Writers-and-Artists

The jester came alive, and my grandfather did too In Memoriam. Angelo Salvatore D’Amico, 1919–1989. That was what I wrote, at the bottom of the painting, in felt-tip pen. That isn’t the beginning of this story. It’s the end. This story starts a month earlier. It starts in the library. That’s a room in our house—the library. Right next to my bedroom, across the hall. It’s filled head to toe with books upon books, stories upon stories. In one corner is a tall fireplace, near the couch and the faded leather armchair. On the mantle are Halloween pictures of me: kindergarten, third grade, fourth grade, sixth grade. On a different shelf are old black-and-white photographs, grainy and lovely, of my mother’s parents. My mother and I were sitting on the rug, flipping through black portfolios she had put together of my paintings and sketches. She was proud of her work. I was proud of her work. “See, Emma?” she said. “I’ve put all your drawings in these plastic covers, so they don’t get faded. Look—there’s that watercolor you did of the girl and the calla lilies.” “Thanks,” I said. “You did a really nice job with these portfolios. Why is this one backed with newspaper?” “I don’t know,” she said, shrugging. She flipped the portfolio page. “That’s amazing! Who drew that?” She had flipped to a breathtaking charcoal sketch on yellowed old paper. It showed a dark, meticulously drawn little house teetering on a cliff above a lake. The drawing was gorgeous. “My dad made it,” she said wistfully. “You remember I told you he loved drawing?” “He was very skilled,” I said. “Yes, well,” she said sadly, “he never got to use his skills.” “Why not?” I asked, although I half knew the answer. “He had to work all the time to support our family. He never had time to be an artist.” I flipped the page. It was a portrait of a man, his sculptured face dark and brooding. His long hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and he wore a fancy coat with tails and a ruffled cravat. I didn’t like this drawing as much as I liked the first drawing. On the next page was a third drawing, and this was the most captivating of them all. It was a black-and-white charcoal portrait of a court jester. His face was spread in mischievous delight, his snub nose upturned. In his right hand, he held a staff with a toy face on top, almost a mirror of his own. He wore a voluptuous coat and pants, decorated with thin outlines of birds and stars, moons and tiny trees. The detail on the coat seemed unfinished, as did his left hand. The hand was a mere outline, pale and ghostly. My mother and I stared at the picture. “I never realized he didn’t finish this picture. Look at the left hand and the coat. I think he was drawing this right before he died.” “It’s beautiful,” I said. “My paintings pale in comparison.” “No, they don’t,” she said seriously. “You’re already a better artist than he was.” “Do you think he would be proud of me?” I said, smiling slightly. “Yes,” she said. “He would be extraordinarily proud of you.” “Would he help me with my art?” “Yes. I don’t think you need it, though.” We sat there for a long time. “He was a good man,” she said, tears brimming in her eyes. *          *          * My grandfather died a long time ago, when my mother was eighteen. On our mantle, right there in the library, is my mother’s favorite photograph of him. He’s smiling from ear to ear, wearing his Navy-issue baseball jersey and throwing his glove into the air after his team’s victory. Even though the photograph had been taken during his service in World War II, his face is nothing but pure joy. So he played baseball. He drew. And I wish I had known him. *          *          * Two days later, I took the court jester out of the portfolio. I brought him over to my drawing table, cleared a place of honor for the drawing among my desk clutter, sketches, and art supplies. I tore a sheet of paper from my watercolor pad, got out my best mechanical pencil, and began to draw. I stared at my grandfather’s court jester and copied him carefully. I refined the lines, finished his left hand and drew in the details on his coat, carefully penciled in tiny stars and birds and trees. I inked it in. I did this all in secret, when my parents weren’t watching. I didn’t want them to know. This was between me and my grandfather. Then I painted it. In watercolors, because they were my favorite medium, rich and versatile. The jester came alive, and my grandfather did too. My grandfather came alive through my pencil, my pen, my paintbrush. He smiled out through the court jester’s lips. I stood back and stared at my grandfather’s jester, my jester. It had been a month since I first saw the sketch. Homework and school and life had crowded out the jester, but whenever I had a moment I inked a little here, painted a little there. Now it was finished, and it was beautiful. No—not quite finished. Not yet. “Mama, what was your dad’s name?” I called out. “Angelo. Why?” she yelled back, sounding puzzled. “Just wondering!” I said. I pulled out a felt-tip pen and wrote my In Memoriam at the bottom of the painting. “There,” I said. “Now it’s finished.” Then I went out and played baseball. I threw much better than usual. I think my grandfather was throwing through me. Emma T. Capps, 12San Carlos, California

