy wants to meet you.” Kaboom.
I hear almost nothing after those words – my head is inside the liberty bell and someone
just clanged it. Aunt Pat is distant like a voice yelling in a storm.
“Are you still there?” I hear. But I’m not the one saying it, she is.

“I’m here. Just a little …”

“I know. I’m as surprised as you are.”

“When?”

“Let’s make it on the weekend of Christmas– that way your cousins will be there too. You
can meet all of us at one time” she says.

Good idea I think. Dad won’t be the focus; there will be other family for me to meet.
Decorations. Egg nog. It won’t be so freakish and Jerry Springer-like. I won’t cry when
Dad emerges from the side curtain, stage right – passing bodyguards with their hands
clasped behind their backs. It will be subtle and classy. Like polished rose cedar. The
meeting of family in the living room of Aunt Pat’s at Christmas. I like this a lot.

I was began wondering what it would all be like. What will it sound like? Will there be a
stereo playing or will Aunt Pat hire a chamber group? Maybe they’ll play Vivaldi when I
finally meet my father – ‘The Four Seasons” – clichéd?, yes – but damned effective.

I felt buoyant. 28 years of wondering what he would look like – sound like. Does he have a
deep voice? Would he be proud of me? Will he think I look like a Kilroy or fret that I look
too much like Mom’s side? Does he wear cologne? If so, does he wear too much of the
wrong cologne like my math teacher in fifth grade – the one who always smelled like
burnt rubber bands? Does he dress well or will he be one of those men who wear his pants
up above his navel like Fred Mertz? Oh! The questions I have! Will he bother to shave
when he meets me? Will I shake his hand or do we embrace? The first moment has to be
perfect! We waited 28 years for this and I’m not going to have it fall flat with a fumbled
hug. Vivaldi for certain, I can bring a CD.

Maybe our meeting will turn his life around – and mine too. We’ll both find that missing
staircase in the house. The upstairs is ours. I’ll meet my father and will suddenly know
how to throw a baseball in the correct manner, knuckles slightly bent I'm guessing. Father
will meet me and soon after - seek employment with Lockheed, his ambitions fulfilled
after knowing he has a son with superself powers and the ability to paint prophets.

I take a walk after the phone call to ease the crowding in my head. It’s getting dark early
now – it’s not even five and Christmas lights wink in the windows of homes along my way.
I look for the perfectly timed image of a young father lifting his little boy onto his
shoulders in one of the dining room windows. That would be really effective right now. It
doesn't happen. It occurs to me while passing under a canopy of knotty branches: Do I
want this? Really want this? What if my imagination filled in a better image of Dad than
the reality? Will I be so disappointed that I may spiral? I’ve never tested my ability to
deal with actually knowing my father – I’ve only known the unknown.

And it got worse: what if I lose my sadness that I’ve come to cherish? Why cherish
sadness? My God, I am like Mom's side, so dramatic. Who wants to hold on to their
suffering? It makes for a good story, that's why - just like me never having any art
lessons, such a story. How amazing! How sad! Poor Richard! He paints and the poor
wretch never had one lesson! Isn’t that awful! He was so destitute that he made paints
from mud! Mud I tell you! He painted on the paper bags he found in the laundry mat
dumpster. Just look at him go! A ghetto Goya!

Tell someone: 'I never met my father' -- and you get a hug. If not physically – you get one
with their softened eyes. Tell them – well, I did meet him once … and then what? Who
cares to hear the rest of that tale? But what about those first 28 years? I still suffered
without a father, right? Doesn’t that still matter? No. You ruin the story if you meet him.
You destroy the mythology. Tell your father, ‘thanks Dad but I pass.’ That’ll show him. It’s
my great sad story and he’s not about to fuck it up.

I fly to Portland on an airplane with an image of some Eskimo wincing on the tail wing. I
hate flying.

