The Impressionist (3 page)

“Thanks,” I said with an edge.

Straightening up to a good six-two or three, the old gentleman nodded humbly while tipping his white cap with the black and gold New Orleans Saints logo stitched on it. “My pleasure,” he said. Oddly, a few feet away from him on the trail, he’d left what appeared to be a small, handmade cart filled with an assortment of painting supplies—brushes, rags, a palette, tubes of paint, rolled-up paper, an umbrella, a collapsible easel and stool, and a plastic jug of water among other necessities. I’d seen the fishermen pull similar carts, but never a painter. Not around here.
Probably got mental issues,
I thought.

“Looks like you’ve got a lot on your mind,” he pressed, stepping closer to me.

“At least you still have your eyesight old man,” I shot back at him, glaring. Like I said, I just wanted to be left alone.

He only smiled warmly and rubbed his chin. “Would you perhaps allow me the honor of painting your portrait?” he asked.

“What?” I snapped. “Do I look like I want my picture painted?”
That’s why the old coot picked up my can! He saw it as an opportunity to sell me! Clever, but I’m no fool.
“Leave me alone, please! Go paint a duck or something.” I thought for certain that my crude remarks would dissuade him, but the old guy simply stood there unfazed. “Are you deaf?”

“I heard you,” he said.

“Look, I don’t know what your deal is, but you don’t want to be anywhere near me right now—seriously!”

He
still
didn’t move, just stared at me. The whites of his eyes sat deep in their sockets behind silver-framed bifocals. His milk-chocolate skin enhanced a silver mustache, bushy eyebrows, and silver hair. I thought about pulling out a five and throwing it at him, but remembered I didn’t have my wallet. Then it hit me how sharply and well-dressed he was—obviously not needy. His sweater sleeves were pushed up on his forearms revealing a long since faded military tattoo of a shield with two swords crossing over the front of it, indicating that he’d possibly been a tough character once. I turned my head toward the lake waiting for him to go about his way, but after thirty seconds or so I could sense he was still standing there, watching me. Thirty seconds is a long time when you are counting the seconds.

“You don’t give up easily do you?” I said, jerking my head back around in disbelief, feeling the buzz from my Red Bull. “You’re a stubborn old guy!”

“Too old to give up,” he said. “Learned that sometimes you gotta stand your ground and fight for what’s important.”

“Well good for you. Me, I’m tired of fighting. Besides I don’t have any money on me anyway.”

“Don’t want your money,” he replied. “Just want to paint your portrait. My painting is a gift.”

“A gift?” I let out a sarcastic laugh. “Are you for real, man?”

“Pretty sure I am,” he chuckled, feeling his arms and legs.

“Look,” I said, standing up from the bench to bolt. “I’m dealing with some serious stuff right now—very serious. I don’t have time for this. If you’re not leaving, I am.”

His back stiffened and instead of retreating, he actually moved a step closer, now almost in my face like a drill sergeant, or a coach. Shocked at this, my first inclination was to shove him away and run, but for some peculiar reason I did just the opposite. I froze. His eyes narrowed and brows furrowed. “Sit down!” he thundered with an absolute authority that seemed to originate from far beyond him. “You must stop your running! You
need
your portrait painted!”

Dazed, I staggered backward and dropped down on the bench. What was going on here? What was I doing? He was just some old eccentric painter who was probably off in the head. He had no authority over me. Yet if that was the case, why did it feel like he did? At that precise moment the sun burst through the clouds casting down rays that illuminated his face. As the beams of light shone on him, his countenance softened and his eyes called out, pleading, reaching beyond my coldness and cynicism, penetrating to my core causing my pent-up anger to fade and a calmness to rest upon me. As I gave in to this soothing sensation, he sat down on the bench next to me and I scooted over offering him more room. Squinting, he shielded the light from his eyes with one hand and pointed out over the lake with the other. “See those ducks over there?”

I followed his finger to a particular group of smaller ducks flocked around some reeds. “Yes,” I said curiously.

“Those are Hooded Mergansers,” he explained. “Did you know they’re one of the few breeds of duck that actually migrate north to spend winters? Something special. Don’t see them much. They’re one of North America’s most magnificent but rarest mallards. You know why they call them Hooded Mergansers?”

“No sir.”

