The Old American Artist

By Felipe Adan Lerma

Semi-autobiographical, written in my early 60s, of my struggles and drive for both my art, and love. Spans several decades, via flashbacks, as the artist, Arturo, spends the day by the seaside in Europe, awaiting his wife's return from the U.S. in time for a long awaited art opening reception of his art nearby. A progression of glimpses from young man, aging, and a young senior, still an artist, still in love.

Upbeat, with many glimpses into moment by moment reflections on works in progress. Written in 2012, was my first fiction since the early 80s. Have continued to paint, now with watercolors!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Felipe Adan Lerma
• Release date: Jun 17, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393133629

Book preview

The Old American Artist

A Love Story

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Copyright © 2012 Felipe Adan Lerma

Registered with Library of Congress

Cover & Book Design by Felipe Adan Lerma

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

Printed in the United States of America

First Printing: July 2012

Second Digital Printing January 2014

Third Digital Printing June 2020

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www.felipeadanlerma.com

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Published by Felipe Adan Lerma

Table of Contents

Forward

I

II

III

Dedication

Forward

As I concentrate more and more so on my painting work, especially watercolors on absorbent ground on canvas, I’ve decided to re-release wide my 2012 novella, The Old American Artist. Auto-biographical, it encompasses one very full day in Arturo’s life.

Flashbacks on the progress of his life, personal and artistic, go hand in hand with stream of conscious moments of his artistic process, his observations of life around him, as he anxiously awaits the return of his wife from the U.S., hopefully in time for a long awaited art reception opening of his work that evening.

Locales include Galveston, Vermont, and a fictitious seaside area in Italy.

Leisurely paced, yet grounded in the life around him - and especially his relationship with his wife and her hoped for return and arrival.

Sensuous and humorous, introspective while active.

The life of an artist (smiles).

Felipe Adan Lerma

June 17, 2020

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Posts about my art & fiction are available at www.FelipeAdanLerma.com .

Painting posts - https://felipeadanlerma.com/?s=Painting

Watercolor posts - https://felipeadanlerma.com/?s=Watercolor

Paris related posts - https://felipeadanlerma.com/?s=Paris

Austin related posts - https://felipeadanlerma.com/?s=Austin

Vermont related posts - https://felipeadanlerma.com/?s=Vermont

Costa Rican related posts - https://felipeadanlerma.com/?s=Costa+Rica

Original PhotoPoems - https://felipeadanlerma.com/?s=PhotoPoem

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I

i

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Arturo, the American Arturo as some villagers affectionately called him, could feel the scratch of his beard, even being just a week old.  Maybe now, in my sixties, he thought, my days are like weeks now.  One running to the other.  Is this what timelessness was?  he wondered.  He hoped not.

Squinting his eyes to shut out his thoughts, he followed the dusty curling rolling road that trailed into the distance from what his children called his escape.

This part of the upper Mediterranean, reminded him of the weather in Austin.  Blended with Galveston.  Hot.  Humid.  But not as crowded.  Not as hot.  Arturo was glad he had taken a break from the bustle of Texas.  And the cold of Vermont.

Here, these stretches of sandy beaches barely crawled with a few children, families of the many fishermen living nearby.  Yet a half hour winding walk, up along the dusty road, a small artist town, split between the Italians, French, and Spaniards, opened as a unique playground and portal to the world’s world of art.  It would be good, thought Arturo, to see how to bring the children and grandchildren to such a place.

Squinting into the distance, to where the road spun off a path to his house, Arturo shrugged off thoughts of art and families.  The small loping moped in the distance said the mailman, always early in the morning, had passed by, and his thoughts were on seeing if the red flag was up on his mail box.  It was not.

Relaxing his eyes into the distance, and imagining her arrival, his eyes smiled at the thought of Rosetta.

Half Irish, half French, she had told him, when she had finally agreed to have lunch with him.

"Rosetta," Arturo had repeated, and she had laughed throwing out her sound, tilting back her head, as if drinking her own enjoyment.

What’s so funny? he grinned, curious.

"You, Arturo, you are a funny boy."

Grinning wider, Boy? he replied.  I have children and will be thirty soon.

"But Arturo, you’re only a boy, barely nearly thirty."

At least that’s what she had told him.  Only a boy? he thought again.  But he could tell she liked the idea, or something about it, and he liked her, so it suit him fine.

He took a small breath into the awkward pause.

So you have children too? he asked, assuming he was on safe, gender friendly ground.

But she had looked away with a moment’s glance at him, gone from their lunch and in her own private thoughts.  When she returned to look at him, she said simply,  No.  Not with me, and laid her napkin down.

Thinking back for a moment, Arturo remembered feeling it best not to answer with words right then, or say that his own children were with their mother.  His heart was too intrigued with the woman sitting before him, swelling his creative mind with ideas and impulses he only barely felt, like the first rays of the sun which a large cloud has just begun to expose.

He would not intrude he had decided.  Not yet.

