Portraits: A Novel About Art, Artists, and the Art Revolution

By Tom Hendricks

Portraits is a novel about three things: 9 artists that come together in an art co-op to change art, the romance of two of the artists Jack and Francesca, and a secret admirer Missy U. who plays a major role in it all.
It is a novel about art, artists, and the art revolution.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 27, 2015
• ISBN: 9781483552828

Book preview

Conclusion

Chapter 1. All Was Black

All was black.

Then a spark,

a glowing light

in the dark.

Jack Labas was a brilliant painter who couldn't earn a living. He was an outcast from society because he was gifted. He had never asked to be an outcast, or rebel; but here he was at 40, unmarried, no money, and working two sometimes three jobs to get by. Van Gogh, Gauguin, Lautrec, and all the others, were not romantic legends to him. He knew better. They had tough lives - great painters with sad tough lives.

He wanted to paint, not from pain, but from the joy of seeing. He wanted to paint, not in poverty, but from a place where poverty like a hungry man fed, was no longer an issue. He wanted to be reasonably recognized for what he was, not a good painter, but a 100 years later, great painter.

* * *

He worried about the future. Years were going by, speeding by, and he was still reduced to small works. Grand masterpieces came from grand expensive sheets of canvas that he could not afford. His work was growing and maturing in piecemeal steps from small masterworks to more small masterworks. Little acrylic paintings on un-stretched canvases hung in bunches of 7 or 8 between the claws of pants hangers in his closet.

Piles of drawings, most smaller than a sheet of notebook paper, were packed in assorted sizes of manilla envelops, ten or fifteen drawings to a packet, and stacked on a shelf in his closet . Day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year, even to the first and second decade, his art grew in quantity and quality. Sometimes he'd finish 2 or 3 or 6 or 10 small works on a good night.

He now was at the point where each major work (beyond his studies) was significant, or would be in the future when it was finally recognized. And with each new work the earlier works would take on new meaning, new importance.

Jack was gratified about his work, but at a loss as to why he was elated alone! Why hadn't others seen, what to him was so obvious. As if Galileo had had distractors of his ideas look through his telescope. There before their own eyes they saw the moons of Jupiter, and the phases of Venus, and still could not see!

Chapter 2. Dearest Jack

One day Jack heard the mailman re-lock the apartment mailboxes, and he, like Pavlov's dog, went to retrieve his mail. Along with a charity appeal from a children's hospital, enclosed with six greeting cards which he kept; he found a square white envelope, with a big picture stamp of an Egyptian Statue. There was no return address front or back. As he walked back down the hall, he opened it up and read:

Dearest Jack,

I love you,

Missy U.

Jack searched his mind for who Missy U. might be. With his solitary life there were few candidates. Was it a joke? Was it serious? Could it be someone at the hospitals and nursing homes where he delivered prescriptions in the mornings? Could it be someone who had seen his art somewhere - but where? Could it be someone at the movie theater where he was a part time usher, or the cafeteria where he ate? Where? No one came to mind. But it was pleasant to be the center of attention even if the attention was from someone off balance.

Really, what rational person would do this? Maybe it was just a joke. Oh well he would wait and see before he took it seriously. It could be some millionaire Peggy Guggenheim type who was mad for him and his work, mad for the arts. Let's make her a beautiful young actress while we're at it, a nubile fawn, thought Jack as he chuckled to himself.

Nothing else was heard from his secret admirer for days. Then the second letter came with the same square, ivory colored, envelope, with another pretty art picture stamp.

Dear Jack,

I think of you all the time I am awake. I think of you in my dreams. Since I saw you that day for only a few moments, you are my everything, my world, my desire. Oh to think you are reading this thrills me so much. To have your precious eyes looking over my words and reading my love for you, is my hearts only wish. I love you. You are so dear to me.

Missy U.

How enchanting thought Jack. She's almost pious in her love for me. I feel honored, but who is this?

The signature, like the letter, was typed, not signed so Jack had no clue to the personality through the handwriting.

Yet the envelope was handwritten. The writing didn't have small, hard-edged letters like scientists write. Instead it was the round extravagant big lower case letters that young girls write. That was especially clear in the loops like the capital J in Jack.

Oh then this is a young female admirer…. perhaps.

Then he reread the words again. How pleased to be loved passionately, thought Jack.

* * *

From that day on Jack was consciously aware of the mail carrier's arrival. And with each delivery he scanned his mailbox for news, news from Missy U.

A week later another letter arrived; same square ivory colored letter, yet a different art picture stamp, This time of an elegant, painted, Greek urn. Jack opened it up and while unravelling the single, double folded sheet, smelled a bewitching, subtle, aromatic perfume. There were two colored dots on the outer fold of the letter that showed where the perfume had been dabbed on, and seeped in.

Dearest Jack,

In my head I have a list of all the paintings and drawings at your city exhibit. As I walked through the 3, way too short, rows, I made little notes beside the title of each work. Oh how I treasure what you've done. I could talk about how each painting is a key to me, a key that's opened up the world for me. I now see, where I was blind before. I now look everywhere and re-see everything with new eyes because of you. Each work demands volumes to tell of its TRUTH, and love, and message.

Oh thank you for letting me love you. You! You are the reason your work is my greatest passion. Apples come from apple trees!

Oh love, love, love, how I DO love you.

Missy U.

I love you too, thought Jack. Then he realized what he had said. It had come out like a reflex or automatic response, like someone had just hit his knee in the right spot.

Well, perhaps he did, did love her.

Chapter 3. A Puzzle

Through the next few days, Jack began to piece together what he knew of his secret admirer. Two months before the letters started coming, he had joined the Dallas Department of Art, or Da.D.A., a city sponsored artists association that for a yearly $50 membership fee and a one time $100 rental fee, allowed any member to have a week long exhibit of his works in one of the city art centers.

Jack had methodically set up a time for his showing, sent out press releases, and gingerly and meticulously set up 3 rows of 30 paintings and drawings.

He remembered thinking to himself, 'Now how to price the works.' He had set his first price sticker at $200 for an acrylic portrait. Then he marked it up, then back down again, then up to $500, then down to $100… or $150. Finally in frustration he marked each one the same - one million dollars.

'If they're blind to the art, then let them open their eyes to the prices,' thought Jack.

The exhibit lasted one week. He was there on the opening Sunday, and every day after that he could. He had to miss 3 days because of work. No paintings or drawings were sold and even the outrageous prices didn't attract notice, though one newspaper critic praised the work in a two sentence summary of the show:

At DaDA this week a new painter to me, Jack Labas, with a spirited show of mostly portraits. There's a sense of real character in his paintings and drawings and his technique is better than average.

* * *

It was apparent that at sometime during that exhibit - the only one he had had within years - she had seen his work, and then him.

Who had he met? Who had he talked to? Who had he watched look at his work and wondered what they were thinking? Had she seen him without him seeing her? Had she come back on a day he wasn't there? He checked the exhibit guest book. Brushed off the dust. There weren't that many names, and most