I knew a painter once his name was LJ. Actually only part of that sentence is true, I find that you have to obfuscate the real story to make it more readable. His name wasn't exactly LJ and he wasn't just a painter, but for our purposes it is and he is.
LJ wasn't a natural painter. I say this like he is dead, and maybe he is or maybe he's not, it's not exactly the point of this story. Either way, LJ wasn't gifted by the gods with the natural ability to see light and colour and shade and all the other shit that the Boschs of the world seem to have been given. No, LJ had the curse of knowing he wasn't a natural talent. According to him this knowledge made it just ever so much worse. "I knew I wasn't a Van Gogh, but I knew I wasn't some house painter either, I was an in-betweener enough talent to be noticed, but not enough talent to make me famous while I was alive, and being famous after I'm dead isn't the kind of fame I want." I am sure this was the cause of a lot of things that LJ did, both good and bad, and he did a lot of bad things. I should know, I was with him when he did several of them.
LJ the painter as we called him, wasn't someone who would stand out at a party. He wasn’t exactly awkward but he wasn't a social butterfly either. I suppose he had what would pass as a normal enough life, if any life can be considered normal. He wasn't a refugee from some foreign war, or a child prodigy gone to seed. He wasn't ever going to be a contender for the heavyweight championship of the world, nor was he going to win the Gold Cup for his country on penalty kicks. LJ did have the desire to better himself, and he did eventually manage to do that. He realized he had just enough latent painting talent to be good, and hoped that with enough application, and hard work he might become a talent. It wasn't the longest shot on the board, and since he had no other skill, it was the best shot at success he was ever going to have.
He did the things that painters do, which is I believe mainly painting, and getting too drunk too often. I am sure there have been sober, sane painting geniuses that live mostly simple lives of quiet desperation, but LJ wasn't one of those type. He knew that the "squandered his talent in the pleasures of the flesh" tag was never going to be attached to him, so he went ahead and indulged in as many pleasure of the flesh that he could legally get away with. It wasn't going to ruin him, and it wasn't going to "make" him (he would say) but it was a lot more fun drinking with certain types of ladies at 2 am than it was reading about perspective in the Dutch masters of the 17th century. I don't think he ever got around to reading about perspective, because he lacked it, and not just in his paintings.
But he soldiered on, painting the stuff that might get him enough to make the rent, but not enough to retire to the south of France. He knew his stuff wasn't going to ever hang in the National Gallery, but he had ambition nonetheless. And like a lot of people, ambition is where LJ came a cropper. He started like we all do at the bottom, bottom for painters is portraits of dowager aunts, seascapes, and bowls of unoffending fruit. It wasn't exactly the Mona Lisa, but someone had already done that. It paid the bills and kept him slightly ahead of the wolf at the door. It was the first step, and all journeys whether they be to the penthouse or the outhouse start with a first step.
Eventually, he got some notice. Not the type of notice that allows you to sign autographs for people and have a table reserved for you at the Ritz, but notice enough to start being considered a rising talent in the painting world. Whatever the hell that meant. I can't draw a stick figure without fucking it up, so I wasn't exactly the target audience for LJ's talent. Which was probably one reason (if not the only reason) he never asked my opinion of his work. He would call us friends, I would call us friendly. Which would made a difference when the time came for it to. Up through the painter's ranking LJ rose, and to the surprise of most of us he got into some rare air. Slaving away at his canvas and maybe meeting and making nice with the right people, LJ became a semi star. Not the walk of fame kind of star type, but a local celebrity type.The type to have his name mentioned in the local paper a couple of times,but nationally he was barely a blip on the radar. I think that at some point this began to bother LJ.
I wasn't to be sure because by the time of his local celebrity, he had mostly forgotten my existence. Truth be told that was fine with me. I don't move in rare air. I find it hard to breath, and it makes me slightly sick to my stomach. I became more of a nodding acquaintance to LJ, and that was fine with us both. There were a couple of occasions where I needed LJ's advice or help, and he did the best he could, but by then his best was in the past. I think the rest of us figured that out before he did, which made for some awkward moments (in the few moments that our orbits crossed). I suppose that maybe LJ knew it too, but was in the kind of denial that comes from being hard to see because it is self-denial.
Last I heard of LJ, which has been fairly recently, he is still painting. He has moved up from bowl of ripe fruit to other, more complex projects, but then again it doesn't take much to be more complex than a bowl of fruit. I think he still has the hope of fame coming to knock in his door, but we all know it isn't going to happen, but none of us are quite prepared to tell him. Not that he would listen, hope or so they say (whomever they are) springs eternal, but the last I saw of LJ, there was the look in his eyes that told me that he knew his star was on the wane. I possess no particular talent, and I am no judge of art, nor will I ever be, but perhaps we should pause and have a little pity for LJ the talented, but just not talented enough to be "brought home to meet mother" as the saying goes. God Jul people.
