Willow Arch

Chapter One Steve awoke to the singing of birds outside his bedroom window. The sun was just rising on the horizon, and the morning air coming in through his open window was crisp and refreshing. Quickly he tossed aside the light blanket, slid his legs over the side of the bed, and stood up. The clock on the wall stated it was an hour past the time he should have been up and about. Yesterday, he was late for the third time coming to the art studio and his teacher, John Alexander, was anything but pleased. After a quick breakfast, Steve walked the short mile from the Matthew farm into the small city of Willow Arch, which had a population of less than seven thousand. It was a beautifully laid-out city, many of its streets were lined with tall weeping willow trees, maples, and elms. He took the shortest route to the studio, which took him past the courthouse. The clock in the tall old tower above the building pointed its hands to a quarter of ten. So he was late again. So he shrugged it off as of little importance. Being on time has never been one of his strong points. When he reached the studio, he stood in front of the building for a few moments, took a deep breath, then pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped into the building. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee sent a pungent odor throughout the room. A blue speckled coffee pot stood on a small three-burner electric hot plate. Cups, saucers, and containers of cream and sugar were sitting on a small table along with a package of donuts and sugar cookies. A large workbench loaded with supplies was on the east wall. A large partly opened window to the south was above another long work counter, the view from there was overlooking the city of Willow Arch. Several empty paint easels were standing about the room. There was a fireplace with a row of bookshelves on each side of it. There was an easy plush chair and a rocking chair with a stand between them. Above the fireplace was a huge oil painting-one of John Alexander's earliest works. John Alexander, artist, teacher, and owner of the studio sat in the high-backed rocking chair. He was a fine-looking man of fifty-three with steel blue eyes, brown hair with a bit of gray, a full nicely shaped mustache, and beard. He wore a blue sweater and dark brown dress pants. John glanced up when Steve stepped into the room, laid aside the magazine he was reading, rose to his feet, and confronted the young art student. There was neither pleasure nor any surprise in his voice when he abruptly asked, "And what was the delay this time? Or is it you truly don't have any real interest in becoming an artist?" Steve shifted from his left leg to his right, for already his bad leg was starting to throb from the walk into town from the farm. A light sheen of perspiration appeared on his forehead, he wiped it away with the back of his hand. “What do you think it is I want to become?” he challenged his instructor. A calm silence stretched between them. John could be gentle, stubborn, infuriating, even tender, rough, stern, and demanding, but he was at all times fair, honest, and trustworthy. His reply when it came was quick and sharp. “I am not sure. Who are you, really Steve? “I am your pupil and I want you, as my teacher, to help me fulfill my greatest dream. I want to be an artist.” “Then make sure you always remember that I am the teacher and you are the student. There was that in his teacher's voice, something in the sternness of his eyes that told Steve he meant exactly what he said. It kept him from arguing for all that mattered to him was the fact that, with John's help, he was becoming an artist. “All right, if it’s what you want,” he said at length, stung by the awareness of his teacher's superior rank. “If it’s so important to you, from now on, I’ll try to be on time.” “Good, then I would suggest you get to work on your latest studies. More than enough time has been wasted.” Steve sat down on the stool in front of the work table where he usually did his studies, which began his long day at the studio. However, today his mind was not on his studies. His thoughts kept returning to his first day when he met John Alexander, a great artist, now turned teacher. He had wondered what it would be like to stand before him. Would he be embarrassed or shocked? And then came the day when he was face to face with him and all he felt was a rush of excitement to be in the same room with him and an equal amount of fear. Steve now went back in thoughts to that day… Standing before John that day, he had announced, as if he wanted the whole to hear and listen, “I am Stephen Matthews. My friends call me Steve. I was told by Mr. Alexander that you would know why I am here.” “Oh, I do? What are you after? What is it you expect from me?” “I need your help. I would have you as my art teacher.” “What are you talking about? Who sent you