A bad sports mom gets a hug from Lepoleon

I met Lepoleon Swopes through Joey’s 3rd grade football team.  I fell in love with him and he made me wish I were cooler, as many people do.

Especially in the first years of drawing full time after getting canned from my corporate job, I tried to draw my pencil portraits in public whenever possible, hoping to attract new customers.  I probably should have drawn the line at my kids’ sports games, but I’m a shameless capitalist.  Plus, as much as I want to be a supportive mom and lovingly stare at my sons as they do everything, there can be a lot of down time before your young kids get in on the team action.

Mostly, I’m not a big sports fan, anyway.  Don’t even get me started on baseball when nothing happens until all of a sudden a kid makes a mistake and everyone is rounding the bases, rubbing the poor kid’s nose in it and later discussing how everything would have been okay if that one damn kid had caught/hit/thrown the ball better.  My feelings are officially hurt for every kid who screws up and I’m just too sensitive for baseball. Except for tee-ball when everyone gets a turn and we cheer for everything and everyone.  That’s my kind of competition.

Football was easier on my emotions because I couldn’t tell what was happening.  Plus, I loved seeing my Joey in his first set of football pads.  With a 6’8 father and a sturdy Swedish mother, Joey was always tall for his age and built like a truck.  When he first put on those big shoulder pads, his already over-sized, Baby Huey frame was thrust into the future, time travel to his looming manhood.  My baby suddenly looked so huge and tough, and he knew it.  

Watching football requires a gene that I lack. Joey is on the offensive line and locating him in the pile of flailing kids was impossible to my untrained eye.  I’d watch for awhile, then give up and draw.  On the way home, my husband Joe would accusingly ask, “Did you see that block Joey made in the second quarter when the score was this and the play was that?”  I can’t fake it with Joe.  He knows. 

At one of Joey’s football games, another mom was sitting nearby with her girls.  They were actually watching the game while I was drawing without even pretending to pay attention.  They chatted with me a bit about my work and I ended up doing a memorial portrait and prayer cards for their uncle, Chester Swopes.  I thought Chester was quite handsome and I was thrilled to add his portrait to my portfolio.

Someone once emailed me, “I don’t see any dark skinned people on your web site.”  This was embarrassing and true; almost all my clients check the Caucasian census box.  I got a little overly excited when Chester Swopes’ lovely niece, Jacqueline, asked me to draw him.  I was honored and proudly displayed his portrait at my shows.  I was hoping he’d be a handsome lure to a better melting pot of work.

The real prize in drawing Chester, was meeting his brother, Lepoleon.

Lepoleon called me on the phone to tell me how much he enjoyed his little brother’s portrait and I was instantly smitten.  He had a melodic, lilting voice full of warmth, as if he was always on the verge of telling the punchline of a joke.  

There is something about an elderly black man that humbles me.  I always think to myself - here is someone who has experienced things that I couldn’t begin to understand. 

In a rich voice straight out of the movies,  Lepoleon praised my portrait of his brother and told me what a wonderful person Chester was, a leader in his community and church.  Lepoleon was so proud of his brother and seemed to let that pride wash over me too, making me feel like he’d been rooting for me to do a good job.  He said that it seemed like I knew what I was doing and that he hoped I could help him with another project.  Lepoleon explained that he had a drawing of his grandfather that a young girl had drawn for him.  It needed some work and he hoped that I would be willing to take a stab at it. 

I couldn’t wait to meet him, and when Lepoleon came over with his drawing, I couldn’t get enough of him.  He was a wiry little man with a rubbery, animated face and eyes that snap and spark.  He could have been 60, he could have been 80, in that ageless way some people have.  He would rub his dry hands together slowly while he talked, rocking a little bit and revving up his story.  I was transfixed.  I wanted to be about five years old and climb into his lap while he talked.  Of course it would have startled and crushed him if I'd actually done it, but you know what I mean.  I loved him and I wanted him to love me because I’m just inappropriate and greedy that way.

Lepoleon had never met his grandfather and there were no photographs of him in existence.  In anticipation of an upcoming family reunion, Lepoleon was gathering photos for a family tree.  Wouldn’t it be a fine surprise for his family to include a drawing of his grandfather?  The girl who had attempted the drawing was a fledgling artist in the family.  One of Lepoleon’s cousins remembered their grandfather well, and said that the girl’s drawing was a close resemblance.  But the eyes were wrong and it was a little rough. 