“They have a sail-shaped white crown on their heads that can expand or collapse. It makes their head look oversized, like they’re wearing a big ole hood. Quite fascinating. But most people don’t even notice. Just pass right on by. …And when the sunlight reflects off their feathers it makes their colors blaze.” A gust of wind swirled up the leaves around us. He patted my leg and unfolded his long frame to stand up. “Sometimes people don’t realize the special things that are right there under their noses.”

I let out a deep sigh. “All right,” I said throwing my hands up. “How long’s this gonna take?”

The old man’s eyes locked back onto mine with a kindhearted stare that pierced right through me. “Now, that depends on you,” he said with not so much as a blink. “That all depends on you.”

The old gentleman calmly walked the twenty or so feet and retrieved his cart from the trail. He then positioned it directly in front of where I was sitting and began preparing his work. Sitting there without my iPhone on me, I started to get fidgety. Time was passing and I needed to check my messages. Because of a major deadline the pressure was on at work. This was the first Saturday I’d had off in over a month, but I was still on call. I’d be okay for a while if there wasn’t a crisis.

Really, I wanted to text Paige and Josh. Now that the insanity was lifting, I needed to check on her and let her know how bad and stupid I felt. I figured it couldn’t hurt, though I also figured it wouldn’t do much good either. It’s frightening how anger can blind me and how differently I feel after stepping back from the situation and cooling down a bit. Hopefully Paige felt the same way and we could make up.

Surely this portrait thing wouldn’t take that long— twenty, thirty minutes tops. As much as I wanted to get away, there was something about this guy that kept me glued to the bench. For some reason I felt safe with him, like I’d known him forever. Besides, I needed to be somewhere other than home right now. If I just went with it, I’d be back soon enough. What could it hurt?

“Okay,” I said taking a deep breath, still not believing I was actually taking part in such an eccentric activity. “Paint me. The clock is ticking.”

The old gentleman glanced up at me then dropped his head back down and continued sorting through his supplies, apparently unfazed by my comments. “It’s important for an artist to think before he works,” he said. “I’m thinking how to paint you, in order to catch your soul. You see, oil reflects a completely different likeness than watercolor or sketch.” Scratching his chin, not the least bit uncomfortable or threatened, he went on. “You know what I think?”

“I’m afraid to ask.”

“I think watercolor fits you. Watercolor dribbles and makes splotches. It’s not neat and clean—doesn’t stay in the boundaries—gives a more impressionistic look. And watercolor is vulnerable to its surroundings. You know, the temperature and breezes, even the angle of the paper. A watercolor work reflects every bit of contact the painter makes. Each stroke of the brush leaves an imprint just like each experience in this ole life leaves an imprint on us and others. You can’t hide or cover up anything in watercolor. You have to blend in your mistakes to create a unique work. Mistakes become part of its character—makes it special. You can’t undo them, so you use them to make the work stronger.”

“Great,” I smirked. “With all my mistakes this should be a Van Gogh!”

With that, he smiled and pulled out a thick piece of water-color paper from a cylinder, gently unrolled it, smoothed it out with his hands and then fastened it to the easel with some clips. The easel adjusted and he brought it to a slight angle, almost flat like a table, but not quite. Then he unfolded a portable stool and sat.

“Did you know that you are made up of seventy percent water?” he continued. “Your blood is eighty-three percent water, lungs eighty, brain eighty-five, and your muscles seventy-five. Sounds impossible, but it’s true.”

“I took biology.”

“Then you know that water is necessary for your body to digest and absorb vitamins and nutrients. It detoxifies the liver and kidneys and carries waste away from the body. When you’re dehydrated your blood becomes thicker because of the lack of water, and your body has to work that much harder to cause the blood to circulate. As a result, your body feels fatigued. We need water for our survival. You’re dehydrated in spirit—struggling hard to survive in this life—working hard, but seeing limited results. So…I think I’ll paint you with water.”

“Is it
that
obvious?” I asked.

He raised one eyebrow and smiled.

“You take this painting stuff pretty seriously don’t you,” I said. “You sure you don’t want any money, because I told you I forgot my wallet?”

“Like I said, painting’s my gift and a gift is only a gift if it is received. If you pay for it, then it’s not a gift, now is it?”

“How come I get the feeling you are doing more than painting a picture here?”

