The Painter

Many years ago I tried my hand at painting, like most people who start out my paintings weren't always good, and many of them were just plain bad, but of course they all looked good to me. I was one of the people in this world who can’t see anything bad in anything they paint, and unfortunately I had this weakness. It was perhaps an inability to judge rather than a high opinion of myself, in any case it felt good to draw hundreds of paintings almost as good as Vincent van Gough and a few even better than him. So I wanted to see the Director of one of the few companies that buy paintings. It was perfectly built building with several floors of Teak and it did not have an elevator but a finely built staircase. In every floor there were marble statues and paintings of every kind, oils, acrylics, water colors and drawings that took my breath away.

But there was also certain coldness, perhaps it was the air conditioning, but the receptionist was so distant that I felt she would have regarded me a little better if I had worn shoes and worn my best shirt. And the sales girl though friendly was nervous, and I wondered whether it was my overly enthusiastic way of speaking or whether she was looking over my shoulder to see if someone was coming. And strangely there were few people in the building but the people who worked there. Assertiveness is something I was practicing on then, and I wanted to give the impression I was important in case they take my position lightly, so in my best voice I asked the sales girl how many paintings they sold everyday. She thought about it for a minute and said “the question you must ask is how many paintings we sell a month”. The manager of the fifth floor a big middle aged man with a thick moustache spied on me, perhaps he was worried I would lift a painting, he walked up to me and was engaged in small talk, but lost all interest in me when he realized that what I really wanted to do was to sell rather than buy, and he walked away without a word.

But what really surprised me was the director, a women of such singular plainness that I wondered whether she was perhaps the head mistress of a leading girls school who was a near relative of the director, who was standing in because the director was ill. She considered the paintings poorly and at first rejected one of the paintings, and seemed to accept the other three. She considered again and rejected another, and a while later decided all four were not good. She said that compared to the paintings they had on display some by well known artists two of my paintings looked childish, and the other two looked like posters so the customers might think they are not genuine paintings. What I really wanted to ask her is which customers was she talking about for in the three hours I spent in the building I hadn’t seen any. Then she said “I could accept it but they would end up in a corner in this building and probably get lost”. And then she said in her perfect accent “If you come again make sure you make an appointment first.”  But what really blew the wind off my sails was as I was walking away the paintings tucked and heavy in my hands she asked in a very firm voice “weren’t you the one who called and complained about our water color paper.”

About three years earlier I did complain but I was impeccably polite and I did not know that she was the director. I went home disappointed and did not paint for another week, but then a strange thought came to my mind. What if the director was right, what if my paintings were really not good. And in any case assuming that she accepted it, and it was eventually sold to a customer (I get my 70 percent and the company gets 30 percent only if a customer buys it), I would make very little money on it because the materials used for fine art are very expensive, and in the island I live in few people would buy a painting and the few that do would pay very little for it.

I decided to paint something that would cost very little, but at the same time look as good as an expensive painting. I tried for a month but could not achieve it, but one day in a small shop I bought a pen, which was only as expensive as an ordinary ball point pen but the flow of ink was so fast that it could be used for quick drawings. I used this pen to draw on paper larger than the A4 size. I also developed a quick method of drawing which meant my output would be at least 5 drawings per day. My drawings resembled etchings and had a strange energy to them, and as far as I know I am the only person who uses this method of drawing.

When the director saw my drawings it only took her a few seconds to accept all ten. And a customer bought all ten the very next day. The drawings cost only a hundredth as much as my earlier paintings and I can draw fifteen times as many, and because it is so cheap almost everyone wants to buy. And the lesson I leant from it is “if at first you don’t succeed try again, but make sure you use a different method and also you never fail until you fail to try”

Written By: RJX