The solitary artist

I don't even remember his name. But he was a significant influence on me in the very early years of my writing career.

It was the year I'd dropped out of grad school. I finally was beginning to publish in literary magazines and sell a few freelance journalism pieces. I could call myself a writer. I met him at The Ship Tavern, in Multnomah Village, which still exists.

Reminds me of my friend's work

He was an artist, a painter. In time he invited me to his studio, a shack behind his house in Multnomah. He was in his 70s and in that time had painted a huge number of canvases, stored chaotically in the large shack. All western scenes. Cowboys, roundups, gun fights, bar brawls. I loved his work. He sold very few pieces, he told me. He'd made his living, such as it was, as a car mechanic. He'd inherited the house and built the shack, the studio, himself. He still painted every day. He couldn't remember the last painting he'd sold ... maybe 20 years ago, he said. To a friend. He thought the friend felt sorry for him but he sold it anyway. He needed the money.

The impression this artist made on me, a young writer, was that commercial failure had nothing to do with personal success. The artist felt damn lucky! He'd arranged his life so he could paint every day! What the hell else was he supposed to do? He told me he was the most successful man he knew. He lived his life his way. He was a free man, an artist.

This was in 1968. I can still picture his work and see him in my mind's eye. I wish I could remember his name.