When I was a senior in high school, my classmates nominated me for two of what they then called “superlatives.” Rather than singling me out for something truly spectacular like Best-Looking or Most Likely to Succeed, they chose me as one of four candidates for Class Poet and Class Artist.
In all seriousness, those were both big in my world. My peers had known me as what they called a “good drawer” ever since primary school. However, as I progressed through high school, I had more interest in—and put much more energy into—poetry and songs.
In short, I felt I deserved the Class Poet superlative, but considered the other three nominees all better candidates for Class Artist.
And it worked out precisely that way: I won the Class Poet appellation but, much to my relief, not Class Artist. I should hasten to add that these superlatives applied to both male and female students. In other words, each gender had a Class Poet, Class Artist, and so on.
Dad & Bro
As time marched on, and I went to college and grad school to pursue studies in English lit and creative writing, my family dynamic changed. My brother, who taught himself to play guitar in high school, had been working on improving his skills. However, he also picked up some paint and brushes, and began to create oddly vivid canvases.
Meanwhile, our parents divorced when we were in our twenties, and my father moved across the country. Dad’s interest in the arts had always been negligible at best: to the best of my recollection, he’d never commented on anything I’d written or drawn, or anything my brother had painted or played, for that matter.
And yet—against all odds—Dad took up painting as a hobby in his 60s or maybe even 70s. He’s 90 now, so my math is a bit fuzzy.
It All Worked Out
Earlier this month, my wife Sunny and I visited my father in New Mexico. He’s in a skilled nursing facility, in the standard small room with a roommate on the other side of a curtain. On the wall facing his bed are several of his landscape paintings. He told us he’d given away between 50 and 100 others, as there simply wasn’t room for more than a few in his new residence.
And my brother? He still plays guitar, as far as I know. And, if I’m not mistaken, some of his paintings have graced the walls of at least one locale.
So I guess it all worked out: I’ll always be Class Poet, and even the poet of the family. But there’s no way I can ever insist on calling myself the family artist. And that’s okay by me.