When I arrive at PDX Uncle Jim stands waiting - no one else in the entire building it
seems. This is the quietest airport I’ve ever been to. It feels like zombies have taken over
the city and no one bothered to tell me. Maybe it’s a trap. I notice that Uncle Jim looks
like that actor – the one in ‘Something Wicked This Way Comes’. Jason Robards Jr. He has
kind, bright blue eyes and I’m feeling a bit better - not because he’s one of the family I’ve
never known but because he looks like an actor from I film I once liked.

The drive to Aunt Pat’s home is quiet. I’m still nervous. Worried I wore the wrong shirt.
I’m wearing a button up, it’s blue. I’m Dad's boy so I wore blue. That’s pushy I now
thought. Why am I hitting my father with symbolism when I should just relax? Maybe I
can change shirts in the bathroom before Dad arrives. He’s due for dinner at 8. It’s only a
little after six and I’ll have time to change shirts.

Before Dad arrives … I can’t believe I formed that sentence …

Uncle Jim knows the weight of this night but talks about gardening or his church or
something. Maybe he talked about a church garden. I don’t know. I don’t care. I’m meeting
my father in less than two hours. Wholly Good God.

I just now remember that my sister Terri was with me. How did I forget that? – oh yes,
she was on the flight with me and she sits in the front seat of Jim’s car. I’m in the
backseat. She was so quiet and respectful that I’m only now remembering her being there.
Terri fills in the silences that I can not. I’m too distracted, too inside my head.

We pull up in the drive of an upper middle class house. Neatly shingled with white
shutters. Flagstone walk to the door. They live directly across the river from Mt. St.
Helens. I try not to find the symbolism in that as I take to the walk.

When we enter the Patton’s home there are cousins and other familyish people there. A lit
Christmas tree at a bay window. I don’t know anyone. I’ve never met my father’s side of
the family until this night. I don’t even know my Grandmother. Her name is Rose. She’s
beaming. A little woman, no taller than a garden statue – and she’s dressed in pink pants
and a wool sweater. She smiles among other smiling family. A rose in a rose garden. She
has a pumpkin broach. She’s hugging me. I don’t know what to do. I hug back trying not to
crush her small bones.

I’m stared at like a specimen, not unfriendly stares at all. They won’t dissect me – they
just want to know what world I rocketed in from and do I like their customs? They are
kind to me. The whole of them know this meeting was in the works since my birth. They
know I’ve never said one word to my father. They know how odd my father is. (but he
really only became odd after my mother left him I’m told)

I’m offered a drink. I thought it was alcoholic but it turns out to be Canada Dry. I’m
wishing it was hard liquor. Southern Comfort would do nicely. Of course it’s soda – Uncle
Jim is a pastor! Pat’s a pastor’s wife! My Grandmother has a pumpkin broach – these
people don’t drink, that’s your mother’s side. Remember your setting Richard.

Soda is fine, I don’t wish to dull my senses anyway. I want to be clear eyed and present for
every minute of this night. Tonight I’m a celebrity. They have no idea what I’d look like.
Mom was never the kind to send relatives our school photos.

Again Terri saves me. She fills in the blank stares – answers the questions – speaks for me
even but I don’t care. I need this help tonight. I need to be relieved of one of my faculties. I
have to channel my energy, conserve it, focus it on being the normal son. The best son in
the entire world.

I can do this.

I’m being hit by all sides – information pouring over me about my father, things I never
thought I’d know – things I almost didn’t believe. I’m told that my father had the 3rd
highest I.Q. of any student tested during his fifth grade. 3rd highest in the country. I
never heard that before. Mom wasn’t the person to tell me such things. She admitted he
was intelligent but usually to illustrate her point that he was crafty and sneaky. 3rd
highest? That is something. Maybe my father is a genius! Maybe I’m one too! Father and
son geniuses! We could go on tour! The smarty-pants tour! Madonna could open for us.