I worked on the drawing while Lepoleon leaned over my shoulder, giving me instruction.  I felt like a police sketch artist.  As I would add a wrinkle here, an adjustment there, Lepoleon would make rumbling pleased noises and say, “Nooowwww, we’re gettin’ somewhere.  Now, I’m seein’ him.” 

When we were through, Lepoleon sat back with a slow, big grin.  “Well what do you know,” he said softly, with a little catch in his voice.  “There’s my grand-dad.  I’ve never seen him before.” 

I don’t know that I’ve ever had a more rewarding moment as an artist. 

Later, Lepoleon decided to bring me a photo of his grandmother to add to the drawing of his grandfather. 

“Wow,” I said, surprised by the stern looking woman.  “She looks like she had a lot on her mind.”

“Well, I 'spect she sure did,” Lepoleon agreed.  “She had herself eleven kids!” 

“Maybe she was thinking about all that laundry,” I guessed.  Lepoleon laughed and hopefully decided I was hilarious.  I drew his grandmother separately and then digitally put them together for his family tree. 

Lepoleon was delighted when he came to pick up his family masterpiece.  “Everyone is going to be so surprised… they’ll get such a big kick out of this,” he said with extra warmth and asked me what he owed.  He paid me from a big wad of cash in his fanny pack. 

“Wow!” I gasped playfully, “You’re loaded.” 

He chuckled and said it was money from his shop.  “I’m a barber,” he said with a little pride and maybe a little fatigue.  I don’t think I could have pictured a better job for him.  I wished I could sit in the corner of his shop and listen to the exchanges that must go on… all the talk that’s so full of history and culture and connection and laughter.  White people don’t ever seem to connect in the joyful way that black people do.  I know you’re not supposed to say black, but I think black people are so much cooler than white people.  White people don’t see each other and think, “Hey, awesome!  White guy!”  We think, his car is better.  Or my car is better.  We are idiots.

We are not cool.

“I’m so glad you’re happy,” I told Lepoleon, feeling a little shy and choked up.  “I loved drawing for you.”

“Oh honey, I love you, too,” he said, and he gave me a tight hug.  I’m a big hugger, as you know, but this was different and special and unexpected… this loving hug that reached across culture and generations and my sheltered upbringing. It was just so touching to me.

Every time I’m finished with a project that has involved a few meetings, especially when the subject is so important, it’s hard.  We look at each other and think, “Well, what now?  Is this good-bye?”  There’s emotion there, sometimes.  A connection.  And then it is over and we move on with our lives.  I told Lepoleon to please come back and tell me all about the reunion.  I didn't want him to go.

I wish I could give an afternoon with Lepoleon to everyone I know.  He would make you smile and want to be a little kinder, because you'd want to make him proud.

www.pencilportraitcards.com
www.facebook.com/pencilportraitcards

Boo-Hoo Water Balloons

It can be humiliating to sit at an art show; especially a craft show.  People power-walk by, eyes darting around in search of jewelry or clothes for their cement porch goose.   It's kind of like when you have a garage sale and you feel protective of your junk when someone does the slow drive by without even stopping.  What?  Is my junk not good enough for you?  I get it... you don't want to make eye contact, because it feels like a buying sign.

The art show people who walk by and ignore me don't know that I spent between $150 and $600 to be sitting there.  I know they don't know it took hours to pack up my 500 lbs of gear, haul it all out of my Durango, cart it to my spot, spend hours setting it up.  People have no idea that each of my portraits has a sweet story... that a part of me is hanging by paper clips on my mesh display walls.   

I know they don’t know, but it still hurts my big fat feelings when they ignore me. I am such a baby.  I mean, really.  My husband told me over martinis and cribbage the other night that I really need to be more positive.  Translation: why are you such a crybaby?  I could fill up water balloons with my self pity blubbering. I sit home all day drawing pictures and writing blogs about myself, what do I have to sulk about?  Sadly for my husband, plenty.

I do intend to be more positive.  But not before I complain a little more.

