It's dark when I head to the studio in the winter. I, like all workers, scrape the snow and ice from windshields and think of some place warm, like Florida. On my way, I am greeted by a string of headlights coming up Broadway, racing for the tollway I imagine. A coyote waits to cross the street, probably heading to the river.
A new panhandler with a new hardship story approaches me as I am parking my car. Thirty year coming to my studio panhandlers have been giving me these stories, stories. I know some word for word. Some panhandlers I know by name, others just walk away when they see me. I keep two dollars in my shirt pocket for Jason and Dan. Jason has been panhandling for twenty years, that I know of, and Dan for ten. They were nice enough to stop doing their business behind my dumpster at the back of the studio. Manuel, another I give to, is the only panhandler who pays people back.
People have been my favorite subject since I first picked up a pencil. From cowboys to pretty girls, most have a story to tell, or read about. The girls in the studio talk about boyfriends and professors who never give them a break with late homework. Not wanting to be a meanie myself, I pose them reading a lot. They get their school work done and I get my painting done. Collectors have always want to know why I pose nudes reading. Sometimes, while painting the nude, I get a lesson in economic or animal behavior as I paint. I remember Debby who enlisted in the army to get her college tuition. She told all about living with eight brothers and how the army would be no different than living at home. Desert Storm began before she was done with the army. She not only got a college education, she got to see Kuwait and came away knowing how to drive and repair semi-trucks clouded with sand . If I want to know how to repair a tank, I can call Debby. Karen, another model, can help me pull a calf out of a cow if it needs my help. Kelsey tried to teach me sign language. If it weren't for the fact I needed hands for painting I might have learned some of it. Kelsey also made beautiful pots for my still-life painting.
Every day for me is full of inspiration. At a Bed and Breakfast on a rainy road trip I found the room to be quite inspiring. The room was attached to a funeral home, also interesting. In an old hotel room in a dying Iowa town, I heard about the old days from a permanent guest. Sharing a beer with this old gentleman I drew him as he rolled a cigarette from the butts of cigarettes he'd found in the street.
Nothing really gets to me if I have my sketchbook and plenty of pencils with me. In Wisconsin, when my water pump gave out, I drew Big John as we waited for a new water pump coming from Appleton, Wisconsin, that he was going to put in for me. His stories were about the walleyes he caught and muskies he had mounted, hanging with the sparkplugs. All caught with a "Red Devil” lure, also framed and hanging with the fan belts . Some centerfolds taped up made it his Sistine Chapel.
Looking through my sketchbooks I'm taken back to places of reward, and warm feelings about my many strangers.