It’s nearly 8. People are picking at celery and dill dip. Grandmother Rose is still beaming
at me. Everyone is dressed for church. I start to get the feeling this is a rite of some kind.
There should be an altar with candles burning. I’m in the center of this amazing mass.
People I don’t know are asking me how I feel. These people all sort of look like me too
which makes it that much more disconcerting – but I decide that I like this. I can get used
to this attention. Maybe I could fly up to Portland more often and we can all recreate this
amazing night on a yearly basis. But I'll bring hard liquor next time.

The phone rings. Aunt Pat answers. She looks over at me with a stare I can’t decipher.
I’ve known Aunt Pat all of two hours and I don’t know how to read her cues, her
expression. My superself powers utterly fail me.

I feel electricity. I’ve touched one of those tesla globes of lightning – the kind in Dr.
Frankenstein’s laboratory. My hair must be shooting out in all directions. I know it’s him
– it’s Dad. He’s on the other end of that line. He’s going to be late – prolong the agony. He’s
saying things to her with a voice she’s used to - but to me, I haven’t a clue what he must
sound like.

Aunt Pat motions for me to step over to the phone. The room goes quiet. My God, I
thought Mom's side of the family was a dramatic bunch.

Aunt Pat says to me in a voice like a whispered prayer, ‘it’s your father.’

Suddenly I know this has been all wrong. Too public.
I can’t take my very first phone call from my father. I can’t do this in front of 20 strangers
in tasteful sweaters. They're all watching. They know how weird all of this is and I can’t
believe it’s all on display. It feels staged. I feel like an actor. I feel I should be noble and
move slowly so everyone can absorb the impact and remember it always. I hate that I’m
in slow motion. I hate that I wanted Vivaldi.

I’m shaking. I can’t help myself. The receiver weighs 50 pounds. It’s now at my ear.
“hello?” I say in a voice that suggests I just regressed to four years old.

“It’s your father – look, I’m really sorry but I have a stomach cold and just can’t leave the
house. I’ll make it up to you.”

What? What? I think.

Is that my father’s voice? It sounds small and shaky. He sounds four years old. Stomach
cold? Who has a stomach cold? What is that like?

A reply flies out of my mouth: “No problem – Hope you feel better soon. Don’t worry about
it. We’ll try again real soon.”

I forgive him without question. My inner voice defends his stomach cold, his life of
mistakes and phobias without another thought.

The room is staring at me. Eyes widening as they spackle in what must have been told to
me on the other end. They know better than I that I’m being stood up. It’s not sinking in
for me but they know.

Too much information. Too much sensory information. I’m on the phone with my father –
I’m meeting rosy Grandma and her pink pants – aunts, uncles, cousins, Jason Robards Jr.
- volcanoes just across the river and now I’m hearing my father turn me down. It’s all
happening too fast.

I say goodbye to him, hang up and look at Terri. She’s crying. Great timing Terri. I rely on
her to be my pillar and in this moment of true need, she loses it. I see a lot of misty eyes –
a pall is cast over the room. Over this house. This city. The whole city is crying for me
right now. Even the Christmas tree looks forlorn.

I tell the room – no one in particular – his side of the story. I say I understand and I defend
him again. I say it was all too much of a public meeting and he got spooked off. I get it. I
should have known better but I wasn’t thinking. I wasn’t planning. His family knows
Jimmy – wouldn’t they know this was all wrong?

A cousin spoke, she had Dorothy Hamill hair and a moss-green wool sweater with a
Charlie Brown zig-zag - ‘oh, this is so sad …’ she said.

We had dinner without him: ham with a brown sugar glaze. I poked at my food, no one was
offended by this. Dessert was pumpkin pie – Grandmother Rose served it on mustard
colored plates with green holly leaves painted on them.

painting one's race.

I came up with this color chart (for lack of a better term) months ago but pulled it from my facebook page after about ten minutes.  I thought it was too much of a soapbox statement and while it still is a bit, I think the merit of the concept behind my somewhat iffy execution is worth posting here.  (I'm especially brave on here because I think I'm the only one reading my own blog anyway!)

Here goes ...

Having an anti-muse in your life.

