The Impressionist Read online

  “Paige,” I texted, taking great care to cover the screen so the old guy couldn’t see. “Look.” Suddenly I was unsure of what to say. “I should not have said—” Pausing a second, I pushed Delete and started typing again. “Paige I—” Backspace. Backspace. “Paige—” Delete. I finally typed, “Paige, I love you.” and pushed Send. Then I entered Josh’s text. “Josh, Mom told me what happened. We need to talk. It’s important. I’ll be home soon. Don’t disappear on me!”

  I handed the phone back to the old painter, who was now dipping his brush from the jar of water onto the well-used palette in his hands. After a couple of dips and swirls in the paint, he started to touch the paper, but then quickly drew back his arm.

  “Now just go on and look at me,” he said. “Here I am about to paint your portrait and I haven’t even introduced myself.” He set the brush down and extended his right hand. “Name is James Edward Porter. Friends call me Jim Ed. Nice to meet you.”

  His grip was firm and confident, yet trembled ever so slightly. “My name is Adam Camp. It’s nice to meet you Jim Ed. Look, I’m sorry I’ve been kind of a jerk today.”

  He let out a hearty laugh. “We’re all jerks sometimes, Adam.”

  Noting the lack of criticism, I asked, “What’s up with the Saints hat?”

  “Oh, I grew up down that way,” said Jim Ed, “Couple of my relatives were hit pretty hard by Katrina a few years back and we opened up our home to them for a while. They brought me the hat.” He lifted it off his head and looked at it. “It’s special. You know the Saints won the Super Bowl in 09.”

  “Yep,” I said. “Don’t remind me. They beat my Vikings in the NFC Championship Game!”

  Jim Ed placed the white hat back on his silver-haired head. The easel stood about five or six feet away and because of its slight angle I could not see his creation. That didn’t matter though, for I was focused totally on the colorful expressions illuminating Jim Ed’s face and his hands gliding the brush up and down and around on the paper as if he were directing a grand symphony. Clearly, to him this was much more than a portrait; it was an expression of his very soul.

  5

  “Is it all right if I talk some?” I asked feeling fidgety again. “Or would that mess you up? I can get a little chatty when I’m nervous.”

  “Talking’s fine by me,” said Jim Ed completing a stroke with a slight slap of his brush against the paper. “But why in the world would you be nervous? I’m just an old painter.”

  “Maybe nervous wasn’t the best word choice,” I said. “It’s more like anxious. I’ve got a lot on my mind and getting my portrait painted at the park today was not something on my ‘to do’ list.” I gave him a tight smile.

  “Some of the best things in life are unplanned,” he said never missing a beat. “Got to live in the moment.”

  “You gotta admit though, it’s a little strange.”

  Jim Ed blinked innocently. “I guess it is a bit, as you kids like to say, ‘out of the box.’ But trust me, Adam. Living ‘inside the box’ will eventually suffocate a person. I’ve got to have an outlet of expression.”

  “Okay, I get painting, but why stalk down strangers? For all I know you could have had a gun or something. Aren’t you worried about how people may perceive you? Why not just paint one of those Hooded Mergansers?”

  Jim Ed paused a moment considering my questions. His pause made me regret asking, for he wasn’t breaking any speed records for painting. When he talked, his brush slowed almost to a stop. “Can’t let what others think stop me from doing what I’m supposed to be doing,” he said. “My painting’s not about me. I told you it’s a gift.” Jim Ed scratched his forehead with the wooden tip of the brush and glanced out over the lake. A crisp breeze raked leaves across the ground and our feet again. “And I’ll tell you something else,” he continued. “When I’m exercising my gift, I’m filled with peace. You know that feeling you get when you’re doing something and while you’re doing it calmness just takes you over, like you’re feeling God’s pleasure? I feel it right now. Can’t explain it very well, but I know that I’m doing right, that I am right where I’m supposed to be. When I paint and do what I do, well, I guess I feel like one of those ducks in the water over there. They don’t know why they need to be in it, they just know they’re supposed to be, and they’re at ease when they are.”

  “How come I haven’t seen you around here before?”

