Immediately after graduating college I began painting. I wanted to experiment with the techniques I had learned. I painted right over a school assignment on a canvas my father and I had built together. My dad’s finger ripped while we stretched and stapled, and I’m sure dripping blood somehow blessed the canvas under the gesso.
I wanted to work on realism and perspective so I decided on an image of one of my heros, Bruce Lee. Bruce invented his own fighting style, and was an outcast from his homeland because of it. He was broken but healed, and I truly admired his deep philosophical statements. I found an image with a great perspective of his hand coming toward the viewer and got to work painting. I was living with my boyfriend, his grandmother, Opal, my boyfriend’s brother, Rocky, and my boyfriend’s son, James. There was plenty of space, it was a large place, we even rented out the grannie house to a friend of mine, to add to the communal flavor. I painted on the back porch when I was finished working for actual income. I worked from home (I did freelance drafting and design for an out of town engineering company). The problem with the back porch was it was next to Rocky’s door. Rocky’s door wasn’t really a door. It was a beat up old piece of plywood in place of a sliding glass door. Rocky had broken his sliding glass door in a fit of rage. He was very abusive toward grandma before I arrived. There were multiple punched holes in the walls, and holes through doors, thanks to Rocky’s outbursts. Rocky was a “tweaker,” or a speed addict, and he usually slept all day and hid in his room jerking off or doing whatever people do that don’t work. We took care of grandma, and that was the only thing she wanted, for us to care for her “handicapped” grandson as well, so we did, but begrudgingly. It was the year 2000, so much was happening in the world since it didn’t end at the millennium, as predicted by apocalypse specialists. I kept my paint in a basket, a very nice basket a friend had given me, from Pier 1 Imports. Anyone that has ever visited this retailer knows you can’t buy a basket there for less than $100. So my fancy paint basket filled with expensive paint and brushes that I bought with own hard earned money in the economy size, was valued to a working artist to be approximately worth $500. To an average Joe the value drops to $20 because the average Joe does not care for paint, brushes or brand name baskets. “His arm is all crooked. His hand looks funny.” “It’s a rough draft, asshole.” I just sketched it on before I worked my magic, but thanks for your unsolicited 2 cents. My boyfriend (now husband) is my favorite critic. I worked late one night painting and instead of taking my basket of goodies in with me and dropping them in my office I left them on the porch. It was Friday, I was going paint early in the morning anyway, the weather was warm and perfect; it was dry and cool. I had no worries. The next day I got to work a little later than usual. Ready to attack my piece with vigor, and at least half way complete I was fueled and ready to make some excellent progress. My paints were gone. My basket was missing. I checked my office. Maybe I didn’t leave them outside. I asked my boyfriend if he saw the basket filled with my art supplies. He didn’t. I asked his 3 year old if he played with them, nope, the kid was an angel, I knew he wouldn’t touch them without asking. Grandma was pretty much bed bound, she stayed in bed, read books or watched the news; I knew she wouldn’t be interested in the paint basket. I could count on Rocky crawling from his porn littered, filthy, trash-can, cat-feces bedroom around 2:00 PM to help himself to a giant triple decker, stacked sandwich he’d make from the food that Dan and I purchased for the home. Rocky did emerge from the darkness in late afternoon as predicted, and I asked him if he had seen my basket of art supplies. He had not. He did not look me in the eye, but I was used to that because we were not close and he was usually coming down or on drugs and I was a bossy, no-nonsense control freak. Dumbfounded, I continued a thorough search of the property, to no avail. I did not have the expendable income to purchase new supplies. The painting sat unfinished. I was miserable. Bruce was also miserable sitting on the porch with his crooked arm and weird hand. Moons passed and one evening I laid down to go to sleep about 10:00 PM after I had given up on my basket and the painting. I assumed the basket evaporated into a netherworld (and Mr. Tumnus was using it to impress Aslan). “I saw your basket,” my husband said when my head hit the pillow. I immediately sprang up, fully awake, no longer sleepy. “You’re not going to like it, it’s in the shed.” “What about my paint and brushes?” I was freaking out, getting dressed as quickly as I could. I had checked the shed already, multiple times. “I didn’t see any paint.” That made no sense. The basket was full of paint and other supplies. I grabbed a large mag light and went to investigate. When I got to the shed I was horrified. My basket had been smashed to small bits, right out in the open, walkway of the shed where it had been clean the day before. Before the person smashed it, they had obviously emptied it, because there was nothing but overly priced basket wood pieces, no brushes, no paint, no palette or mixing tools. A wind went into me. I literally flew, like Superman, into the wooden plank door that hid Rocky from the world, mag light in hand, fist first. The noise shook the entire house. I think the foundation cracked as well. “Open the door, Rocky.” I planned on going Tazmanian devil style into that room and destroying everything in my warpath. I was going to give him two seconds before I took out the door--it would not be the first door I’ve smashed through. Something in my voice scared him, and in the next second his hand appeared through the farce of his door with my paint palette used as a tray holding my paints, brushes and other supplies. I took it without a word. I really didn’t want to murder a human, as I’m sure there are spiritual rules against it. I walked away with my things. Rocky continued to be himself. It’s been almost 18 years since that incident. Many more incidents did come up and he has earned his place as a supervised guest in our lives. He is currently incarcerated, which surprises no one. I continued to work on my piece and finally finished it, but I took my time and it is forever tainted with the struggle that went beyond just perspective and balance. Bruce understands, I’m sure.
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