The Anti-Muse

by Richard Kilroy

Have you ever heard of an anti-muse?  Me neither. that is until I moved into the apartment next to apartment number six.  Anti-muse is a term I coined after living in the unit next to someone who is just that.

Don't get me wrong,

I live in a great building.  Most of the neighbors are friendly and quiet.  My landlady, Minnie, is an 89 year old Japanese lady who gives you fish flavored cookies and a roll of toilet paper when you pay your rent.  I love it here.  I love Minnie and her fish cookies.  

I've lived in the same building for over 15 years.  My mom lived in apartment number one - the downstairs corner apartment.  When she became ill, I moved into the unit above Mom to take care of her.  That's when I moved in to the apartment next to the anti-muse.  

Her name is actually Molly and she doesn't realize she has this moniker but she's certainly worked hard for it.  Molly does laundry five nights a week, three loads per night.  I later discovered that a load of laundry to her consists of exactly five articles of clothing.  "I like to keep things separated." she told me once.  

She shuffles out of her apartment like she's in leg shackles, usually banging her head on wind chimes that she's hung from one of the light fixtures on our shared balcony.  Then there's the ping-ping-ping sound from her set of keys clanking against what must be a large metal key holder.  Then there's some full-throated Broadway-voiced talking to herself:

"For Gad's sake, where's my soap?  Who took my soap?  Ah jeez-Louise, what next …?"

Then the shook - shook - shook rasping of her sandals across the walkway and after minutes on the staircase and some additional grumbling, Molly makes it to the laundry room at last.    

Her timing is exquisite.  The moment I turn on my work light, put colors on a palette and begin to paint, Molly gets to her work as well.  It's almost chilling how well timed with me she is.  I don't have any set hour to paint - sometimes it's after dinner, sometimes it's 3 a.m. - as long as I get six hours in in a day, I've had a good work day.  But no matter when I commit myself to my canvas, my liner brush dips into a jar of water, Molly is on the move.  I admit to wondering if she's set up motion detectors in my painting area of my apartment so we can be synchronized.  

Molly usually begins her night of anti-musing by arguing with her roommate Lucy.  

"Who says you can do that!  Well you can't!  Don't ask me why!  I dunno - you just can't!  Stop asking me Lucy!"  she'll say in a voice that sounds like a five year old girl with a drinking problem.  

I usually have a good ten minutes of productive painting time while Molly sorts her laundry and her life-issues in our downstairs laundry facility.  It's when I hear that zombie chain-gang shuffle approach that I know we're in for the second act of her balcony performance.  Shook- shook- shook up each step and it's usually around my picture window when she begins her dialogue with her roommate.   More jangling of keys, one more head smack into the wind chimes sending out notes all around her like cartoon birds swirling about her crown.  

"What more do ya wanfromme for Gad's sake??  We've talked about this already … ah hell …" she yells into her apartment while dropping her keys onto the balcony floor.  When she eases over with a loud "oomph'' to pick up the keys, that's usually when she also spills her powdered detergent. 

"look what ya made me do now ?? - ah hell…"

All of this while I try to make sense of a portrait I've been commissioned to paint.  This painting is due in three days and the photo the patron chose - out of scores of perfectly good images - is the only one that's wildly out of focus.  This isn't a fuzzy photo, no, the guy in the photo looks like he has two heads the motion blur is so bad.   I have to make this look flattering but it's an image out of 'Jacob's Ladder'.   

I know - I know, I chose this profession.  This is really all my fault.  I'll be a painter!  So romantic!  I'll stretch my own canvas and grind pigments out of hand picked berries!  

I try not to get angry. 

And I know Molly has it tough.  Her social life consists of a room mate who is apparently psychotically disagreeable and then those five nights of laundry.  What is peculiar (and I admit, I've given this way too much thought) is that in the fifteen years Molly's been my neighbor,  I've only seen her in the same green stretchy pants and out of shape floral blouse with the ruffled collar.  Why doesn't she wear any of the clothes she washes?  Where does it all go to?  I found myself thinking less about my painting but giving much thought to the idea that perhaps Molly is running a laundry business out of her apartment.

