(In memory of Bill Traylor, and all the other self-taught artists who might only consider themselves “painters.”)
It was always part of the plan to have other artists involved in Window Studio, but this has worked out in ways I hadn’t anticipated. I had thought it would be a matter of putting out an open call on artist networks both in the neighborhood and more broadly, and I may still do this. But actually the involvement of other artists has come about much more organically. As with everything so far at Window Studio, it has involved other artists stopping by.
At least ten other artists have come in, if not more. In some cases they have shared their artwork in sketchbooks or on their mobiles, and I am hoping to be able to post it at some point. But in the meantime, this is the story of one fellow artist, Jimmy, though he would say he was only a painter.
Jimmy was going by a few weeks ago, rolling an industrial sanding machine along the sidewalk when he noticed me working, parked his machine, and came in. He had a craggy face with a lively, slightly wall-eyed glance. He told me that he was 72 years old and loved to paint.”But you’re a real artist,” he exclaimed enthusiastically. “I just paint landscapes, not people the way you do.”
“Some painters only paint landscapes,” I said. “Or that is what they really do best. Do you go outside to paint?”
“Oh no, I just paint what’s in my head,” he laughed. “People seem to like my paintings though. One woman even bought a bunch of them, for $40 each! Can you believe that!”
He told me he’d been painting ever since he had retired, though he still worked picking up and delivering industrial machines all over the neighborhood.
“I’d like to see your paintings sometime. No one sees the world inside your head unless you paint it. I couldn’t paint those pictures, only you can.”
“But I just paint. You’re a real artist!” He insisted on this so firmly it was as though he wouldn’t let it be denied, even by me. “The pictures look so real, like the people are going to come right out of them.” He pointed at the portrait of Will. “It’s just like life. Exactly like life,” he exclaimed, but then kept looking at the picture.
“…But it is more than life…It’s not just the person in the painting, it is also you – the artist – because you made it.”
“And it is also you, because you are looking at it,” I added.
“That’s why it’s art,” he said.