“Just exercising my gift.”

I exhaled a long breath of air. “I’m going to be here awhile, aren’t I?”

“Need to use my cell?”

“Uh…yes,” I stuttered, “as a matter of fact, I do.”

After handing me his slightly outdated Blackberry, I started texting while he took out the plastic jug of water and poured some into a glass jar.

“Paige,” I texted, taking great care to cover the screen so the old guy couldn’t see. “Look.” Suddenly I was unsure of what to say. “I should not have said—” Pausing a second, I pushed Delete and started typing again. “Paige I—” Backspace. Backspace. “Paige—” Delete. I finally typed, “Paige, I love you.” and pushed Send. Then I entered Josh’s text. “Josh, Mom told me what happened. We need to talk. It’s important. I’ll be home soon. Don’t disappear on me!”

I handed the phone back to the old painter, who was now dipping his brush from the jar of water onto the well-used palette in his hands. After a couple of dips and swirls in the paint, he started to touch the paper, but then quickly drew back his arm.

“Now just go on and look at me,” he said. “Here I am about to paint your portrait and I haven’t even introduced myself.” He set the brush down and extended his right hand. “Name is James Edward Porter. Friends call me Jim Ed. Nice to meet you.”

His grip was firm and confident, yet trembled ever so slightly. “My name is Adam Camp. It’s nice to meet you Jim Ed. Look, I’m sorry I’ve been kind of a jerk today.”

He let out a hearty laugh. “We’re all jerks sometimes, Adam.”

Noting the lack of criticism, I asked, “What’s up with the Saints hat?”

“Oh, I grew up down that way,” said Jim Ed, “Couple of my relatives were hit pretty hard by Katrina a few years back and we opened up our home to them for a while. They brought me the hat.” He lifted it off his head and looked at it. “It’s special. You know the Saints won the Super Bowl in 09.”

“Yep,” I said. “Don’t remind me. They beat my Vikings in the NFC Championship Game!”

Jim Ed placed the white hat back on his silver-haired head. The easel stood about five or six feet away and because of its slight angle I could not see his creation. That didn’t matter though, for I was focused totally on the colorful expressions illuminating Jim Ed’s face and his hands gliding the brush up and down and around on the paper as if he were directing a grand symphony. Clearly, to him this was much more than a portrait; it was an expression of his very soul.

“Is it all right if I talk some?” I asked feeling fidgety again. “Or would that mess you up? I can get a little chatty when I’m nervous.”

“Talking’s fine by me,” said Jim Ed completing a stroke with a slight slap of his brush against the paper. “But why in the world would you be nervous? I’m just an old painter.”

“Maybe nervous wasn’t the best word choice,” I said. “It’s more like anxious. I’ve got a lot on my mind and getting my portrait painted at the park today was
not
something on my ‘to do’ list.” I gave him a tight smile.

“Some of the best things in life are unplanned,” he said never missing a beat. “Got to live in the moment.”

“You gotta admit though, it’s a little strange.”

Jim Ed blinked innocently. “I guess it is a bit, as you kids like to say, ‘out of the box.’ But trust me, Adam. Living ‘inside the box’ will eventually suffocate a person. I’ve got to have an outlet of expression.”

“Okay, I get painting, but why stalk down strangers? For all I know you could have had a gun or something. Aren’t you worried about how people may perceive you? Why not just paint one of those Hooded Mergansers?”

Jim Ed paused a moment considering my questions. His pause made me regret asking, for he wasn’t breaking any speed records for painting. When he talked, his brush slowed almost to a stop. “Can’t let what others think stop me from doing what I’m supposed to be doing,” he said. “My painting’s not about me. I told you it’s a gift.” Jim Ed scratched his forehead with the wooden tip of the brush and glanced out over the lake. A crisp breeze raked leaves across the ground and our feet again. “And I’ll tell you something else,” he continued. “When I’m exercising my gift, I’m filled with peace. You know that feeling you get when you’re doing something and while you’re doing it calmness just takes you over, like you’re feeling God’s pleasure? I feel it right now. Can’t explain it very well, but I know that I’m doing right, that I am right where I’m supposed to be. When I paint and do what I do, well, I guess I feel like one of those ducks in the water over there. They don’t know why they need to be in it, they just know they’re supposed to be, and they’re at ease when they are.”