  “Oh, I’m around. The world’s a big place. Don’t always paint people though, only when I feel directed to them.”

  “You felt directed to me?”

  “Yes, sir. Sure did. Really it was more like ‘sent.’”

  “Sent? Oh yeah? Who sent ya?”

  “God.”

  Crap. My stomach clenched and those angry, anxious feelings burst right back to the surface. I punched myself in the thigh with my fist for being such a sucker. I knew it! This guy’s looney! Suffering from dementia or something. Escaped from a home. They’re probably looking for him right now! I jumped to my feet and made a move toward the trail. “That’s it,” I shouted over my shoulder. “I’ve got to go! See ya later, man!”

  Jim Ed dropped his brush and jerked his body upright. “Adam!” he thundered once again, this time louder with even more authority than before. “Look at me!”

  I kept on walking. “I go to church, man!” I blasted. “I’ve heard enough preaching to last me three lifetimes! I don’t have time for this nonsense!”

  “You think this is about church?” Jim Ed shouted. “This is about saving your marriage and your son! It’s about saving your life! Becoming the man you were created to be!”

  For the second time that day, I stopped dead in my tracks. “My marriage?” I whispered to myself. “My son? …How’d he know?” I had covered the screen carefully. There’s no way he saw anything. Fear of losing my family gripped me. My legs wobbled and tears began to pressure the back of my eyes. “Who are you?” I asked, now facing him. “What is this?”

  An inviting warmness bathed Jim Ed’s face. “Just let me finish the painting,” he said with empathy in his voice, peace exuding from his very essence. “This is right where you need to be.”

  6

  We sat in silence for some time as Jim Ed poured himself into his masterpiece. Some children were playing soccer in an open field across the trail. While mindlessly watching them run back and forth, I replayed my argument with Paige. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this! I can’t take this anymore! Something’s got to change Adam.”

  “Change! …Oh, you mean me, right? I’ve got to change?”

  Pain jabbed my gut. “I’ve had enough. I want out. I’ve got to get out.” Surely she couldn’t mean it? After all these years? After all we’d been through? My heart rate became rapid. Panic seized me again and I panted for breath.

  “You idiot,” the voice in my head was back, assaulting, accusing, mocking. “You blew it. It’s over. Paige doesn’t care enough about you to even stay and fight. Why should she? You’re a loser. Who’d want to fight for you? She’s gonna have men lining up. Wait and see. Someone who can give her a real life. And don’t forget your boy. He’s so ending up in jail. Rehab time! It’s gonna cost you big too. He’s flushing his future down the toilet. Maybe he’ll move in with his mother? Well, at least you have your work. That’s what you’re married to anyway.” With a clenched jaw, I ground my teeth. My dentist was going to have a heyday. “And what are you doing wasting time sitting here with this old clown? He’s crazy you know.”

  “Shut…up,” I ordered under my breath.

  Never looking up, Jim Ed dabbed his brush in the glass of water, touched it on the palette, and then brought it back to the paper. It was as if he’d been waiting, calculating how long to let me wrestle with my thoughts. “Want to talk about it?” he finally probed.

  I turned my gaze from the kids playing soccer to Jim Ed. Unlike with Eric, I felt I could let my guard down. “It’s been a pretty rough day,” I sighed, “year r
eally.” My eyes wandered to the lake’s edge where the Hooded Mergansers were splashing around doing what ducks do. Smaller than regular ducks, their shimmering black wings had long white stripes running from neck to tail and the males had black heads crowned with white crests and flaming orange eyes. Jim Ed said it looked like they were wearing hoods. I thought it looked more like Mohawks. Exquisitely and flawlessly designed, the Hooded Mergansers glided through the water with grace and ease like they understood they were exactly where they were supposed to be, doing exactly what they were created to do. What was I created to do?

  “You’re right,” I said. “They are remarkable creatures. I’ve been to this park dozens of times and never even gave them a second glance. I tell you what though—” I paused to consider whether to continue.

  Jim Ed placed his brush down again so he could fully absorb my words. “Go ahead,” he encouraged.