Last weekend, I had a huge show at the Odeum in Villa Park.  It’s a great show, even though it is held in a creepy, dark, old, tin shed of a building with godawful cell phone reception.  My booth was across from a big ole blingy display of cheap jewelry that took up TWO spots.  Women are nearly drunk with joy when they find cheap jewelry at art shows.  They’ll try it on with their friends and yell stuff while laughing too loud, which feels like a deliberate attempt to hurt my feelings.  They are practically jumping up and down.  I spent the entire weekend looking at the backs of these women. 

Okay, I sort of lied, because it doesn't matter whether the jewelry is cheap.  It usually isn't, but it's JEWELRY and chicks dig jewelry and most of the people at craft shows and art shows are skirts on the prowl for more jewelry.  JEWELRY!

By the time they were done trying on every single item on display and convincing each other to buy those earrings or that bracelet, the women at the cheap jewelry display across from me would immediately sober up and skulk out of dodge with their guilty jewelry purchases.  They’d spent too much time in that spot, no time left to check out the pencil chick.  To make matters worse, a nosy jewelry vendor wandered into my booth and helpfully gave me an earful about how my display wasn’t good enough and looked like it only belonged outside, but not at good shows, where he’d get in but I wouldn’t.  What a dick.  Wasn’t I just telling you how I worry about my display, and feel like I am trying out for cheerleading when I apply to fancy shows?

Sometimes the jewelry drunks give me the briefest once over, which makes me wince even more inside.  A glance with a quick look away is way worse than being ignored, which I'm sort of used to.  Some art show patrons will give my booth a good sniff as they're wandering slowly but steadily by.  That’s a little better, but I still sulk because they don’t stop.  When I say sulk, I mean I have cried in my car on the way home.  I obsessively wonder what I'm doing wrong.   If my husband calls at the wrong time, as soon as I've heard his rumbly, kind voice, I've started to cry in my booth, too.  In front of people.  Yikes.  I really do need to be more positive; this blog may force me into therapy. But hell, at this point I've been pointedly ignored by several million people. Even a mentally balanced normal person with non-crybaby tendencies could get discouraged. 

If I'm not getting blown off, I am being chatted up by people just killing time, waiting for their jewelry-shopping friends.  They'll chit-chat about my pictures, ask questions, maybe even fill out an inquiry form, but it's all hot air and they're not fooling me with their fake interest. Others like to talk about their cats in great detail, or their artistic grandparents or neighors who like to draw. I am trapped and at their mercy. Most don't call me, even if they swear on their cat that they will.

Thank goodness, every once in awhile, I meet someone who gets me immediately.  It’s as if a cartoon lightbulb appears over a smiling face, and it’s such a relief. 

Sandy Smith got me the moment I met her.  As soon as she saw my display at one of my very first shows, she struck a dramatic pose and said, “WOW!” She was one of the very first people I met who made me feel like I could have an art career. 

I have a book of sample portraits and photos on my table that almost everybody ignores.  Sandy carefully looked through the ENTIRE book, pointing out her favorites and pausing occasionally to look at me, shaking her head.  “I LOVE it!” she gushed, “This is fabulous.  Who wouldn’t love to have a beautiful portrait of their children?”  I remember one time my friend Nancy stopped at my booth during a local outdoor summer festival and yelled, "These portraits are so BEAUTIFUL, I'm having CHEST PAINS!"  That was almost as good, even though Nancy already knew me and was just being hilarious.  Mothers tend to be the ones who get it, who share my passion for sweet little moments caught on film. If there was a fire, I would grab the old photo albums of non-digital pictures. The photo booth pictures when my husband and I fell in love… that photo of Joey at two years old in a plaid wool hat with flaps. What if they were just gone?

Sandy Smith knew what I was talking about. 

“I have the PERFECT photo!” she told me, “it is my favorite picture of my girls. Just wait till you see it! You’re going to love drawing it.”  She was so appreciative and delighted, I loved her instantly and more than a normal person should love a stranger.

