Chapter 21 #2
Theo nodded again. “I confess, I came here with some preconceived ideas about the South — some good, some not so good — but the only ones I’ve confirmed so far have been the good ones.
Golden strikes me as a nice place. The town is fortunate you stayed here all these years.
So, Asher, please tell me about yourself.
I feel that I know a bit about you from seeing your art, but what is your story? ”
“Well, it’s pretty simple, really. I grew up here in Golden.
My parents did too. They were old blood in the community, so my roots are deep here.
My mom was a homemaker mostly, but she was an artist too.
She studied art in college, actually took some classes in Madrid, at the Prado.
A lotta things were changing in our country at the time — ya know, political stuff in the sixties, Vietnam and such — but I never got the sense she was very interested in all that.
“She was real tenderhearted and had a wonderful eye for beauty. She tried to pass that down to my brother and me. I don’t think there was a day when I was growing up that there weren’t vases full of flowers in our house. She was quiet, sort of melancholy in a way, but always pleasant.
“My dad owned an ad agency. He wasn’t an artist himself, but he appreciated talent. I was their first child. I was born just a few months after they married. It was something of a scandal in our little town, but they survived it.
“I have one brother, named Pearce. I’m not very close to him.
I was drawn to the smell of paint and linseed oil.
He was drawn to the smell of money. Not a bad guy, but he thinks that all of this,” Asher’s hand swept the room, “is a very questionable use of time. He’s a tough one.
I understand you met his daughter, Minnette. ”
Theo smiled brightly and nodded.
“I call her ‘the world’s greatest niece,’ ” Asher continued. “She’s had some tough knocks, but Brooke and I are crazy about her. She and my mom adored each other. Minnie and Gammy.”
Asher was not used to talking so freely about matters so personal. He would remark later that the old man listened in a way that made one dangerously willing to talk. A business partner had once described it as Theo’s superpower. It was fully functional as Asher continued his story.
“Anyway, I went to a small college to study art, and when I finished, I came back here, thinking I would only stay a while and then move to a big city and try to establish a reputation in a bigger market. I think a lot of artists have that dream.”
Theo nodded.
“I ended up falling in love with a girl I’d known since grade school: Brooke. We got married, and we have one child, a daughter named Samantha. We call her ‘Sam.’ She’s a schoolteacher in South Carolina.”
“And your parents?”
“Well, my dad died not too long ago. He was sort of a soft-spoken, melancholy soul himself, but he was a good man and a good dad. He lived with me and Brooke at the end of his life. My mom died a few years ago of Alzheimer’s.
I was fortunate I was always able to spend a lot of time with her, especially toward the end of her life.
Her mind was really gone, and she said some bizarre things, but she never got mean like some people do when they get the disease.
It was hard on all of us to watch her trickle away, and it pretty much broke us financially, but I’m glad I was here.
Up to the very end, she seemed to enjoy painting. ”
Theo nodded. He had listened without a twitch.
“Your mother must have been very pleased you became an artist. You were a fine student.”
Asher smiled. “I hope so.”
“I think maybe you don’t realize how gifted you are,” Theo said. He leaned slightly forward, as if to emphasize his point.
Asher smiled again, a bit embarrassed by the compliment. He made a sound somewhere between a chuckle and a sigh, then attempted a response.
“Well, I know I enjoy what I do, but I guess it’s for someone else to judge how good I am at it. That’s how the art world works, right?”
“Is it?” Theo shifted his weight in the arm chair. “Asher, let me ask it this way: from your point of view as a professional artist, what makes something ‘good art‘?”
“You should know better, Theo. Ask an artist what it takes to make good art and you’re almost sure to get an autobiography in response.”
Theo chuckled, and Asher continued.
“It’s hard enough to define what art is, much less ‘good art.’ I wonder if there is such a thing.
Maybe there are just good responses. But I guess if a work of art makes us see something familiar in a new way or makes us feel something we ought to have felt all along or shows us our place in the world more clearly, maybe then it qualifies as ‘good.’ If it makes us better somehow, maybe that’s what gives it value. ”
Asher paused for a sip of coffee and to gather his thoughts before he continued. Theo remained silent.
“That means, of course, that ‘good art’ varies from one person to another, doesn’t it?
And that good art can come from a child or a master.
I don’t think the critics, especially the moderns, appreciate that idea very much.
I think they like telling us what’s legitimate as art, what has worth and what doesn’t. ”
Asher looked at the old man. “Theo, I get the impression you’ve thought about this before. What do you think makes for good art?”
Theo rested his chin on his right thumb and placed a bent index finger over his bottom lip.
“Yes, I have thought about it. In fact, I’ve thought about it a great deal.
And I’ve asked others about it. But I don’t know if I have an answer either.
Other than this. It might not make a lot of sense, but for anything to be good, truly good, there must be love in it.
I’m not even sure I know fully what that means, but the older I get, the more I believe it.
There must be love for the gift itself, love for the subject being depicted or the story being told, and love for the audience.
Whether the art is sculpture, farming, teaching, lawmaking, medicine, music, or raising a child, if love is not in it — at the very heart of it — it might be skillful, marketable, or popular but I doubt it is truly good.
Nothing is what it’s supposed to be if love is not at the core. ”
Theo snickered at himself. “I think I sound like a crazy old man again.”
Asher shook his head. “Not at all. But I do wonder, Theo, how do you know if something has love in it?”
Theo nodded. “Yes, yes. That is the question, isn’t it? And I’m not sure I know the answer to that either. But God does.”
Asher looked into his coffee cup. “Hmm… I’ll have to think about that. It’s an interesting idea. One thing I do know with certainty is if ‘good’ means art that makes someone famous and sells for lots of money, I’m not a very good artist, certainly no master.”
Theo made no reply, other than a slight nod.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Asher continued. “I’m grateful for what I get to do.
I’m a gainfully employed artist with a loyal clientele, good friends, and a beautiful family.
You could even say I’ve been a successful artist. And I hope something worthwhile has come out of this studio over the years.
But to answer your question, I have serious doubts about how ‘good’ I am.
All of these unsold pieces around here would be an argument against me. ”
Again, Theo nodded thoughtfully before speaking. “Don’t you think even the very great artists worked with many unsold pieces around them?”
Asher nodded. “Fair question. And yeah, they probably did. At least until they died.”
A phone rang.
“Theo, forgive me. I meant to tell you. I’m expecting a call about a commission. Would it be OK if I check to see who’s calling?”
“By all means.”
Asher looked at his phone. “This is the call. It might take a little while. Make yourself at home, and feel free to look around. You can dig through the stacks, or go in the front rooms, whatever you’d like. I’ll keep this as short as I can.”