  I ran my hand through my hair nervously. “All right,” I said. “But this is weird. I’ve never talked to anyone like this. Not even my own father, not that he would have been interested.”

  “Sometimes it’s easier to open up to an outsider.” At that moment a ding came up on Jim Ed’s Blackberry indicating a message. “Excuse me a sec,” he said twisting his body around to pick up his cell from his cart. After reviewing the message he held it out toward me. “Here, it’s for you.”

  I grabbed it and read the text.

  “Who is this!?” Paige had sent. Then it occurred to me that I had not identified myself in my text and Paige had never seen Jim Ed’s number. Again, I felt stupid. That was par for the course.

  “Paige, this is Adam,” I typed back. “I left my cell at home so I used a friend’s. I needed to tell you how bad I feel. I didn’t mean it. Maybe we could go out to dinner tonight?” I knew it was a long shot, but I was grasping at straws. I pushed Send and held the phone in my hand, waiting while Jim Ed continued painting. After a while it was obvious Paige wasn’t going to reply, so I handed it back to him.

  He took the phone out of my hand with a sympathetic look and placed it back in the cart. “You were saying?”

  A huge white goose wobbled up to the bench honking. It was loud and annoying. “Get!” I shouted, shooing it with my hands. “Get out of here!” It stuck its long neck and beak in the air as if saying, “Well, I never!” and then wandered off.

  “Adam, you were saying?”

  My head dropped. “I don’t know now.”

  “It’s okay. I’m safe.”

  I locked my hands behind my head and leaned back. “I was about to say that I don’t feel at peace like you or those ducks out there. I certainly don’t feel God’s pleasure, if such a thing even exists.”

  “Trust me, it exists,” said Jim Ed.

  “I tell you what I do feel. I feel stress! Yeah, that’s what I feel, stress…and anger…and guilt…and disappointment. I could go on and on. You got a notebook and pen on you? I’ll fill it up!” An emotional dam was breaking inside me and all this stuff was spilling out. “I’m drained, dried up, and burnt out…and I’m unhappy, Jim Ed! I can’t remember the last time I actually enjoyed life. I deal with pressures all day long and demanding clients. I’m on the road way too much. If I see another airport I’m going to croak! When I finally get home I’m worn out and on edge. But here’s the funny thing; Paige and my communication is actually better when I’m away!

  “Now she’s thinking about leaving me. May have already left. And our son’s an addict. We’re watching him flush his future down the toilet! I don’t know what to do. I didn’t sign up for this! How’d my life turn out like this? I’m ashamed to say this, but there have been days when I feel so beat up I’ve considered ending it all. This very morning, right when you walked up, I was fantasizing about leaving everything—just walking away or maybe going to sleep and never waking up. There’s no contentment in my life, none. And peace? I don’t even know what that means at this point. I’m numb Jim Ed, just plain numb.”

  Jim Ed chewed on my words carefully before finally responding. “Numbness can be the greatest predator,” he said. “You’re in a war whether you realize it or not. Denying it or going numb as you say causes you to lose your passion for life. God gave you emotions for a reason. Sometimes you got to get scared enough or angry enough to fight. Filling your life with substitutes just anesthetizes the hole inside you. It’s the enemy’s way of keeping you disengaged and keeping you from fighting for what’s important.”

  “I told you I’m tired of fighting,” I said. “It seems the more I fight, the worse things get. It’s like I’m in quicksand. The more I struggle to get ahead, the further behind I get. I’m done fighting. Paige doesn’t understand.”

  Jim Ed got very still, thinking. A group of college-age girls power walked by, laughing and talking loudly. He let them pass before he opened his mouth. “Sounds to me like you’ve got to get yourself a new pair of eyes,” he said. “Change the way you’re seeing.”

  “Huh?” I said, tilting my head confused. “I can see just fine, dude. My life pretty much sucks right now. That’s crystal clear.”

  Jim Ed leaned forward to emphasize his point. “You know Adam, great artists have great vision. They have the ability to see beyond the surface deep into the soul of what they are painting. The difference between an average work and a masterpiece is a masterpiece doesn’t copy. It captures. Captures the soul of the subject and then reflects that soul onto the canvas.”

