What can YOU say in six sentences?
Twenty years have passed since I sat in an old truck, listening to the man behind the wheel explain what it’s like to have an artist’s sight.
The driver who so desperately wanted me to see through his Mr. Magoo eyeglasses was Ney Park (now deceased), about whom I was to write a newspaper story.
Ney steered onto the country road’s overgrown shoulder, parked, retrieved his pad and the old metal tackle box full of watercolors, and then asked me to look at an overgrown field.
“What do you see?” he asked, knowing full well I was going to rattle off grass, trees, an old fence, and maybe, if I had any adjective sense, throw in the word brown, which I did.
“Do you not see the purple in that dead grass, or how the sun sets fire to the western edge?” he responded, dipping his brush in spit and then applying layers of color I’d failed to notice.
Squinting hard, I looked from field to pad, and then I understood what separates an artist from a kid with crayons, a writer from a hack, and a cordon bleu from a Boyardee.
*Inspired by Angela