Monochromatic

“You have a very good gray going on.” That’s what my teacher at the YMCA, Mr. Newton, told me in my “Painting the Human Form” art class yesterday after taking a cursory glance at my work. “Going on” is the way he ends all his observations of my classmate’s paintings: “You have a really good composition going on.” “You have a really good likeness going on.” “You have a really good aura of your sitter going on.” His comments are always complimentary, so I suppose I should’ve taken “You have a really good gray going on” as the compliment I believe he intended it to be.

But the more I thought about his comment through a restless night of insomnia, the more I began to question his intentions. Is the word “gray” ever really a compliment? A quick Google search at 2:30 a.m. provided me with these OED definitions of the word “gray” (or “grey” with an “e,” as the Brits spell it):

• “Designating the colour of lead; an overcast sky, with little or no positive hue”
• “Of a person’s face or complexion: pallid through tiredness, illness, or old age”
• “Designating dull or cold light”
• “Lacking hope, pleasure, or cheerfulness; dismal, gloomy; sad, depressing”
• “Lacking individuality, nondescript, boring, anonymous, faceless”
• “The quality of being ambiguous, ill-defined”
• “Dullness; uneventfulness; absence of hope, pleasure, or excitement”
• “A boringly conventional or conformist person”

Is it any wonder that I couldn’t fall asleep after reading all that? Was Mr. Newton trying to tell me something more with his comment?

I’ve never felt the need to stand out in a crowd, even though I often do. I’m not saying that I’m a wallflower. I was, after all, the head bank teller at Main Street Savings and Loan for thirty years, so everyone in town knows who I am. I’ve always believed that my perceived compassion for my fellow human beings—not to mention a keen wit that comes from years of reading all the great works of literature—has gone a long way toward making me memorable. I’ve always thought of myself as the most eligible bachelor in town, despite the fact that I’ve never felt the desire or compulsion to marry anyone. All of the waiters, waitresses, and bartenders in town know me and my usual orders, so I never have to look at a menu or wait for a pint of Newcastle to be pulled when I’m by myself or on a date. And even though I retired six months ago, I make sure to “put myself out there” by gabbing with all the stay-at-home mothers and fathers who take their toddlers to play in the Park of Roses every morning, before I amble down to Main Street to keep in touch with all the shop owners. And on top of all that, I’ve always taken classes at the Y to better myself, like ““Bettering Yourself Through Haiku,” “Collage Art: Making Order out of Chaos,” and “Bonsai: The Power of Small.” So, last month when I saw that the Y was offering a painting class, I signed up immediately.

Ever since I took my first art class in high school nearly fifty years ago, I’ve always wanted to be a painter. The method of taking something as unformed and pristine as a blank canvas and turning it into a mountain, or—even more remarkably—a person, is, I believe, as close as a human being can get to becoming a god. But Mrs. Arcolino, my art teacher back then, told me that I had the unique ability to blend my paints into a kind of khaki that turned everything I painted into a swampy mess. So, I packed away my brushes and paints and gave my life to my part-time job at the bank, which eventually turned into a very successful career.

When I saw the opportunity to take a painting class again, however, the little cinder that I thought had been extinguished so long ago began to faintly glow once again. And now, after six weeks, I’ve painted a cornucopia of nudes: one of the grizzled old man who works the same corner of Main and Vine every day to fill his coffee can with loose change; one of the flabby female pharmacist who models on the side to make ends meet; one of the body-builder who frequents the Y twice a day to sculpt and show off his rigid physique; one of the body-builder’s body-building bottle-blonde girlfriend who is just as eager to share her body with the world; one of the morbidly obese 30-something videogame store clerk who was reluctant to shed his triple XL Walter Sobchak Big Lebowski t-shirt; and one of Mrs. Arcolino, now a nonagenarian who is still willing to give everything she has to art. All of these sitters sat against the same off-white background beneath the pallid glow of LED lights. We were told not to talk to them. We were told to paint what we saw and nothing more. And that is exactly what I did. Every time.

So now, after Mr. Newton’s comment and the results of my research into the word “gray,” I’m left to wonder if it’s possible that I really just live in a monochromatic, godless world. I worry that when I wipe the steam away and look into the bathroom mirror before I head off to class, I won’t see the face of the person who believes his blood runs just a shade brighter red than everyone else’s. Or the face of the person who would be more than willing to spill every drop of his blood onto a blank canvas if it guaranteed his transubstantiation. Or the face of the god with flowing, pure white-light hair I know I can become by continually making myself better than everyone else. But worst of all, I worry that the face that stares back at me—indistinct and expressionless—will simply shake his head and look away.