He let his thick-lashed eyes soften and round, the same way he let himself into the life of one of his paintings.  Especially those he began to feel connected to.

Colors and textures.

Shapes that softly glow.

A wholeness in one glance.

Rosetta.

No letter had come.  But also no call.

She would be home for his show that night then.

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ii

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Coming inside the converted fisherman’s hut, old wooden shelving across from the expanses of windows facing the sea, was nearly like stepping under a wide high umbrella outside on the beach, at least like those nearer the big hotel by the sea in town.

Coolness was instant, while the eyes slowly dilated.

Arturo hummed quietly, as if to soothe the slowly lifting darkness.

Canvases, like floating cubes and rectangles, dimly reflected the morning light filtering the stretch of rooms.  The weave of the linen and rough cotton canvases caught sparkles like sea spray catching moonlight.

These were the moments Arturo felt a visitor to his own work.

Walking slowly, the old wood plank floor creaking gently, he passed between two large easels and paintings, like an old ship gliding gently on slippery thin water between rocks of the unknown.  He resisted turning or looking back yet for a peek, allowing his concentration to focus further into the dawning light in the bank of windows.  Faintly he heard the murmur of the sea, the waves’ lips whispering tales of other lands.  He had heard those same whispers in Galveston, and Vermont, about other lands, on other sides of the world’s waters.  And now was standing, he realized, on the other side of those whispers.  He imagined hearing the voices of growing children.  His own voice.  Rosetta’s smile.

Arturo cracked open the window an inch, the morning breeze still too cool, too swift, for his comfort, and let the wind’s whispers speak light whistles.

With that, he turned to face his work.

Thirty by forty inch gallery wrapped linen panels, one angled each side in front of him, made Arturo take slow full breaths of his seaside air.

Layered over days, weeks, and now a month each, the slow rising morning light looked to be waking the pigments lying deep within the brush-stabbed dab-dashed ocean like waves of color.

By noon, the colors would be singing.

And by evening, the light absorption, and reflection, would pause at the surface once more.

His painting remained static in color and feel, only in photos.  The broken surface and uneven layering reflected and revealed differing light throughout the day.  The image itself, when nearly done, Arturo had always felt, lived in the light.

With another deep, yet stuttering breath, like a child finally released from its anguish, finally resting in a remembered unborn state, Arturo stepped unaware, closing the distance to his paintings.

Natural light glistened off the ridges of paint.  In the valleys.  Along the waves of pigment.

And Arturo saw where he wanted to add hints of shadow, eye-winks of highlight.

A strong slow breath told Arturo he was ready to paint.

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iii

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Rosetta.

Arturo savored the syllables softly and and said it again slowly.

Rosetta...like the rosetta stone.  His voice sounded the words with the weight of light precious rocks, then quickly added,  not the language company, but the....

Yes, Rosetta glanced quickly to Arturo, then back to her meal.  It was their second lunch date.  And there was no need to hurry both hungers.  A lot of people tell me that.

Arturo, at the tender turning age of twenty-nine, half impetuous, half matured, paused, but still rushed inside himself to find his reply.  Though they had just met that week, he liked the glint and glimmer in her eye.  He feared losing momentum.  As with his art, he feared letting his paint dry when it still needed blending, most especially when the image in his mind fit the feeling in his heart.  The solution, he had often found, was to press on.  Dab the canvas.

I bet.

Nope, he thought, too little.  He could see it in her eyes, the dash of disappointment.  You know, he pressed again, crossing his feet, leaning forward, squeezing his thoughts out, it’s because people see you as special.  Yes! he thought, he saw a glint of approval.

But she wanted more.

Special?  How?

Well, I...

How’s the rosetta stone special?  What’s so special about it?  She seemed to wish she had more food to cut, or something to butter.  But all was about eaten now.  The bits left were getting cold.  "I mean, I’ve heard of the rosetta stone, I just don’t know why it’s so important.  No one’s been able to tell me for sure," and her fork clattered to the nearly empty plate drawing quick looks from the table nearby and both Arturo and Rosetta burst out laughing.

Arturo leaned forward a few more inches, closing off their conversation from those around them, and Rosetta smiled, grateful for his touch of awareness.

I really don’t know, and Arturo’s smile spread as Rosetta’s eyes widened, surprised.  Maybe we can explore that together.  Go to the library.

The breath between them was very still.

Galveston has a real old library that’s kinda fun to use, he said quietly.

We have an old one in Vermont where I grew up too.

Their breath stirred.

Vermont?  Is that north of Dallas?

Rosetta hesitated.  Well, yes, it’s actually a state....

Arturo burst out laughing, again drawing looks from the quiet couple nearby.

Lowering his voice, he said, I’m just kidding.  I know where Vermont is.  On a map anyways, and grinned.

"You do? Really?  A lot of people here in Texas never heard of it."

A sad thought passed through Arturo.  Even now, in the early 80s, nearly the end of the twentieth century, he knew this was true.  Many people still knew little beyond where