“Perspective. Perspective is what you look for,” Jack said.
The old artist continued to draw with short strokes, his hands feeble but sure. His illustration of a forgotten place that existed in another time.
“What makes that so important?” I asked.
“It means everything. It’s where you begin and it’s where you end.”
His voice was a bit scratchy, but he spoke with a childlike enthusiasm when it came to his art. His technique was simple but elegant. He always had a reference point when he started a drawing. As he mostly drew people in some animated form, his reference would typically be the eyes or maybe the hands.
His concentration would never waver. He stayed with the drawing making changes when needed, only stopping for a moment to sit back and look at the picture as a whole, or when he fell asleep, as he often did these days.
“I have to treat each of these drawings as if it were my last,” Jack would say. My days are numbered, you know?”
Jack’s days were indeed numbered. He had been living in a hospice center for the last year, in a room by himself. He had family and nurses who checked on him regularly. But most of the time it was him and his drawings.
“This is what keeps me sane. If I wasn’t able to draw…” he said with tears in his eyes. “Well, I would have gone crazy a long time ago! I believe a man’s purpose in life is what defines him. Mine is to draw, and I’ll keep doing it until my hands stop working or I have no more breath left in this bag of bones!”
Jack’s purpose was evident and it showed in his drawings.
I first started visiting Jack about six months ago. Myself an artist, although amateur at best, was working nearby the hospice center. On my way to my car one evening, I noticed a painting on the wall of the center’s waiting area. I walked in to get a closer look. It was an action scene; Indians on horses, participating in a hunt. The action was so intense, I studied the painting for a moment. Suddenly, I was there – I mounted my horse and rode along with my bow drawn tight. When I located my prey, I let the arrow fly. It found its way into the heart of a nice ten-point buck! The pride swelled in my chest as I touted the kill over my shoulders and paraded it around for the rest of the hunting party to see. They galloped around me with their bows and spears over their heads, wailing in loud respect!
“Sir?”
I turned around, startled.
“Sir, can I help you?” The portly woman at the reception desk asked.
I shook my head for a moment, waking from my stupor. “Yes, do you know the artist that painted this?”
She said to follow her.
When I met, Jack, I introduced myself as a fellow artist, and explained to him how I felt about his painting, and he immediately wanted to see my work. Reluctantly, I shared some of my latest drawings. I feared his critique would be harsh, as I had no formal training. To the contrary, he encouraged me and compared me to when he was younger.
My visits have been nearly a daily vigil since. We talked of art and past things. He told me stories of where he grew up, an old farm in the hills of Kentucky. He lived a harsh but simple life, and every chance he got he would escape into his drawings.
When the war broke out, Jack joined the navy. He fondly told a story of when he got a commission to paint the ship on which he was stationed. The captain was looking for an artist. He wanted camouflage patterns on the side of the ship to mask them from Japanese destroyers in the area. One of Jack’s crewmates told the captain that Jack could draw. That resulted in the largest project he ever worked on.
“Why do you do this?” he said to me one day.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, drawing. Why do you draw?”
“I’m not sure, I suppose I enjoy it.”
“Oh, hogwash! You do it because you have purpose, it gives you something. Most people walk around going from place to place, never really thinking about what they’re doing. You and I, we see things. We see details. Most people will look at our work and see a pretty picture. But, that picture lives in a different place for us, and by golly it lives! It’s a living, breathing thing!”
I pondered this for awhile; I suppose he was right. I’m sure most people walked by the picture in the waiting room and admired it for just that, a nice painting. I saw something different. Hell! I experienced something! For a moment, I was there! Was it because I was an artist also or was it something mystical? Did I see into another world? Did I drop the veil of everyday life for a moment, stopped thinking of responsibilities and places I needed to be?
Perhaps I was being pulled into a place that few understood. Maybe I was seeing something for the first time in my life. Something I ignored until I saw Jack’s painting. Was he teaching me to look outside of myself, or somewhere within my soul?
The next day, I went to see Jack. I had some new drawings I wanted him to critique. He was sitting in his usual chair, sound asleep, with a canvas in front of him. He had drawn a World War II naval vessel floating by a dock in the Philippines.
“What, no camouflage?” I thought to myself.
He had a monitor hooked to his arm, with a faint beep that kept time with his heart rhythm. I sat down beside him and studied the picture. The bow of the ship was empty as was the stern. I kept scanning for any details, but nothing presented itself. Then suddenly people started to appear; not only did they appear, but they were moving. I looked closer and before I knew it, I was looking down at the floor of the ship.
I quickly looked around, and sure enough, I was on the ship, with crewmen walking past. The smell of the salt air and the tropical breeze was too real to be imagined. I was there!
“Aye, aye, captain!” I heard a crewman close by say.
He then moved quickly to a stairway and down to the lower deck. It was at that time I realized I was holding a paintbrush and a bucket of gray blue paint was next to me.
“Back to work, crewman!”
I turned to look at the man behind me and having no idea what rank he was, I muttered a half hearted, “Yes, sir?”
He looked at me strangely and then walked on. I reached down into the bucket and dabbed some paint onto my brush, then began to paint the railing. The man who had gone to the lower deck was now returning with another man close behind him. Both men approached the captain. The one in front said, “Here he is captain, the artist I was telling you about.”
“Petty officer, Simmons says he’s seen you drawing pictures in your spare time. He says
you’re pretty good.”
“Aye, aye, sir. I have an eye for it,” the crewman replied.
“Good, I want camouflage painted on both sides of the ship, so we’re not an easy target for the Japanese. You only have a few days to do it. Gather up some crewmen to help you and get started right away, understood?”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
“Dismissed.” The captain said.
I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around. It was Jack! Albeit a much younger version of the man.
“Meet me on the main deck at 16:00, and bring your painting supplies, we’re going to need them.”
“Sure thing,” I said, hoping I replied properly.
Over the course of the next few days, we camouflaged the sides of that entire ship. The captain commended Jack and his whole team in front of the entire crew. We were ready to set sail, and the Japanese didn’t stand a chance at spotting us! As we left the port, a loud whistle sounded somewhere at the top of the ship. The whistle began to wane, quieter, until it was a beep, steady, constant.
I woke suddenly and looked over at Jack. He was lying in his chair, slumped over. The beep was the heart monitor, the line was flat. Jack was gone. His journey now lay beyond the physical barriers of this world.
For a brief moment in time I captured a glimpse into the the old artist’s soul. My purpose had forever changed, thanks to Jack’s perspective.
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