A THOUSAND WORDS

STORY & PAINTING BY ROBERT BECK

One Night Only T THE PART OF MAINE where I go to paint is an excellent place to decompress. It’s located at the top of the coast near Canada, where there’s not much to get compressed about. For me anyway—it’s not an easy life for the people who live there year-round.

Washington County has 32,000 people in an area half the size of Connecticut. I’ve been told there’s a traffic light in Cutler, and I have heard rumor of another inland somewhere, but I’ve asked around, and nobody knows. I’ve been thinking of driving over there to get it off my bucket list. You have to wonder why a town with 507 people needs a traffic light.

I gave a talk about my work last summer at the Peabody Library in Jonesport. It went well, although the audience was looking sparse when the time to start rolled around. There were six people, and two of those were the Program Lady and the Librarian (they brought the cheese and made the dip). I suggested we wait a little bit, as I knew some friends from the shipyard were coming, but the Program Warden was brought up on punctuality, and I only could negotiate another five minutes. Turns out there had been two times published, and another twenty people showed up about ten minutes into my talk, initiating a second wave of hellos, welcomes, and folding chairs clattering in from the hall.

Some of the people didn’t know who I was. They had been lured by the sign out front, which only had my photo, date, and time. There’s not a lot to do in town on Thursday night. One guy’s wife got him to come by telling him I was Andrew Wyeth. I appreciated the bodies and began again.

About half-way into the introductory portion of my talk—the part where I tell people

what I’m going to tell them right before I tell them—a guy raised his hand and asked if I was going to teach them how to mix colors. His finger wiggled in front of him as he said it. I told him no. It wasn’t clear if he was disappointed or relieved. I continued. The crowd was obliging, paying rapt attention, and making thoughtful comments. When I was done the presentation, I opened the floor to questions, and the color-mix guy lifted his hand again. He asked me what made Michelangelo so good. Okay now. It’s one thing to pose a question like that over a beer, and another to have it sprung on you in front of a crowd you’ve just spent an hour persuading you know something about art.

I played for time by chuckling and asking if anybody wanted to field that question, but they sat looking at me as if it was something they had long wondered, and now they were on the verge of finally discovering a great secret. The truth is that I do have knowledge and experience, and I explain things fairly well. That’s why we’re here. This is a trust that has been placed in me, and I take it seriously. The question warranted a response that had more than art-speak behind it. I talked to them about how every person has capabilities, interests, and motivations. If they can get them all moving in the same direction, they can accomplish extraordinary things. Not just in art. Anything.

I wasn’t sure that answered the Michelangelo question, but people nodded their heads as I talked, which was a positive sign. Everybody appeared satisfied with that explanation. Like maybe there’s no real personal value in being the best. The reward is in finding something you enjoy enough that you keep trying to get better at it. Michelangelo was way more gifted than any of us, but believe me, you wouldn’t want to spend four years painting the Sistine Chapel back in 1508.

If someone comes away from one of my talks inclined to try something they never thought they could accomplish, it’s not only worth what I put into it, but it’s a pay forward for the time, effort, and knowledge I have been generously given by others. Regardless, the answer got me through the question, and everybody was pleased. It was a good place to wrap up the evening, so we all adjourned to the table with the cheese, crackers, and mystery dip, and stacked the chairs back in the hall before we left. n