The other peculiar thing I wonder about is why is it that I've never seen this Lucy woman?  She never checks the mail?  Never goes on an errand?  Now God knows Lucy doesn't need to do laundry, I'm sure Molly's got her back on that one - but does she ever see daylight?  Is she strapped to a bed and Molly collects her unemployment checks?  I picture Lucy is really mummified and sitting in some rocking chair among huge piles of freshly laundered towels.  

I sometimes think I'll ring the doorbell when Molly's in the laundry room just to see who answers but I never do.  

It's Christmas time and this portrait of the blurry man has a firm deadline - it's a present and I think he's giving this image to his girlfriend and I can't decide which head to paint - there's two of them - maybe one of them is his true self?   I try squinting in hopes that the siamese twins will somehow merge.  

Molly senses I'm on a deadline - she's in full- wash- spin- rinse-drop-soap-smack wind chimes repeat mode.  Every ten minutes the door swings open, more diaphragm projected dialogue to Lucy about not being an effective friend, another thwack of her forehead, more sonar pinging of the keys and the shuffle downstairs to deliver a dash of softener. 

I'm in my ten minute window so I quickly dip my brush into the paint when …there's a rhythmic car door slamming sound.  Every three seconds a wham comes from somewhere below.  

Who can that be?  Molly doesn't own a car.   But it sounds like a car door shutting.  But that'd have to be a 22 door sedan - there's too many slams.

This is ridiculous.  I can't paint so I decide to take out the trash.  I've got to see what's causing the slamming while not seeming like I'm looking for what's causing the slamming because that would make me look like, you know, the neurotic neighbor.  There's no car in the drive - no one around but there it is again!  Another whamming from nearby.  It's coming from the laundry room.

Someone is slamming car doors inside the laundry room.

As I round the corner, I see Molly lift the washer's lid all the way open - drop in a lace-trimmed sock - and let the lid fall to its frame.  WHAM!  She lifts the lid again, pours in a capful of Baby-Soft and lets the lid fly away from her fingertips.  

Did I mention, it's two a.m.? 

I almost drop my garbage bag.  This is a whole new level of anti-musing!  She's upped her game!  Wow!  I'm impressed.  Everyone in our building is in bed - I'm standing with my mouth agape, holding a trash bag watching my neighbor drop another sock into the washing machine like she was feeding a whale - and then let the lid free fall.  I feel freakishly connected to her madness in this moment so I hurry off to the trash bin.  

Molly shuffles up stairs and I feign busy at the dumpster so I don't have to, you know, be nice to her in the stairwell.  Don't be shocked.  I'm angry with this woman.  If I tried to smile at her right now my mouth would look like a seismograph reading.  I want to paint! I need to paint!  I pay for things when I paint.  Why is this woman in my life?  Where did she come from anyway?  She had a head injury in her past, I just know it.  And what the hell did she do with Lucy anyway?  I want to know!  My neighbor in apartment six ate her roommate and now she talks to her bones like she's still there so no one gets suspicious.

Well I'm more than suspicious.  I'm ready to blow this case wide open.  Then Molly can do laundry duty in jail where people like her belong - that'll be her payment for years of slow shuffles and spilled detergent.  Hell, the poor dryer's motor has burned out twice in the last five years because of her obsessive choring.  And think of the money!  How does she afford her laundry habit?  75 cents a wash-load times 3 loads and then 3 dries - times 5 nights a week??  Not to mention the boxes of Tide - the gallons of Baby Soft, the bleach, the Woolite - the cling-frees!    And again, what does she do with all of those clothes she never wears??  Does she dance around in forty cardigans while dead Lucy looks on?  

