On Record

When I first met Terry, he embodied everything I wanted in a man. He was tall, handsome, kind, gentle but masculine, he made art (that I fell in love with before meeting him actually), he liked my food which made me feel like a rescuer (some inherited busomy Italian gene?), he was weird in all the right ways, he was of pedigree extraction (McKay's and White's probably had high tea while the Bennett's and Angileri's were drinking homemade wine from the bathtub), and he was forward thinking, I thought. He was always thinking, in fact. And drawing. Quiet. Funny. Musical. The list could go on and on, for the record.

However. He once said something to me, very early in our "courting" days, that struck me odd and out of character for someone who I had classified as "forward thinking".

We were looking at something drawn, perhaps a childrens book illustration or something, that I mentioned I liked. He, without a second thought, said:

Terry: "A woman drew that."

Just by his tone, I knew that was not a good thing.

Me: "How do you know?"

Terry: "It looks like butterflies are about to fly off the page. It's flowery and curly and... look at how she drew the man in the book."

The man looked just like the way I'd have drawn a man.

Terry: "He's soft and sweet. I bet she was in love with him when she drew him."

By the way, Terry and I met in art school. Where I had planned on making art. For a statement to come so easily from his mouth, as though he'd thought this gem up long before then and waited for the perfect time to reveal his true chauvinistic side (once I was locked into the relationship, I guess), I was annoyed. And paranoid that I was one of those Lilith Fair artists. I shouldn't have cared, but it sunk deep at 18. Not completely his doing but having played a big part, I changed my major to experimental video. A major deserving an explanation for another post.

Since then, the issue has come up as we see illustrations, cartoons, and art made by women who draw with their {a word that looks like Regina, sounds like angina} apparently. Or so says Terry. And I still find offense in that after all these years.

Last night, he said it again:

Terry: "...like that time you drew me when I went to your mom and dad's house for the first time?", har, har, har.

I remembered exactly which drawing he was referring to, inside the very first sketchbook I kept in college, as sentimental as his shoe boxes full of concert stubs he's stashed away under our bed. I drew his profile sitting on the couch watching tv, and it was a darn good portrait, if I may say so myself. It wasn't sappy. He was fully clothed. It was just his profile. Because he was there. What hurt most was that I had no idea, 11 years later, that he thought it was bad.

Terry: "I never said it was bad. I said it looked like a girl did it. And you're a girl."

Me: "Don't patronize me. You think it looks fairy-ish."

Terry: "I think it looks like you loved me when you drew it."

Me: "Then I need to draw a picture of you now..."

Terry: "It was cute. Don't get your feelings hurt. I loved it. It was like this...", he pulls out Fiona's sketchbook and starts drawing.

{5 minutes later, and stifling a mouthful of laughter}

While he drew this, I tried drawing him again. And it looked like this:

I made his hair extra fluffy and lips extra pursed just to make him extra mad.

Instead, he tried to make me feel better with these:

Terry: "Ok. Well, here's how I would have drawn you in 5th grade."

"...or like this":

I laugh. Things are better. But, for added insurance...

Terry: "And here's how one of Banjo's {rhymes with witches} would draw him."