here?” Steve was quiet for a moment, then he said, “Dr. Paul Kent. He told me that he had discussed the situation with you and made all the arrangements with your studio.” John rubbed his hands together, his look one of sheer amusement as he listened to the stumbling words. “Ah yes, the young man would like to be the world’s most famous artist.” Steve clenched his jaw a second before blurting out. “I beg to differ with you. I am an artist!” “Are you?” What gives you the right to such a title? How many sellable pictures have you managed to paint?” Steve's mood had changed from one of hope to almost utter despair and with it mild resentment as he replied. “I have done sketching and drawing from the time I could hold a pencil. Everywhere I look I find an idea for a picture that needs to be placed on canvas…” “Have you sold any?” John asked once more. Steve was forced to admit that he had not. “So far none of my work has been professional enough to sell. Else I wouldn’t be here needing your help. My one and only desire in life is to be an artist. Painting, to me, is a language all its own. It speaks to me.” “Of course it does, so you want to become a famous, successful artist. How many times have I heard these same words from others? One without a whit of true illustration can sketch a simple line or two upon a piece of paper. This does not make one an artist.” “I am aware of that. It is, however, my one and only dream.” John walked over to the counter, picked up a gray ceramic cup, and poured it full of hot coffee. He handed it to Steve, who shook his head no. He was fearful of dropping it because his hands were trembling. John didn’t even press the young man. Walking over to the window, he watched the outside world go about its business. He slowly drank the dark steaming brew, as the silence lengthened in the room. When he finished, he put the empty cup down on the table, then turned to face Steve once again. “Can you draw? Are you any good at it?” “My teacher in high school said I’m good at it. She encouraged me, said not to give up until I’m known as an artist.” John laughed harshly, annoyed at the brash boldness of the young man. “I would not say one is an artist because he can correctly hold a crayon or a drawing pencil between his fingers. What makes you so exceptional? Why should I believe you just because you claim you can draw a pretty picture?” “Because it is the full truth. I may be a lot of things, but a liar is not one of them.” “I have only your word to go on. I have not as yet seen any of your artwork.” Steve stood there with a confused expression on his face, then he remembered the drawing he had dared to bring with him. He reached into the pocket of his light leather jacket and pulled out a rolled-up piece of paper which he handed to John. Steve watched in almost breathless expectation as the picture was studied by a master. It was a simple picture of the weeping willow tree growing lush and green on the lawn, with a small dog sitting below it not far from a lawn table and three chairs. It had been painted with watercolors on sketching paper. It was merely a pretty drawing, as a child might draw, the first accomplishment in second grade. It would be considered highly deficient and lacking any strength in the simplest of standards. “An artist would know better than to mar a picture by folding or rolling it “What you have done proves you are not as smart as you have imagined you were.” Abruptly he ripped the drawing into pieces, dropping it into the waste basket. “That is the place for poorly skilled paintings such as yours.” Steve felt his face burn with a rush of hot color. His heart hammered in wild anger. “I did not come here to have you ruin my picture. Since you tore it up, I gather you have no desire to teach me how to paint.” He turned half away, wondering why he had ever come. And now John felt it was time to test Steve, to see if he truly wanted to become an artist. He faced him with an unyielding determination as he said with force, “I am not going to waste my words telling you that you are a great artist or will become a great artist. You have no evidence of talent, nothing but a child’s drawing. That is all you have to show for it. There is no passion in your work. Where is the passion? Do you really believe I should waste my time teaching an amateur how to paint?” About to walk out, Steve flared, “I really don’t give a damn what you think!” He pushed his shoulders back in a gesture of angry defiance. “Dr. Paul Kent sent me here to you. He said you would teach me how to paint and, by damn, that is what you are going to do! I demand it of you! As your apprentice, I demand that you teach me how to paint!” John had gained what he needed to know and felt a twinge of satisfaction as he heard the anger in Steve’s voice. It told him that the young man truly cared about Art; he did indeed want to become an artist, yet it would be a challenge to instruct him. He was a stubborn young man, there would be clashes of temper, and this one would be a handful. Then again, this was the passion he needed to become a master of his art. Without this, he would have failed before he began.  “I guess coming here was a waste of my day. To think the great John Alexander would even be willing to become my instructor was just a waste of both our times. This was a stupid idea! You are not who I thought.” “Have I said no to you? Are you so paranoid that you listen only to the sound of the voice and never the words which are spoken?” “You ripped up my picture.” “You can draw others. If you can put up with me, I will strive to put up with you. Come here to my studio next week on Monday, prepared to study. Bring with you a drawing pad and pencils.” “I know how to draw. Why would you have me waste a lot of valuable time on such things when I already know the steps? I came here not to draw, but to learn how to paint.” “So you disapprove of my methods? I was under the impression that drawing and painting work together. Without one, you don’t have the other. Also, young man, when a student trains under me he calls me John. Slow down; take it easy with your emotions, and your desires. You are trying to run when you have not yet learned to successfully walk.” The subject of walking would always be a touchy one with Steve. He did not pause to determine in just which way John had meant the words or the fact that to the older man they were just another figure of speech. Steve let out a low groan and clenched his teeth. “I can walk well enough to take my leave of you. I changed my mind. I do not desire you to teach me now or ever. Your being the famous John Alexander does not impress me. I do not need your help. I will become an artist all on my own.” With this,, Steve walked out of the door, out of the studio and John had not tried to stop him. He felt that once his temper was under control Steve would be back. One thing John knew for sure, this young man had the true temper of an artist. This pleased him and he welcomed the challenge of teaching him. Steve knew he would return to the studio. There was only one thing that mattered to him, his dream, his longing to become an artist. Why this mattered so much, puzzled him at times, yet it had become a longing, almost as if it was a calling from a higher place. To reach higher, to become more than just a mediocre artist. To accomplish this dream he requires a master teacher, one who had obtained greatness as an artist. In John Alexander, he found one. John walked up to Steve, placed his hand on his shoulder, and demanded, “What are you, a dreamer or an artist?” Steve jerks back to the present day, startled by the sharpness of John's voice. “Sorry, I guess I got caught up in the past for a few minutes. I was thinking about the first day when I walked into the studio. I sure had some nerve demanding that you teach me how to paint. I am surprised that you didn’t toss me out the door.” John shrugged off his words. What mattered to him was seeing his student manage to make his dreams all come true. His wish was to make sure he would be able to live up to Steve’s expectations of him as a teacher. None of this, however, was likely to happen if he didn’t shake Steve out of his dreamy state and come back to reality. “It is time for you to show me what you are capable of doing with a pencil between your fingers. Now get to work.” Steve cast him one of his provoking grins, pulled a large sheet of drawing paper towards him, picked up one of the pencils, and bent his head to his work. The lesson for the day was a simple one; a still life scene, with a bowl of fruit on a table, a water pitcher, and a white china cup with a matching saucer. In the background, a curtain was flapping in the breeze from a partly open window. Yet somehow Steve was able to turn it into a total disaster. When John saw Steve bite at his pencil a couple of times and reach more than once for the eraser. He moved over to his side to see what he was doing. Disturbed by his hoovering over his shoulder, Steve began making more mistakes. He groaned inwardly, wanting to shout go away, leave me alone. Can’t you see how distracting you are? Yet he dare not express such feelings out loud because the man was his teacher. This gave him the right to control or correct any of his drawings. “Just what do you call this mess?” John asked suddenly, clamping his hand down over Steve’s fingers, stilling his drawing movements. “It’s all wrong. The angle is not correct; the curtain hangs like a wet dish towel. This is how it should be.” Before Steve could remonstrate, John had taken the pencil away from him and was redoing the window, drawing the curtain so it flapped in the softness of the breeze. Then he handed the pencil back to Steve, demanding he does it the way it was meant to look. He started out on a fresh sheet of paper, only haphazardly using the window and the curtain while John stood by frowning with disappointment. When he drew the apples much too large in proportion to the other fruit and the size of the bowl, John lost his patience. “Why did I ever consent to become your teacher? You have been working on five different pictures for three weeks now and I fail to see any improvement in your work.” So throw me out of the studio if you don’t want me here. I don’t think you would have much trouble finding another student, one more willing to be bossed around by you. I sure as hell don’t care for your constant criticism of my work.” “Then do it right. Take the picture as it is in the sketch I gave you to copy.”  “To hell with the sketches you made. I just might like to do it the way I see it. The damn curtain doesn’t have to swing in the breeze. It could be a calm day. And all apples are not small, some are large, and if the pitcher is to hold water why a cup and saucer? Why not a drinking glass?” He suddenly stopped talking and gritted his teeth in frustration. John had always found a student who was hard to handle, had a set mind of his own, and a fierce desire to draw in his own fashion to be a great challenge. In his latest pupil, he had found even more- a set determination to be the one who was master. It was as if Steve were the art teacher and he was the pupil. The idea was not at all displeasing. Maybe in my old age, I’m not so set in my ways that I can’t be taught a few new painting tricks, he mused. Yet when he addressed his young art student it was with hidden feelings, the need to have a submission to his way of teaching. He had always been ruthless when it came to getting what he wanted. Steve was there to learn and he was there to teach, it was simple as that. “It’s far too early for you to be thinking you can do it your way. There are many lessons to learn.” Steve pushed his stool back away from the drawing table. “Does it give you a kick to discover my lack of real knowledge about how to correctly draw?” John leaned his hand's palm down on the table. “So tell me, do you want to be an artist or a sculptor? Your work is all wrong, lacking any life or show of movement. It has no emotions. If you wish to work in stone or marble, you have come to the wrong type of studio.” “What the hell does that mean? I could care less what Michael Angelo did in stone or marble. I’m not saying he wasn’t a brilliant man or that his statues aren’t wonderful. They are lovely and to be highly praised, but I admire the work he has done on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel which he painted.” “Then you wish to be another Michael Angelo? The artist, will you paint pictures of nude people?” Steve’s face was suddenly contorted with rage. “Why don’t you believe me?” he shouted. “I do not wish to be a Michael Angelo or a Van Gough or any other famous past artist you can name. I want to be me and do it my way, in my style of painting. I have no intentions of becoming a copy artist. And I will not nor ever at any time paint any so-called pictures of nude people.” The sudden antagonism between them sparkled like hot static electricity. There was silence for a long drawn-out moment. “Who said you had to? I dare say you would do them all wrong if your sketches of still life are any indication of what you can do. If I have misjudged you, young man, it’s entirely your fault. I apologize if I have hit a sore spot. But- let me tell you, as long as you are training and learning here in my studio, you will do as I ask.” “Not on my own time, but, once I’m home, my time belongs to me and I’ll do with it just as I please.” John gave a humorless chuckle. “There will be no free time as long as you are beginning to study as an artist. There will be no end of things you have to learn while here and at home. You will have even less time at home because you will be sketching over and over the sketches required for each day’s work until they are perfectly done to my approval. When that is a given, you will do another sketch. Lessons take time and doing them correctly requires patience.” “You would enjoy doing that for me, wouldn’t you? I just bet you are mean enough to force me into doing it.” “Mean is hardly the word I would use. I would say determination is more of an accurate word.” “Call it what you will, the result is still the same, you got your way- since you are the teacher. “So right you are. Now at last we are getting somewhere. You finally woke up to the fact I’m your teacher. “Oh, what the hell! What are we quarreling about? If it’s so important that you become my teacher, who am I to argue with fate? If we are going to work together, we might as well be friends. It just might be helpful for both of us.” The stern harshness receded from John’s brow. He fastened his fingers on Steve’s in a firm strong handclasp. “And now suppose you get back to work on your drawing.”