by Geoff Gouveia

“Are you coming to my wedding?” I ask as I rifle through my stack of canvases. Outside the window of the small office we meet in a gray covering smothers the parking lot.

“I believe so. I have to check with Patricia, make sure she is doing alright.”

“That’s great, Professor Thompkins. How is she? I’d love to have you both there.”

“Thank you for the invite and the concern. She’s had better days. Lets talk about this piece right here.” Thompkins gestures with a long finger at the blue canvas. The oil paint is not dry and the smell of linseed oil settles amongst us like a familiar guest.

My hands fold in a fidget over themselves again and again in my lap. I clear my throat and start with sideways eyes to avoid confronting him straight on. “About that... I can’t say I like this piece. I lost it when I was painting.”

“You ‘lost it’?”

“Yes, lost it,” I reply while staring at the peaks and valleys of blue oil paint. “I had a vision, you know? I wanted the man to be seated, to be content. I started to zero in on him and the perspective warped. I didn’t stop, though, I kept painting.”

“As you should.”

The painting gives no relief to my shame in presenting it. Thin wooden strips hold together an easel that supports the painting on a thin wooden bar. The fragility of the scene weighs heavy on my back. I don’t see a painting - I see a failed attempt. I see a missed mark and a lack of redeemable qualities. My eyes shift from the blue to my lap, my question to Thompkins beginning in a faint voice.

“Even if it isn’t what I want?”

“George, you have to paint. It isn’t about intentions. You either paint or you don’t. There is no middle ground.” Thompkins held his face close to the canvas while his finger traced in the air the pattern of the brushstroke.

“Very Cezanne, no? The brushstrokes… Bang! Bang! They hit the canvas. Good internal rhythm but they don’t help the piece. It comes off as childish.” Thompkins begins his critiques with momentary praise and ends with a crash.

My eyes roll, but not at Thompkins. I know he is correct. The problem all young artists have is in knowing your paintings are wrong but not knowing why. When you peer at something for hours on end, it melts in your mind. It becomes nature and nature is never questioned. No one asks Why is that tree there? It is and has always been. But painting is not nature, nor second nature, and Thompkins had been teaching me this for two years now.

“I keep making that mistake. I start well. The piece is in my head and I know what I need to do. I begin and for the first fifteen percent, the piece is exactly what I wanted. Then I lose it. The finished product is something I never intended. It never comes out how I wanted it to.” The blue strokes hold my gaze. They are short and hurried, the mass tangles at the bottom before spiraling upwards. The composition centers the piece but the asymmetry of the colors throws the weight at an awkward slant. I knew I missed the mark when the trail went cold during the final hours of painting it. I brought the piece here to see if Thompkins could pick the scent back up.

“You paint with emotion,” Thompkins begins the hunt with closed eyes. “You are not calculated, yet you do not consider yourself experimental…” His voice trails off as his hands raise into the air. With eyes closed and hands like a conducting maestro, Thompkins searches his own mind in analog form. His eyes open and his head nods with a simple truth. “Sketch the piece beforehand, twice.”

My mind flashes back to my studio, the moment before the piece begins. Back to the ambiguity of the white canvas and the uncertainty of the first brush stroke. Painting with a heavy hand hides fear, but underneath the brush strokes are white canvas, and still deeper, anxiety about triumphing over thought. Thompkins revelation is simple, but like all truth, it pierces through to the core. Success isn’t an end product, it is a process.

“Painting is not a lottery. The only mark of a true artist is one who paints every day. Nothing more, nothing less. We will talk in a few weeks, bring your next pieces then as well.”

My head rises and falls, still distant in my studio, as the pieces slide back into my grip. Dainty fingers hold the edges, careful to preserve fresh oil paint on the surface. As my palm grasps the cool brass door handle, I stop in mid turn.

“Thompkins?”

“Yes?”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“At what point in your career does the piece in your mind make it to the canvas?”

Thompkins closes his eyes in the slow fashion of a pondering man. The walking wisdom literature, he is calm and never reacts on my pace. The words are visualizing behind his eyes. Inside of my chest, the rib cage struggles to make room for both my heart and the holding of a breath in anticipation of the answer.

“What makes you think that ever occurs?”

The chest pressure subsides and the spell breaks, silence snaps and shatters a worldview. As I complete the turn of the handle while juggling the canvases, my smile overpowers the February gust.

“See you in a few weeks, Thompkins.”

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Thank you for reading this story. This is the first part of a four part series. Tap here to read part two.