Artists Only

I have learned, over time, to show up to my younger brother's art shows with a good deal of humility. Back when I was publishing my own picture-story books in fourth grade, he was the one who was chasing after me with his magnum opus, "How Did The Red Baron Die." While I was the toast of the fifth and sixth grade editorial cartoon circuit, he gripped his pencil tighter and waited for his time. While we painted our plywood bunks outside our mountain cabin, he nearly gave up out of sheer frustration.
That was back when I was going to be the artist. He was going to be a stockbroker. Or a secret agent. Or something that involved making and spending lots of money. Neither one of us found a career in finance, but he is the one who found his muse and stuck with it. Last night at the opening of his show at the Transview Gallery in Alameda, I marveled once again at his ability to produce unique and colorful works of art. This time: interpretations of frames from romance comics, painted with enamel model paints on found scraps of wood and metal. They hung next to our friends careful collages, culled from the same publications, and the show became like one great, vibrant graphic novel. Tears were shed. Hearts were broken. All in vibrant shades brought to us via bottles of Testor's.
And suddenly I could feel the release of all that frustration, real or imagined on my part. This was my brother. The one who slept one bunk over from me in the loft at our cabin. The one who got to read those same comics as soon as I was finished with them. The one who drew on as many placemats and napkins as I did when I was on track to become a studio art major. After I failed a basic drawing class, I switched majors. It's not that I couldn't draw, I just stopped going because I didn't want anybody to tell me how to do it.
Not my little brother. He's been studying. And practicing. And getting better and better. He is a creative force, and not just when he's doing vocals when we play Guitar Hero together. He sees the world differently than the rest of us, and he's willing to share it. I've got no real shame. When I draw a shoe, it looks like a shoe, and that's fine. What my brother's got is different. When he paints a man's face being slapped, it's like a whole episode of "Mad Men." When he blows up that look of fear, you want to know the rest of the story. And finally, it's not humility that I feel but pride. The artist is my brother.