Chapter 1

Coretta James is probably my all time favorite teacher. She used to teach art at Williston High School when I was in the ninth grade. I've had a few pretty good teachers, ones who actually showed some enthusiasm for their subjects but to be honest, I've always had the impression most of them were only there for the paycheck; not Mrs. James, though. You could tell she absolutely loved what she was doing and she made you want to work your ass off to please her.

I suppose I was considered a little above average as a student, making mostly A's and B's but there's one area where I pretty much stood out and that's art. I've loved drawing and painting for as long as I can remember. I can recall my kindergarten teacher remarking to my mother that she'd never seen any kid my age draw people with proportionate body parts and actual joints in their limbs. My horses looked like horses and my dogs looked like dogs. I guess I was lucky to get the art genes in my family.

When I was eight, I got a paint-by-numbers kit for Christmas from Grandma. I did the painting but it felt like I was cheating. Those kits don't teach you anything about painting and when it was done, it looked all splotchy like those things always do so I went back over it and blended the shadows and highlights to look like a real painting, even adding a few touches of my own. Mom framed it and still has it hanging in her bedroom.

Well anyhow, art has always been my main interest and I've got scads of old sketchpads, watercolors, oils and acrylics in my room and stashed in the attic. I can't say that I'd have been seen as a child prodigy but I was pretty good if I do say so myself.

Within a couple of weeks of the beginning of art class, Mrs. James decided I didn't really need the basic stuff and started giving me special projects to do in and out of class. One I really enjoyed was a collage of various textures put together to represent some abstract rendering of our town square. I went through stacks of magazines and cut out pieces of pictures of everything from fine lace to brick walls to paste onto the poster board. She liked it so much that she framed it and hung it up in the school common area.

After that, she had me working real hard on the human body. She had books of drawings of heads, arms, hands, feet, legs and torsos done by some of the old masters. My homework would be to take one of the books home and draw three or four views of the same body part. She knew how much I loved doing that stuff so she insisted I spend no more than an hour on it so my other homework didn't suffer.

During the second semester Mrs. James had the students drawing each other. For the kids who didn't really have any artistic talent to speak of, she didn't grade the drawings on how much they looked like the model but by how well the poses and proportions were represented. She was a lot tougher on me, criticizing how well I caught highlights and expressions, even moods. Plus, my drawings were expected to look like the model.

I didn't mind the extra pressure, though because I knew I was getting help from a pro. If you walked through the bank or the municipal library and even our local museum you'd see her paintings displayed. From what I hear, some of her work sold for big bucks.

I knew she was getting up there in years but I was still surprised when she announced her retirement at the end of the school year. If I'd been asked to take a guess, I'd have put her at about fifty, fifty-five tops. I felt so lucky to have had her as my art teacher, even if it was for only one year. I was sure going to miss her.

Well, she had a surprise for me. Before school let out for the summer, she asked me to stay behind one day after the bell rang and asked if I'd be interested in private lessons in her studio. Naturally, I jumped at the chance but then reality caught up and I had to ask how much it was going to cost. My family was hardly poverty-stricken but we weren't well off either. I could make a good guess as to how my dad would react to the prospect of yet another expense.

Mrs. James just laughed and said, "I hadn't planned to charge you anything, Terry." That's my name, by the way, Terry. Actually it's Terrance Winthrop Farris. What were my folks thinking to make me carry that through life. On any of my artwork I bothered to sign, I just used T W Farris.

She went on, "You'll have to provide your own art supplies of course but if you're willing to do some work around my house like mowing the lawn and a few other chores, we could probably work out a barter system. What do you think?"

"Wow, that'd be awesome, Mrs. James! I'll have to ask my folks but I can't see why they'd have a problem with it. When could I start?"

She looked at her calendar. "Well, let's see. I'm visiting my brother in Denver for a week after school lets out so why don't we say, um, Monday, June 15^th at nine AM sharp."

"I'll be there, Mrs. James. I sure do thank you for this."

She stood up and put her hand on my shoulder. "Terry, you have a rare gift. I think you're going to have a fine career in the arts and I do so hope you'll stay with it. Maybe I can give you a little boost in that direction."

Mom was as excited about the idea as I was but Dad, as usual, was skeptical. He made me explain three or four times that Mrs. James wasn't going to charge me for the lessons and that I could work off the cost of the art supplies. Mom and I badgered him until he finally caved, saying, "Just make sure I don't get any bills for art lessons showing up in the mail. And don't forget you have a few responsibilities around here. Your regular work will be done to my satisfaction and on time, understand?" Dad made it obvious on more than one occasion that he'd prefer I was a macho jock rather than a 'pansy' artist.

"Got it, Dad. Don't worry, I'll keep up."

That's when my little sister piped up whining that I was getting special treatment by getting to take private art lessons. I reminded her that she'd been taking private piano lessons for a year and that they cost real money. She came back with, "Well, yeah but they're no fun." Such a poor, neglected child...

Mrs. James didn't live very far from us and I was so excited about getting started that I pushed our lawnmower over to her place and got her yard looking really good before she even got back from Denver. When I showed up for my first lesson, she presented me with an awesome watercolor paint box for the surprise lawn work.

I was expecting to jump right in doing sketches and anatomical studies but I was way off base on that one. Before we even did anything artistic, she insisted we sit down for a cup of tea and talk about what I was going to be doing. Well let me tell you, it was just one surprise after another.

One thing about Mrs. James, she was not one to withhold an opinion. Like for instance, when she poured my tea and I asked for sugar, she said, "You should learn to enjoy drinks that aren't sweet."

"But I like sugar in my tea."

"But the problem, my dear Terry is that sugar doesn't like you."

"Huh? I don't get it."

"Terry, do you want to be a very good artist or a very good anything for that matter?"

"Of course! That's why I'm here isn't it?"

"Yes, that's why you're here. So let's start with a few basics. I know you're a smart and talented young man. That means your brain must be working pretty well, doesn't it?"

"Um, yeah, I guess."

"And you want your brain to always be in tip-top shape don't you?"

"Of course I do. Who wouldn't?"

"Terry, there are certain things your body needs to stay healthy and refined sugar as well as several other simple carbohydrates our society has become addicted to aren't among them. If you want your mind to be at it's best, your body needs to be at its best. Along with all the other things we're going to work on, keeping your body and mind in good condition is going to be part and parcel. Your body is an amazing, finely tuned wonder. If I'm going to see your best work, you can't compromise it by feeding your face with stuff that's unhealthy for you.

Chapter 2 »