The Artist

“Are you an artist?”
He asked me.

I didn’t know how to answer him.

I felt a little uncomfortable.

I mean
I’ve been an artist
In my past.

I’ve painted
Drawn
Done sculpture
Printmaking
Performance art
Music
Writing
Installation art.

I like taking pictures.

I’m told I'm good in bed.

I don’t know what he was asking me really.

I know that it’s because of the way that I look.

I’ve heard this question before.

“Are you an artist?” “A musician?” “A designer?”

Truth is
I haven’t touched a paint brush in years.

I pick up a pen only to write a note to myself.

I sold my four track studio
A long time ago.

But he continues...

“Have you heard of Rollo May?”
He asks me.

“He wrote this amazing book called ‘The Courage To Create’.”

I shake my head.

“He was this great existential psychologist associated with the humanistic movement in the
70’s.”

“He pushed the idea of creativity being at the core of everything, including logic, science
and happiness.”

I was hanging in there
But I really just wanted to eat my lunch
Sitting on the park bench
Next to me.

My stomach was way past empty
And I was feeling dizzy.

But he was deep into it.

“Blah, blah, blah...did this study of adopted children vs underprivileged children...blah, blah,
blah...”

I was barely listening
Thinking instead of my avacado sandwich on poppy dill whole grain
And pickles, chips and fruit
Waiting for me.

“My grandfather was a great artist. He used to paint marquees for Broadway and movies.
Three story portraits of Cary Grant and such...40-50 stories up in the air. He had to use
brighter colors than normal so that they would be visible from street level.”

“Studios and theaters would pay more for him because he had great talent.”

“He quit school in the third grade and went to work for the same company until he was 72.”

“They recognized his skills early on and when he was 17 they paid for him to go to
Cooper Union.”

“I still have some of his paintings. They’re beautiful to look at.”

I let him finish.

I was left wondering what he thought an artist was.

I waited until he walked away
So that I could sit on the bench alone
And eat my lunch
Creatively
Inhaling deeply
The paintings and music
Around me.