Long time since posts to this blog.

When I started this blog five years ago it was to record my thoughts and memories and to try to sort out my life and record some of the people I've met and places I've been. I've been having such a good time since I moved to Georgia that I haven't done a very good job of writing it down but I have given it all a lot of thought.

The story about Arnold Masters has been posted for a very long time. I just reread it this evening and, crazy as it sounds, he was real and so were the events I described. But he isn't unique. Libraries and librarians seem to attract characters and their stories often do become known to the staff.

Tim comes to mind when I think back to the first few years I lived in Healdsburg, CA. Tim had a last name but I never knew it. He was an artist who worked in an old abandoned metal and wood quonset hut kind of building near the railroad tracks. I imagine he was in his late 40's or early 50's. He was a tall, sturdy man with wild dark hair and a short beard. He visited the library almost every day and was one of the happiest and most peaceful people I've ever known. He smelled of turpentine and paint and usually had remnants of his last artistic effort on his clothes and his hands and sometimes on his face. He always read the newspapers, checked out the new magazines and, on his way out, would stop by the reference desk to chat for awhile. We picked up bits and pieces of his life in those brief exchanges. We learned he had traveled and studied all over the world and particularly loved Italy and wanted to go back there someday. He said he'd managed to make his art his life's work and lived a spartan existence selling paintings and showing his works at various galleries in the area and, I think, in San Francisco. We also learned that he had some heart problems but only saw doctors when things got critical and that was usually through a visit to the ER. Didn't stifle his bubbly, positive outlook on life at all.



Tim knew that I was an artist in my spare time and often invited me over to see his work. One of the fellows I worked with encouraged me to take him up on his offer and I should have gone but I didn't. My reasons for not going had more to do with time pressures than any fear of Tim. He seemed harmless and gentle and eccentric but interesting. I was curious about his artwork and was just about ready to ask him for a tour of his studio when he announced one day that he had been offered an opportunity to go back to Italy and paint for awhile. He was glowing and excited. He had already packed up his studio and stored his work with a friend and was leaving the next day. He hoped to be able to stay for about a year but did plan to come back to Healdsburg and said he'd show me his paintings when he returned. I told him I looked forward to seeing his work and we all wished him well on his trip.

And that was that for a long time.

One day a man came over to the desk to ask for help finding a book. We found it and he remarked that his friend had been a regular at the library for years until he went back to Italy. I asked him if his friend was the artist who had painted in a hut by the railroad tracks and he said that he was. I asked how he was and he said he had had a wonderful six months in Italy painting and traveling and staying with people he'd known when he studied there many years before. I said that was great and, conversation over, we both turned to go. And then he added, "you did know he died, didn't you? His obituary was in the paper a while back".

"No", I said, " I'm pretty new to the area I never think to look at the obits. But what happened to him?

"In the middle of this wonderful adventure, he had a massive heart attack and died," he said.

"I'm so sorry" was all I could come up with.

"Tim knew his time was running out. He took that trip because he was pretty sure this might be his last chance to go back." he added.
We both decided that Tim had gotten it right. He did what he loved to do and ended up exactly where he wanted to be.

I really wish I'd gone to see his art work when I had the chance. I never found out what friend had it or what became of it. Missed opportunities...but, I learned a lot from that encounter with Tim. No, I was never courageous enough to try living off my artwork, but I do appreciate the pleasure I get from painting or weaving or spinning and I don't deny myself the opportunity to spend a day doing just that.

Tim died a pretty much unknown artist but that fact didn't diminish his enjoyment of the life he had chosen. Anyone who creates a work of art knows that the process is a personal one and the joy you feel from finishing that piece is yours and yours alone. If someone else sees it and loves it too, well, that's great, but, that doesn't add to or take away from the artist's personal experience at all.

What was that phrase...follow your bliss...something like that. Not bad words to live by.

The artwork is mine. My special place is the ocean.

If you like my work, prints can be purchased at Virginia McLaren Artist