An Introduction to Writing
In 2017, I invited the art critic Margaret Hawkins to my studio, for a screening of a film about my work. I thought Margaret might be willing to write an essay about the central motif in my work at that time: trucks. Rather than accepting a commission to write the essay, she suggested I write it myself. I could hire her as a writing coach. For eight years, Margaret sent me prompts that lead me to write various stories and essays. I have yet to write one about my truck motif, but I’ve written quite a few other pieces.
Boatman talks to Bill
My mother grew up on a farm in the early part of the 20th century. Nothing was wasted. Every leftover piece of lumber, every rusty nail and every damaged tool was saved for an unknown future need. My parents raised me, in a woodland home, to be a saver too.
Bill Bengtson and his camera are in my studio, documenting more of my work, as he has for decades. The room darkening shades on the 10’x7’ windows are down and the lights off.
Condolence Note
I first visited Chicago’s Pilsen neighborhood in 1966, while still a student at Harvard. I had no experience with the inner city, having grown up in the woodlands of an unincorporated area 30 miles west of Chicago. My parents had recently rented a storefront in Pilsen for a painting studio, as the one in their home was no longer large enough. Two of their artist friends, Ruth Duckworth and Misch Kohn, already had adjacent studios. Home on vacation, I was eager to see their Halsted Street studio and its inner-city neighborhood.
Rolando Colorado
Rolando Colorado turned up for the march. Pilsen badly needed a new high school, but the Board always funded wealthier areas of the city, where residents demanded better facilities. Our group’s appearance at the Board was an attempt to compete for funding. I wore a suit and tie. While, in reality, I was a young artist, I knew it was important that the group appear to have wide ranging support in the community, from the newest immigrants to established business owners. That’s what I wanted to look like: an established business owner.
The Case for a Violin
No one can remember when I loaned the violin to Penny Schultz. Penny thinks it was 1979. I know for certain that she mailed it back to me in 2002. I also know that I put the un-opened Kraft-paper wrapped box on a basement shelf. From its high perch, overlooking the laundry area, it haunted me for the next sixteen years. When I was five, my parents began taking me to cultural events, including concerts and art museums. This was in addition to the unending supply of paper, pencils, crayons and paint with which they had supplied me as early as I was able to use them.
Muffy
Muffy married Tony when they still lived in Chicago. In the nineteen-thirties, Muffy and Tony Golden moved to a stucco house, set between a stream and several oak covered hills. By car, this house can only be reached by Marion Road, a single lane, which, with no warning, dies there. When I was a child, the vestige of wagon wheel tracks could be seen on the floor of the forest, veering off from the road just before it comes to its surprising end. These shallow impressions pivoted north from the road and lead to the south bank of the West Branch of the Du Page River.
Curiosity
“CURIOSITY, n. An objectionable quality of the female mind. The desire to know whether or not a woman is cursed with curiosity is one of the most active and insatiable passions of the masculine soul.”
Seems like everyone gots some. Curiosity, I mean. Or, you could say everyone gots some. Depends on where you put your puncture nations. Well, maybe not rocks, but who knows. Rocks, Ben Hur so long they turned to stone, some of ‘em. Are they curious? Hard to test.
Grappelli
We wrapped Grappelli’s body in a favorite cotton blanket, laid him in a deep enough hole for a German Shepherd-Collie, when I was eight.
Grappelli had nearly died two years before. Not a house dog, he roamed. He wandered in our woods, to homes up the road, then back in time for his evening meal. If he ate well while away, he might not return for a day or two. On a longer circuit, he reached the four- lane and was struck by a car. An off duty sheriff found him on the shoulder.
AWOL
Angry alabaster birds.
Angry alabaster birds.
Green. Intense, angry, green
Birds. but quiet. very
QUIET. no feathers ruffling. feet still too.
No shuffling side to side
Or bobbing heads. Angry,
Green, Alabaster Birds still
so very angry, still so very still.
She was an accessory, an aide de camp, indispensable, unnoticed, unappreciated . . .