In the mid-seventies, after half a decade of trying to make a living from painting, I sold my first piece. It was a long, thin canvas showing a panorama of the Golden Gate Bridge at night. I dotted the bridge with yellowish-white paint to show car headlights. But not so many as to make it busy. In the painting, I imagined it to be a national holiday or the night of a big sporting event which would make it quieter. To me, the bridge seemed much more grand when left mostly alone. Over the course of three evenings, I went down to a vantage point to paint the giant structure. I didn’t paint from a photograph because that way never produced the same results for me. As each night drew to a close and daylight started to break, I would drive home and sleep through the morning and some afternoon. On all three occasions, I dreamt the same dream about the bridge. There were no cars or people. I walked across the entire bridge and as I did, all my failures of the past and worries for the future dropped away from me and rolled into the waters below. I would reach the other side and be at peace. And then I would wake from the dream, but always with an unnatural calmness lingering. I would shower, dress, eat and begin packing the unfinished painting and all my equipment and paints into the car. On each drive back while the sun began to set, the troubles of being a poor young man trying to make a living from art returned to me.
Once the painting was completed, I mailed pictures to family and friends and asked if they knew of anyone who might be interested in buying. It was a lousy shot at promotion which failed at every previous attempt, but it was the only option available to me. Whenever I spoke to the local galleries they would say it wasn’t what they were looking to display, or they would ask about my formal education in art to give potential purchasers context for the piece. I had no education to speak of and so the galleries would shy away from me. But four weeks after mailing out the pictures of this new painting, I had a letter back from my sister in New York:
“Kevin,
I showed the picture to a close friend. Her husband jumped from Golden Gate two years ago. He was sick, but the bridge was his favourite place (he talked about it the same way you do). She is offering $950. She misses her husband dearly and said your painting was beautiful and reminded her of him. Send it to address included. Her name is Jenny. And well done Kevin, I know this means a lot to you.
Love and thanks,
Mandy x”
For at least a day I toyed with the idea of doing as Mandy asked and simply sending the painting in the mail. But I’d almost no money left to afford the postal charge, and if the painting was lost or damaged in transit then it would all be for nothing. What I had instead was a car and some food in the cupboards of my tattered apartment. I packed all I could. After gently placing the painting – covered in tarpaulin – in the trunk, I made sure to take some jazz tapes for the journey. There was no telephone at my apartment, so I drove straight to the nearest phone booth to call Mandy. She was to tell Jenny to expect me in New York with the painting in four days. That would be enough time to ensure adequate rest along the way and still be punctual. The last thing I wanted was to bust up my car in an accident from being exhausted and delay the delivery. I was admittedly worried if I took too long to get the painting to her, she’d find some other way to commemorate her husband. Maybe some New York artist would make a miniature sculpture of the bridge for her. But if she really wanted this painting, I thought four days would seem reasonable. On the way out of San Francisco I drove over the bridge one more time. I was overjoyed to finally have some small success. My rusty car shot past the huge red cables and I smiled. What a lucky bridge, I thought. And lucky me.
***
It was day three. I was stopping only to eat and rest at cheap motels. The cities all blended into one and I was tired of my car and roads and bad beds and potato chips for dinner. I just wanted to get to New York and collect my money. It was the last stretch. Around 4AM I was passing through Pennsylvania. At this rate, I’d be in New York by early morning. But rain was starting to pound my windshield and I never liked driving that way. Along with my weary eyes, I was worried I would crash. Imagine that: my car torn to shreds and the painting thrown out of the boot and into the wet road. I decided there was no sense in it, and that I should stop at one more motel for a short rest. I was nervous about meeting Jenny. I thought she might get emotional when she sees the painting. If I was too tired, I might seem insensitive. I parked my car in the first place I could find. The lot was empty, but the sign read ‘CHEAP BEDS’ which was all that mattered. I washed, and put my head down to sleep. The dream came to me again. Only this time when I reached the midpoint of the deserted Golden Gate Bridge, a great siren rang out across the emptiness. I jerked awake to the continued alarm, and dogs began to bark. After a few seconds I was fully awake and it didn’t take long to realise what I was hearing.
I rushed to the car but was too late. One window was smashed, but I kept nothing of value on the seats. The trunk however sat pried open. My tools, remaining food, and most importantly my painting were gone. I sat in the car, sobbing quietly.
The sun had fully risen when I realised it was nearly 7AM. There was a notebook and pencil in the glove compartment. I scrawled a letter of apology to Jenny, and quickly sketched the Golden Gate Bridge. In four hours I arrived at her address. I’d never met her, and hadn’t the guts to do so then. I slipped the note and sketch through the letterbox and walked out into the street, poor and sad. By the time I had reached New York my sister was out of town as she mentioned she would be in our phone conversation. There was almost no money left and nowhere to stay.
After five hours of wandering around I slunk into a small, dimly lit jazz club. The music sounded good from outside and with my last few dollars I could buy a drink and sit in the dark and think about what to do next. But instead of thinking, I drew in my notebook. I drew the instruments and musicians and slowly people around me started noticing. A modest crowd were peering over my shoulder at the sketches which were strewn across my table. Some of them were musicians and some patrons. Nobody really spoke, but they sent beers my way. It got late and the club emptied out, I tore a page from my notebook and wrote Mandy’s telephone number on it, signed it with my name and kissed it for luck. It felt desperate and maybe it was just the beer giving me false courage. But in a sorry situation like that, it was something.
After two days of sleeping rough, I went to Mandy’s house. I knew she’d be home by then. I rapped my knuckles on her door. “Kevin! What the hell is going on? Jenny says the painting was stolen, and I’ve been getting phone calls from people looking for you.”
For nine years, I stayed in New York. First it was just a few clubs who commissioned me to make pieces to hang. But soon I was in the galleries. In those years I produced and sold nearly three hundred paintings, and was beginning to teach classes. I continued to drive through Pennsylvania every once in a while to go back to San Francisco. Each time I drove past the neighbourhood where my painting was stolen, I would always hope to see a man on the corner trying to sell it. If I did, I would buy it and give it to Jenny. And of course, thank the man. It would be the sincerest thanks I could ever give anyone in my life.
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