Sometime during the thirty-five years of my being an art instructor to adults, I became teacher, preacher, and psychologist to some of the one hundred and fifty or so individuals I worked with each week.
I did not ask to become a confidant or a keeper of their secrets. Sometimes the whole class was involved in helping to solve whatever problem was facing the artist who let out a deep sigh which indicated he or she needed advice or a shoulder to lean on or a heart to understand a misunderstanding. Sometimes the problem was only disclosed to me.
In our art classes, we learned more than how to mix colors and paint a canvas. And we shared a bond known only to those who do mix colors and paint a canvas. Those classes became a morning, afternoon, or evening session to look forward to that helped heal some wounds and forget others. They all learned to share.
I recall when the Executive Secretary learned that sharing lesson. She was a prim, standoffish woman who had an air of “better than all of you put together”.
Ever so often, a student would run out of paint and ask, ”Does anyone have a little Burnt Umber?” or whatever the color might be. Most often it was that great color Burnt Umber because we used a lot of that. And most often a fellow student would give an immediate response, “I have some!”
The Executive Secretary’s paints were lined up neatly at her place when I heard the Burnt Umber query. I felt her cringe when I picked up her tube and offered it with a,” Here’s some.” reply. I could feel a cold dagger thrust at me but it melted a few classes later when she needed a color and it was quickly given to her. I felt that icy dagger melt when I looked down and saw her sheepish smile.
And then there was Mrs. Gore, a little lady who was almost a student. She appeared in the basement of the Bardstown Road Presbyterian Church where I taught classes on Thursday afternoons.
She was highly upset because no one had called her and told her what to do. I tried to explain to her that I had just received a sheet with her name and telephone number on it a few moments before from Stan Esterle, head of Highlands Community Ministries that oversaw the program. The classes ran for seven weeks after which we would start a new session with me collecting a check the previous week from all of the seventeen or so regulars who kept taking the class. Stan would collect a check from new people who had signed up with him and exchange the checks which I had collected for a sheet with the names of the new people I should expect to be taking the class.
I had an orientation to keep new people occupied during the first day of their classes and our system worked very well until Mrs. Gore showed up in the basement. I apologized to her and she replied, “My name is Gore! Her shoulders went up and down with each letter of her name as she repeated,”G-O-R-E!”
Several students who had arrived for class looked at me wide-eyed as my apologetic words were ignored. We all watched her stomp out the door. Of all people who needed art class she was at the top of the list and I sometimes wonder what happened to her. I have a feeling she would have needed to have a Burnt Umber share lesson during her first week of classes because my name is Gerry. G-E-R-R-Y!
Some of my students are with me on FACEBOOK. I am glad to stay in their company and still hear about their families and their lives after our art adventures became pleasant memories and we are remaining friends forever after.