TANGENT:

Here’s an embarrassing example of my affectionate nature causing problems. When I’ve drawn someone, I have spent hours staring at my subjects, often thinking about what I know of them or wondering about what I don’t know about them. I develop a bit of a bond during all those hours of drawing. One time, I spotted one of my subjects walking by at a show, and I cheerfully called out to her, “Heyyyy, I know YOO-UUU!!!” in a singsong greeting. Startled, the woman stopped, and I gave her a big ole hug. It turned out that her portrait had been a gift from her husband’s cousin. She had never met me, didn’t know me and clearly was not a member of the hug and kiss club, of which I am president. This was awkward, and not the first time it had happened, but I have a learning disability when it comes to this kind of thing and many other kinds of things.

Months later, I emailed a request to my list of clients and friends, asking if they would consider forwarding my website to their friends. I do this occasionally when I am feeling desperate for work and I usually get a job or two out of it. Sometimes my dear friends or clients actually copy me in on their emails, touting my portraits as a swell gift, which really touches me.  I get such a kick out of kindness. One dear soul also forwarded me a response to the email she’d sent on my behalf. It went something like this:

“Hey Wendy, I sent out your message and my coworker wrote this back to me:

I know this portrait weirdo.

She attacked me out of nowhere at a craft show.

She’s a nut case and I suggest you steer clear.”

Can you believe that crabby broad popped up again? What are the chances? Sometimes the world gives you a sign that you should calm down or change. I choose to ignore these signs and keep doing the same dysfunctional stuff. 

END OF TANGENT.

Sandy Smith, on the other hand, was HAPPY to be hugged, which was good, because she was so sweet and complimentary about my work, I could not have held myself back from hugging her. The portrait of her three girls turned out to be one of my all time favorites...

“I call the photo of my girls ‘see no evil, hear no evil,’” she told me.  ”You’ll see why.”  She sent it to me in the mail and it cracked me up.

Eat no evil, poop no evil, whistle no evil.

While they aren’t covering their eyes or ears, the girls’ distinct, silly expressions have that monkey feel, like they are giving us different subliminal messages.  Let's think of some thought bubbles for them.    

Plus, they have water balloons shoved down their bathing suits.  Sandy insisted this was a very important part of the photograph and needed to be included in the drawing. I’m intrigued by this… were the balloons supposed to be boobs?  Why so many?  Were they just trying to see how many they could cram in there? Like clowns in a little clown car?  It’s an enigmatic picture when you consider the possibilities.

"Water Balloons" has been one of a few rare portraits that I've kept in my display for a very long time.  It has sparked many conversations with art show patrons.  Sometimes they make a general happy comment, sometimes they want to know what's going on with the lumps in their bathing suits.  The girl in the middle looks a bit like an Olsen twin, especially in my drawing, which lots of people have believed they are the first to point out.  Not only was the portrait a hoot to draw, it has been an unexpected ice breaker and a beloved part of my portfolio. 

I've drawn thousands of perfectly smiling kids.  Most people are not willing to invest hundreds of dollars in goofy expressions.  But sometimes the silly faces are the ones you love to remember.  I am tempted to add some grade school photos of my friends here, but will exercise a little restraint for once.  (I'm thinking of the Aunt Jemima photo, Vicki.)  Hooray for happy, goofy portraits! 

I want to be adopted into this family

It gives me a joyful little jolt every time I see Sandy's water balloon portrait.  I’m so grateful to her and for all my clients for not ignoring me and for getting me.  When she received her finished portrait, Sandy hand wrote me a beautiful letter, pouring her heart out about what the portrait meant to her.  When is the last time you received a hand written letter in the mail, with a stamp rather than an email?  They are rare and delicious.  All the kind things that my clients say help to stave off my natural tendency to mope and be neurotic. 

Sandy has visited me at the same show where we first met under my big pencil.  Her happy, growing girls crowd into my booth and they are so tickled to see their portrait on display or in my sample book.  Sandy and her girls stand close together, peeking over each other’s shoulders to find their page and to look at the new stuff.  As they stand together, Sandy’s hand gently brushes a stray lock of hair back from one daughter’s face while her other hand absent-mindedly rubs the back of another.  Sandy is a lovey-dovey, uber-mother like me.  She's in the hug and kiss club. 

Each time Sandy and her girls suddenly appear, unannounced among a sea of averted strangers’ faces, I feel the absolute opposite of ignored... and it's all worth it again.

www.pencilportraitcards.com
http://www.facebook.com/pencilportraitcards