Ophelia was born to write Ophelia crumpled up yet another piece of notebook paper and threw it in the general direction of the garbage can. It missed by roughly five feet. Ophelia shrugged. Her cat, Butterbell, would find it eventually and hopefully also find a use for it. She focused her attention back on her notebook. It had started out with a hundred pages. It now had maybe thirty-six. She’d tried out almost every genre she knew of: sci-fi, historical fiction, tragedies, comedies, biographies, fantasy, comic strips and even realistic fiction, which she already knew she couldn’t write. Ophelia glanced up at the clock: 5:54. She would have to leave for school soon. Oh well. She’d write more during math. The teacher wouldn’t notice. She never did. Ophelia was born to write. She had been named after a character in one of William Shakespeare’s great creations, though there were so many she didn’t know which one. She had always loved to write, though she hadn’t known that until who-knows-when. She loved to create characters and put them in strange, wonderful yet difficult positions, then save them at the very last minute. Lately, though, it had gotten harder. Maybe it always got harder to imagine when you got older. Either way, Ophelia spent every moment she could with a pencil and paper, or on the computer with Microsoft Word. Her ideas flew off the pages and came to life in front of her eyes. Even during math, when she wrote on scraps of paper with pencil stubs, or at least on her math paper. And fantasy was her favorite genre. And al- ways would be. Maybe. “Ahem,” said Mrs. Pickle, the math teacher. “Now class, we will start with Parrrrtial prrrrroducts.” She always spoke like that. Don’t pay any attention to it. Ophelia smiled. A long lecture that made no sense. Perfect writing conditions. She rummaged around in her desk for any scrap of paper and anything that would make any sort of mark on that paper. She emerged with an old candy wrapper and a crayon. Marvelous, as the characters in old cartoons would say. Simply marvelous. By the end of math, Ophelia had filled the entire candy wrapper with miniscule writing and tucked it in the plastic container with the Little Mermaid on it, along with all the other old candy wrappers in it. She had started another story and given up on it. On each wrapper was a different story, and none of them were finished. Not one. There were stories about squirrels battling evil crows and owls, stories of a kingdom with an evil sorcerer intent on destroying all traces of good in the world. The latest one was about a girl with a very long name. Misericordia Caterina… no, Esperanza Caterina Cassandra Monica… no, Alexia… well, never mind, you get the point. Half the wrapper was covered in that girl’s name. Ophelia almost wished she had a name like that. But she figured it was close enough, because everyone called the girl Juliet, who was a character in another one of Shakespeare’s plays. Right? At recess, Ophelia explained her writing predicament to her best friend, Harry. He just laughed. “Just don’t think about it,” he advised her. “If you don’t think about it, you’ll come up with something.” Ophelia puffed out her cheeks. “I thought about that. The problem is, I can’t not think about something if I’m trying not to think about it, can I?” Harry half smiled. “You’d be surprised,” he said, and the bell rang. P.E. was after recess. “No hope for writing through that,” Harry commented. “Obviously,” replied Ophelia, then, “but why don’t you try it?” Harry half laughed. “Only someone stupid would not pay attention in front of Meatloaf.” Meatloaf, the P.E. teacher, was actually Mr. Metloff, but he was so large that even he called himself Meatloaf. “ ’EY!” said Meatloaf. “You. Yes, you! Geddup here.” T.D. Roosevelt stumbled slightly as his cousin Maria pushed him out of line. “Yyeah?” he murmured hesitantly. “Don’t y- yeah me!” bellowed Meatloaf. “One-fifty, now! NOW!” T.D. dropped to the ground for his 150 push-ups. “Now,” said Meatloaf menacingly, “who’s up next?” Everyone backed away. Next was writing. The woman who taught it had previously been a counselor but had been fired because all the students had been afraid of her. And for a good reason, too. “Now children,” she said in a dreamy voice, “every great artist starts at the seed, as does every tree.” Everyone had become extremely interested in either the ceiling or their desks, hoping they wouldn’t be called on to read aloud their homework, as none of them had done it. “Every one of you,” the teacher continued, “will become someone great.” Ophelia looked up. Maybe the teacher was crazy. Well, there was no doubt about that, but crazier than usual. “Each and every one of you. Whether you become an accountant or the president of the United States, each of you will be great in your own, individual ways.” After that, the speech droned on. Something about how important exclamation points were. “Pretty crazy lesson, huh?” said Harry after class. “Yeah,” said Ophelia. But really she was wondering about what the writing teacher had said. Every one of you will be great in your own, individual way. Every great artist starts at the seed. Immediately she was filled with that kind of feeling you get when you want to do something you would never do if you were thinking straight. She decided on the spot that she was going to give realistic fiction one more try. The little voice in her head decided not to comment on the fact that she’d only given it one try in the first place. She turned to the next blank and third-to-last page in her notebook. She set her pencil on the paper and tried to think of something to write. Her mind, as one’s mind usually is when you pick