I can't stand her anymore!  I'm tired of being quiet!  Artist types are supposed to be the silent sufferers but no more.  I'm going to yell in her face in the same volume she uses!  I'm going to tell her about all of her interruptions of my work.  About how many times I stopped painting, stopped thinking, stopped understanding life because she wore me down.  How many straight lines in my paintings went all a wiggle because of her sudden door slams.  All of my missteps and missed opportunities are all her fault!   I'll tell her how I could be in galleries all over the world and wouldn't be reduced to painting blurry two headed monsters if it weren't for her inane dialogue with her dead Lucy.   Everything will be uttered in one run-on sentence and then I'm going to rip down those wind chimes while she cries.  

I am ready.  

I start for the staircase…

I now hear Molly's wind chime collision and the inevitable, "Ah hell, I dunno know Lucy, you figure it out!  Now look what you made me do??" and then the sound of her door slamming and she's gone.  Wait.  She's gone?  She never moves this fast!  How did this happen??  I didn't get up the stair case fast enough!  

Now I'll have to wait another ten minutes until she reemerges to add a sheet of bounce and by then I won't be as angry as I am right now dammit.  

As I round the stair case to my landing I notice that there's something left at my door.  

A small box.

It's wrapped in gold foil with a neatly looped green bow on top.  

I pick it up, look at the tag which reads, 'To Richard.  I hope you have a very merry Christmas.  Love, Molly.'  

What's this?  She took my anger.  She took my anger …  she's not allowed to do that, is she?  She's taken everything else, she can't take this too ...

I fumble with the box, trying to find the scotch taped line - and open the wrapping.  I Pop off the lid, pull away some cotton and now I see:  It's a small snow globe with glitter drifting lazily inside.  A small village tableaux - something out of Mary Poppins.  It's tiny and dainty and perfect.  

All of my rage drains from me.  It's a snow globe.  I defy anyone to be angry while holding a snow globe.   

I can't hate her now.  It's simply not possible.  I could just see her and Lucy wrapping snow globes in gold foil - it's just too sweet.  

And so I decided she may not be a very effective anti-muse after all because she ended up inspiring me that night.  I decided which head to paint and I finished the blurry man before sunrise.

And all was well in my building.  Even the wind chimes sounded like Christmas carols that night.        

      

   

Painting for art's sake or to pay bills ...

Close up section of 'Lee's Desk'  in acrylics on wood panel. 

When does the art leak out of the work and it becomes just work?  For example:  I was commissioned to do a painting of some books, a pair of reading glasses and a tea cup, a simple still-life done in photo-realism style.  Since I was (happily) trusted to design the work, I could choose books with ornate binding but wait, that changes things, financially speaking.  Let me explain, it will take another two sessions to get the gold to shimmer and the numerous inlayed lines to be painted neatly.  Spine lettering is a consideration too.  Choose the book with the difficult logo or the block letters?  Decide Richard, it all makes a big difference. 

The teacup, it could be one of the floral patterned cups I have from my mom’s old set – I love those - but it will take hours to do that pattern – especially since the design has to take the form of a compound curved surface on that cup.  Add another two sessions if I want the flowers.   If I choose a smooth white china cup – my work is cut in half.   Flowers? Yes?  No?  Decide Richard, money is waiting.

Eye glasses in the case?  One session.  No case and we get to see those beautiful glints off the lenses?  Three sessions.  Ka-ching. 

Lighting, another issue – stark key light coming in from one angle allows for nearly half the work to fall into black paint.  Want to add fill-light for subtlety in the shadows?  Tack on another three sessions.   

How about a doily?  Lace? Are you kidding?  Add a week! 

What has any of this to do with storytelling?  What do these decisions have to do with emotion?  Artistry? 

Nothing. 

They have to do with economics and what I described has nothing to do with the process I go through when deciding what to paint, unfortunately.  If I did consider these things, I would have faster turn-arounds on my work and I’d have enough money to pay my DWP bill.   

Everything I paint every time I paint it ends up being an enormous project.  For example: I can’t not see what’s reflected in that cup.  It’s there right in front of my eyes!  The table and the glasses are bouncing up on to the underside of the cup.  I have to paint it.  Why?  I don’t know why.  There’s reflected light inside the shadow of the fold in the cloth.  A highlight inside a shadow!  How can that even be?  But it’s there – right in front of my eyes.  I can ignore it but then I can’t sleep.  The lettering on the spine I just painted could be more even.  Who cares?  I can barely detect the flaw.  I paint it completely out and do it over.  Why?