  “What’s that got to do with me?” I asked. “I’m no artist, that’s for sure. Couldn’t paint my way out of a wet paper bag.”

  “People paint all kinds of portraits, Adam,” Jim Ed continued, “just not always with a brush. Their life is a canvas, and they are the brush. Like this brush in my hand leaves an impression with each stroke, they leave an impression on everything they do or come in contact with. And one day, when they’re stretched out in their coffin, there’ll be a portrait of their life that somebody’s going to be looking over. What kind of portrait is your life painting, Adam Camp?”

  The question hit me unexpectedly like a two-by-four right between the eyes. My whole body stiffened. What kind of portrait is my life painting? Part of me was offended. I mean the nerve of asking such a question. “Adam Camp, what kind of portrait is your life painting?” As Jim Ed went back to work and I watched him dancing with the brush in his hands, the truth about me began to sink in. My shoulders sank because I was all too aware of what kind of impressions I’d been leaving—ruts, debris, rubble, wreckage. The fact was, if I had died on that day, the picture of my life would look more like graffiti scribbled on a wall with a few expletives rather than a beautiful portrait.

  “You’re not making me feel any better,” I said.

  “Not trying to make you feel better,” he said. “Trying to get you refocused. To paint a life masterpiece you first have to develop the eyes of an artist and learn to really see the things around you, into their soul, feel their pain.”

  Shifting in my seat, I tugged at my sweatshirt. “What about saving my marriage and family? I thought we were going to talk about that?”

  “Changing your marriage and family starts with changing you.”

  My eyebrows lifted. “Did you talk to Paige?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Never mind.”

  “And the first step to changing you is changing your vision. To do that, you need a little eye surgery.”

  “Does it hurt?” I asked.

  “It gets worse before it gets better.”

  7

  Jim Ed lifted his hat and wiped his brow with his forearm. “I need you to try and keep your head up if you can,” he said while dipping his brush in the color-smeared pallet again then making a swirl on the paper. He looked up toward me, scratching his chin, contemplating. “When I’m looking at you in order to capture your soul, you know what I’m trying to see?”

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  “I’m not focusing on your outside. I’m trying to find
the masterpiece inside you.”

  “Good luck with that,” I said, knowing all too well what was inside me.

  “You know who Michelangelo is?”

  “Yes, he painted the Sistine Chapel, right?”

  “Michelangelo was perhaps the greatest artist of the Renaissance period—a painter and a sculptor. Yes he painted some divine masterpieces, but he also worked chisel and stone. When asked where he drew the inspiration for his famous ‘David’ sculpture that stands in Florence, you know what Michelangelo said?”

  “You got me.”

  “He said when he first looked at that rough block of stone he knew David was imprisoned somewhere inside, and it was his divine calling as an artist to find him and set him free. So he began chipping away everything that wasn’t David. Michelangelo had eyes that saw past the surface into the soul. He saw that uneven, irregular, and imperfect stone… and that’s how God sees you, Adam. The first step in changing your vision is changing how you see yourself. There’s a David inside you, Adam, a mighty warrior. We’ve got to find him and set him free.”

  “I’m no David,” I said. “You need to talk to Eric.” I let out a cynical laugh. “He thinks he’s David and Samson combined.”

  “Who?”

  “Just some guy I know from church—perfect marriage, perfect kids, perfect life.”

  “That you know of,” said Jim Ed. “Trust me. He’s got issues too. Besides, David had plenty of issues in his life. He made a ton of mistakes and even committed some hideous sins. David wasn’t everyone’s hero by a long shot. Yet he was still a great warrior and a man after God’s own heart.”

  “Whatever,” I said, releasing another long breath of discouragement.

  “Hang with me, Adam. I think you’ll be glad you did.”

  “Keep going,” I said.

  “There were times when it seemed the whole world was against David,” he said. “The people closest to him abandoned him. They misunderstood him. I mean at one point, they wanted to string him up. And David had a heap of family problems—wives and kids who disrespected him. David brought a lot of it on himself too. He wasn’t known for his great fathering abilities. But in all of it, you know what David did?”