An American Artist

His story starts, like so many others in New York. It was not his hometown and it never became the home he had hoped it might. Lying awake one evening, staring at a Matisse print that hung over his bed, he made a decision. It wasn’t really a decision; staring at ‘Luxe, Calme et Volupté’ a lazy but nevertheless insatiable sort of dream was born.

Fleeting memories of moments that passed on a string of Greyhound buses haunted him the next day. Unable to shake a brief encounter with a hobo, a poet from his mind he decided not to go to school but rather to go for a walk. After all, he was an artist (at least, he called himself an artist) and art was in the city not in the classroom. As he walked he wondered what he would have painted that day if he hadn’t recalled the ten minutes he spent with the poet. He wanted to paint a Matisse. It was reasonable enough though that only Matisse could paint a Matisse. At this moment, on any other street corner in New York, the young artist understood that he did not want to paint a Matisse, but live one. He wanted to live a life filled with colour; he wanted to capture colour on canvases like the Fauvists had. He knew that he could not possibly paint anything so life affirming or filled with a patient, observant wisdom until he had lived enough to learn enough to truly understand colour.

As paints of various shades overflowed from the palette in his mind, his eyes suddenly noticed what they were seeing. Grey. Pavement. Cigarette butts and chewing gum churned by the incessant foot traffic. Unsettled, he stopped walking. He stumbled backwards and collapsed onto a step. He was still looking at the pavement, amazed by how grey it was. He fumbled in his pocket for a crumpled packet of cigarettes. He swore he had picked them up before he left his room that morning. Maybe he had smoked them all staring at the ‘Luxe, Calme et Volupté’ print. The thought of the painting calmed him and he no longer wanted to smoke so much. The idea of adding more grey smoke to the grey city, which was now fittingly sitting in the shadow of gathering grey clouds, made his head spin.

It seemed the only hint of colour in the whole city at that moment was blaring from a neon sign in the window of a dinner. “Open”. In a city that suddenly seemed closed, lost in the grip of a constant winter, the sign ushered him into the dinner. The bright red stools by the counter looked almost like fruit, edible and ripe, when he compared them to anything he saw outside. The waitress’ blonde hair had a golden quality; the artist watched it shimmer for a moment when she came to take his order. She gave him a strange, appreciating sort of look before sidling away to pour his coffee. The coloured lights coming from the jukebox mesmerised him. He stared at them, daydreaming about France and he barely noticed when the waitress placed his coffee in front of him. He murmured thanks, becoming distracted yet again as a yellow taxi stopped at a red light outside in the street. It was raining heavily now and the rain streaked the window, distorting the shape of the taxi, the red glow of the “Open” sign making it seem orange from a certain angle. The taxi pulled away lazily and the artist returned his attention to his cup of coffee. He was unsure what he was feeling; he was inspired, he wanted to paint, but he was not happy. He gulped down some coffee and swiftly emptied the contents of his bag onto the tabletop.

The last three of his expensive drawing pencils, a couple of sticks of charcoal and a new sketchbook were all the artist could find by way of art supplies. He did however also find a forgotten packet of Lucky Strike and a box of matches. Striking a match he observed the way it cast a fleeting warmth, a distinctly calm atmosphere over the whole both and let it burn down to his fingertips before lighting his cigarette. Smiling momentarily he turned his attention to the open page in front of him and set about the task of sketching New York as he saw it on that particular rainy morning.

***

Lawrence Green lived in a room at the top of townhouse that he rented from an old friend of his family. It was pleasant enough and he certainly wasn’t uncomfortable, but the room simply wasn’t the artist’s studio he had imagined when he had first set out for New York. There was the Matisse print that hung over the bed, a second hand easel, several stacks of art books from the college library, a shelf full of his own books and the once expensive but tired furnishings that were included in his rent. Other than the easel there were few signs that this was the space of an artist; Lawrence was painfully aware of this when he came home after spending most of the afternoon making a series of sketches in the dinner.

He dropped his bag and fell onto the bed feeling exhausted. A new sort of creative energy had overcome him and he now wanted to sleep, but he knew that it was still too early. As soon as he opened his eyes they were drawn once again to the print. He considered it as he had many times before, as he had the previous night the half light cast from the lamp by the bed. It would always look the same, but he could never shake the feeling that it changed and moved and breathed whilst he was out of the room. The life that was so clearly present to him in the painting just served to remind him how painfully lacking in vibrancy his accommodation was. He entertained the notion of painting more of his own canvases to fill up the walls, but abandoned it quickly. He wanted to be around masterpieces and he was incredibly aware that his paintings did not fit this bill. He doubted that any off his art would ever be called a masterpiece if he continued to paint bowls of fruit. He understood that he was very young and still technically incapable of producing anything like a Picasso, a Dali or his elusive dream, a reimagining of a Matisse.

Wondering, once again, what he must do to become a master he asked himself several questions about his artistic heroes. They were all pioneers, they were all radical in their own way, they were politically aware and well read, they were all classically trained. Lawrence Green considered all these factors before addressing a trait they all shared which captured his imagination more than any of their impressive technical attributes; all of his heroes were European. And at this moment he knew that he could not continue his education with any real ambition unless he were to relocate to the right side of the Atlantic.

So, Lawrence Green’s lazy, insatiable dream took on a new form. Although he was well aware of America’s rich artistic heritage he longed to be a part of the European creative tradition that had consistently shown him his own dreams realised in literature, music and art. Sitting up, his earlier fervour renewed, he bounded to the wardrobe and pulled out the canvas bag that he had purchased, along side a Navy pea coat, from a military surplus store earlier that month. With the bag hanging open in his hand he looked pensively upon his scattered possessions and wondered which of them would accompany him to Europe. First and foremost he gathered all of his sketchbooks and notebooks and dumped them into the green duffle. He then rifled through his draws searching for pencils, paintbrushes, charcoal sticks, his dilapidated set of watercolours and a few tubes of acrylic paint. With the bag half full he surveyed the room again. It seemed that all he needed was a few clothes, so he approached the open wardrobe and tossed a few white and blue shirts in the rough direction of his duffle. They were all once quite expensive shirts, but none were as dignified as they had been when they were purchased. Next several white t-shirts flung from a draw followed onto the small heap. He had two pairs of jeans; one black and one blue. He was wearing the later, but rolled up the black pair and stuffed under his makeshift pencil tin (an old coffee canister) at the bottom of the bag. He then grabbed two ties and his boots before pulling what he liked to consider his best suit from the wardrobe. Truthfully it was his only suit, but he supposed that by the same reasoning it was also his best. It was perhaps the one thing Lawrence Green owned that he took care to maintain, and wore it only when he felt the time was right. The next day, his departure for Paris, certainly seemed an appropriate occasion. So, with great fondness he hung it on the back of his door with one of the shirts and the navy blue tie and eagerly awaited the morning when he could put it on and leave the house proudly, with purpose.

His evening was occupied with letter writing, informing the family friend of his sudden departure and arranging for the remainder of his belongings to be transported back to his family’s home. After dinner he sat back down on his bed, the room seeming even barer than it had previously. Lighting the last of his Lucky Strikes he took one last long look at the Matisse. As absorbed by the painting as ever, the young Lawrence Green was overcome by a sudden pang of indefinable energy as the enormity of his journey dawned on him.