The shadows should be cooler blue – the highlights more ochre, not sunny enough.  I’m too bright over-all – I need to knock down the whole painting by two values.  What was I even thinking?  I’m nowhere near what it really looks like, feels like.  I’m a sham.  I’m living logic in half-light.  I can’t even find the proper ellipse for the saucer.  The math is wrong – the chroma is too much.  I do this until I stop hating it.  Little by little I stop hating the painting until I like it.  If I don’t, I end up with those seascapes at the waiting room at Kaiser.

I can’t hand over a painting I don’t like.  I tried it once in my life.  One time I was lucky enough to get a commission to paint the poster art for a French film.  The releasing company wanted something blowsy and washy – a watercolor look from 1960’s ad-art perhaps.  

Oh My Lord was I the wrong man for this job. (‘you’ve come to a goat’s house for wool’ as they say in Alabama)  But I so wanted to paint movie posters.  My work in a poster case!  I can point it out to people as I just so happen to walk them past it.  

The company’s art department showed me numerous references – all of them terrific, loose and free renderings from other movie key-art.  My God they were free paintings.  No math – no layers, no under-painting – no underpants.  Native art.  

I was to paint a portrait of the young lead actress along with a gauzy, impressionistic image of Paris behind her. 

I gave them nothing like that at all.

I should have been using a two inch sable brush, soft – willowy strokes – all of it done in one happy and free sitting.  I used a micro-lettering brush – the kind used for painting text the size of the Bible’s.  It took me two months.   Their art director was this very hip and sweet woman named Chop or something like that and she just stood in front of my final painting and wondered silently why she could make out every gap in every tooth – every crease on the woman’s face – every strand and every split-end of every hair on her head and why could you do a geological survey of Paris - if one were so inclined -in my rendering of the city? 

Of course they never used the artwork.

I was crushed that I could not keep from over-doing it.  Why?  I wish I knew why.  I hate that I don’t know why.  I just do.  I just do.  

I finish the painting of the books and the glasses and the teacup inside of my deadline and I'm even paid pretty well for it.  Thankfully, I opted to not paint that lace doily.     

Painting portraits for a living is a tough business.  For one thing, most people don't know what they actually look like so your job to replicate someone's appearance is already a losing proposition.   Every facial feature puts you at crossroads.  He's got heavy eyelids.  Why?  Too much sleep?  Too much wine?  Bad parenting?  Well never mind all of that - you can't paint those lids as is or he'll look like himself and trust me, no one wants that.  Make the eyes brighter - always do that.  Add flicks of light no matter that there were none to be found in your photo reference.  Everyone should peer out from glistening eyes - it's a trade secret.  Don't mind telling you since we're already here talking art.    

An arm and a leg ...

Know where that saying comes from?  Portrait painters used to charge more for adding limbs to their paintings.  Want that hand of yours resting on the captain's chair?  It'll cost ya.  Lose those legs - save some dough.

As I finish up one of my tougher portraits I'm left with the feeling that it matters less that the work captures the patron and more important that they look amazing sitting in that wing-backed chair staring blankly at us with a smile that looks like an iron-on decal.  What's most important is to keep in mind that these paintings are heirlooms and people want to look back on Uncle Jimmy as having great hair and the lightest of eyelids.  We're selling idealized memories here, nothing archival  -- these works are eulogies and eulogies don't speak of smile lines.

The worst thing that can happen with a portrait that doesn't please the patron?  You're stuck with it.  What the hell can you do with that double portrait of that woman with the thick frizzy hair and her calico? No one wants someone else's portrait - that's like buying a diary with words already scribbled in it.  Unless you're famous and troubled in which case a portrait of anyone you might paint will sell, you probably need to gesso over the work and reuse the canvas as a tiny sail on some boat.