As cantankerous as he was, old Jacque was a great artist. His work easily rivaled that of Van Gogh, Monet, and others. But, almost no one knew of him. He was like the withered blues guitarist you stumbled upon while walking down some random country road. He'd play you something so incredible you swore he must have sold his soul to the devil and when he was done he would laugh and laugh until you walked on shaking your head in awe at what you had just heard.
His paintings had never seen the inside of a gallery. Old Jacque felt that was not the true purpose of art, hanging it somewhere so others could come and "gawk at it." "Art is for relaxing, it is a way to express yourself, yes, but more like capturing an image before you forget how beautiful or dark it is." When he talked he wouldn't look up from his easel so I was never sure how sincere he was being or if he said these sort of things hoping I would shut up and leave him be.
Until now. Scratching his ear with the end of his brush, old Jacque looked quizzically at me and spoke with unfamiliar curiousity, "so, who was that girl you thought was more important then your art lesson?"
His paintings had never seen the inside of a gallery. Old Jacque felt that was not the true purpose of art, hanging it somewhere so others could come and "gawk at it." "Art is for relaxing, it is a way to express yourself, yes, but more like capturing an image before you forget how beautiful or dark it is." When he talked he wouldn't look up from his easel so I was never sure how sincere he was being or if he said these sort of things hoping I would shut up and leave him be.
Until now. Scratching his ear with the end of his brush, old Jacque looked quizzically at me and spoke with unfamiliar curiousity, "so, who was that girl you thought was more important then your art lesson?"