ballads & anthems

The Missing Tool

Within the first few weeks of college my gaze was set upon the tall skinny guy in paint-stained Levi's passing me in between painting and sound class.  It was a regular occurrence, this walk-by, as were my attempts to somehow "accidentally" bump into him.  No matter how desperate I was to get his attention, his interest in the vending machine, his sketchbook, or the floor seemed greater.  

A month into college, I was addicted to the nameless boy.  I would tell my roommate that I had misplaced some necessary tool at school and had to step out for a minute to look for it, literally praying the entire walk there that I would be granted some love collision in return for going to church on Sunday.  I was shamelessly bargaining with God on the elevator when the doors opened and, low and behold, there he was... wearing those same Levi's I'd come to know so well.  I'm pretty sure he would've seen and heard my heart beating through my sweater if he'd taken a minute to look up from his Walkman.  My prayer was granted, but I was forced to exit the elevator and pretend to look for the missing tool.  I was the only tool, searching for a sad palette knife that might want a new home.

The Missing Artist

Friday nights were reserved for Gallery 100 shows, the student gallery on the bottom floor of the Woodruff Arts Center.  Each student was given at least one opportunity to exhibit there before graduation.  In support of the hard working student artist, hungry friends and fellow classmates would gather in the gallery to eat & drink their weight in cheese, crackers, grapes, and boxed wine.  If the work was decent, it was a bonus.  It was our duty to support these artists every week by eating their food while nodding with approval at their paintings.  Paper plate in hand, it felt good to be a budding patron, even if I never caught the budding artist's name.

This Friday night was no different.  Just as I walked inside the gallery space, immediately my eyes shot to the enormous shiny puddle of pink latex paint pooling on the floor, still dripping off the side of the white gallery wall.  My fresh 18 year old eyes couldn't comprehend the beautiful mess, as it seemed a liability to leave wet paint out without a warning sign around guests who were on their way to being equally sloppy.  I was intrigued by this artist's bold statement, no less the color choice, Pepto Pink.  The other paintings were of equal fortitude, if not also a bit more prudent and exemplary of his technical talents.  Impressed is an understatement for what I felt, and I slowly scanned the busy gallery for a glimpse of the person responsible for making art whose impact was great enough to make me forget about the food & wine.  I left that night stumped, still unknowing who had created the most beautiful paintings in the entire world, and feeling a new kind of crush.  One that rivaled the crush of the tall skinny guy in paint-stained Levi's.  

My roommate and friends looked at the paintings with a cool objective sort of admiration, as if to say, "This guy's work is pretty nice.  Dang, are the crackers all gone?"  Where I, on the other hand, was already planning my next mission: Find Missing Artist, followed by Make Missing Artist Love Me.  Little did the tall skinny guy in Levi's know it, but he'd just been let off the hook.

A week later, I was leaving school when I walked past Gallery 100 again.  Without thought, I glanced over and saw a hunched figure on the floor.  

It was the Missing Artist.  

My heart raced as I tried to get a better look at his face without slowing my stride.  His show was coming to a close, and he was now forced to humbly scrape up the beautiful Pepto Puddle.  I wanted to run in there, yank his head back for a good close inspection and pocket the plastic paint drips as a souvenir, but better judgement got the best of me.  Eventually I would connect the dots.

Do I need to tell you that the tall skinny guy in paint-stained Levi's was the same guy who stole my Pink Pepto heart?  The amazing discovery was the real answer to all of those negotiation prayers.  The moment I realized that Clark & Superman were the same person, I knew he was the one.  It was written in the stars and all over that puddle.  Now I just had to get him to look at me.

Ballads and Anthems

No one knows more than Terry how difficult it can be to maintain a career, a family, a home, AND a hobby.  It's been years since I've seen him paint, and even longer since I've seen his paintings hang in a gallery.

His opening last Saturday, Ballads & Anthems, was perfect.  He shared the show with an old friend who's work is also beautiful.  A friend who probably has his own Gallery 100 stories to tell as well.  This time around, we're all married; we had our daughters with us; the art grew up a bit from the days of spilled latex paint on the floor (even though I would've loved it as much now as I did then); and this time I made sure he actually made an appearance at his own opening.  But in other ways nothing had changed... old buddies from college were there, the cheese, crackers, grapes, and boxed wine too.  Although newer and not stained, Terry still wore Levi's.  And 15 years later, I'm still smitten.