November
Earlier that day Garbo the painter sat down at his computer and wrote a note to his children. The words shaped the moment and the feeling:
Sometimes when I break for coffee
And glancing up, notice
That what I just painted is well crafted
And the Bach lays over me like the perfume of perfection
And the sun streams through the trees
And my knees no longer hurt
And my children are all healthy
And their children too
I think to myself....
This is heaven
How can it not always be so?
As a young man Garbo led a rather rakish life in pursuit of being an artist. In spite of his proclivity for over indulgence he managed a modest career without compromise. Loving painting with a deep passion gave him, he thought, the right to pursue all of its manifestations as a Casanova pursues all women. Talent was always there and hard work came without procrastination. Self-sacrifice could without regret put him in the most unappealing living situations as long as the work progressed.
His inquiry led him to change stylistically every couple of years Galleries that once embraced him, flung him out the door upon seeing a new “image”. Momentum, career-wise, floundered and Garbo would be forced to start over. “Hello, my name is Garbo would you be kind enough to review my slides?”
Yet through the years, the marriages, the children, and the ups and downs of excess, Garbo remained optimistic despite an arthritic condition that curtailed his once vigorous jitterbug. Vestiges of a reputation remained so that occasional sales allowed a modest life style. And he painted without pause.
Now approaching 80 the old man had but one question: “What will happen to all these paintings?” Now approaching 80 there was but one answer: “It doesn’t matter.”
What mattered was that it was November and as every year his children and their children would come to his studio for Thanksgiving and he would cook and they would say “ It always smells so good in here”
