ABOUT THE ARTIST by Becky Hagenston
Thank you for purchasing “Pauline’s Eye,” an original pen and ink drawing by local Ohio artist Wendall Buford. Wendall is a modest man of many talents, who believes that the more extensive the painting vocabulary becomes, the better one is equipped to communicate with people of varying tastes and points of view. Especially people to whom one was once married.
“Pauline’s Eye” is very close to the artist’s heart, and demands careful scrutiny. While at first glance, “Eye” seems to be just that – the sketch of a lovely woman’s iris, glowing pupil, angry lashes – upon closer inspection, one can see there is much more to it. The lashes are, in fact, the fronds of palm trees on Pacific Beach, San Diego, where the artist and his wife spent their honeymoon – twenty-five years ago this March – after being married in the Tropicana, Las Vegas, which you can see if you take a magnifying glass to the soft flesh in the left corner of the eye. Can you see the chapel, and the hand-holding couple, and can you sense that outside, in the hot Las Vegas night, they will gamble and drink too much, and fight about her ex-husband Len, who wants her back so badly, and that then they will make love on the turquoise bedspread, not even bothering to turn down the sheets?
But back to the palm tree lashes. They look angry, don’t they? But there’s a warmth to them, too; they are soft from margaritas and sea air and love. Above them, heavy lids that are really – are you looking closely? – the hills that curved between Pauline’s house and the artist’s, when they were children in Ohio, not far from where you purchased this drawing. The swing set in the shadows – that’s not a wrinkle – is where they first met, when she was five and he was seven, and where they first fought and where he first knew he’d marry her.
Look closely in the dark pupil. See that flash of light? It is – go ahead, get out the magnifying glass again – the face of the artist, Wendall Buford, a man who has stared so hard into these eyes that he’s certain his image must be burned there. He’s not a handsome man anymore, and you can probably see the gray around his temples, and the wilt to his jowls, and the tear – yes, that’s a tear! – on his cheek, as he thinks about Pauline and wishes there was something he could do to make her at least come to see him, or bring him his mail, or tell him how their sheep dog Angelo is doing.
The artist wishes he could show you how green the iris is – not just green, but with flecks of gray and yellow and even orange, like a cat’s eye – but he can’t, because this drawing is in pen and ink, which is cheaper than oil and acrylic and even water color. Art supplies are expensive. It’s hard to make a living as an artist unless you have someone who believes in you and tells you that you have talent and that she loves you. It’s harder to get up in the morning when you don’t have that, and it’s harder to go to the local shops and convince them to buy your drawings. “Why don’t you draw covered bridges?” the shop owners ask you. “Or the Amish buggies? Why are all your pictures of this same woman?”
The artist has had trouble concentrating on covered bridges and Amish buggies. The artist feels very strongly about drawing pictures of the same woman, the woman with the angry, green and gray eyes that are swirling with the faces of the children she never had. That’s right, if you look very closely, you’ll see the children she wanted, and which the artist did not, the children with her smile and his nose. Two boys and two girls.
Now, look at the whites of the eye. Like eggs, aren’t they? But in shadow, because – although you can’t see it – the lighting for this picture was candlelight, the light (in the artist’s imagination, you see) that Pauline’s Italian-born Latin professor lover saw when he laid her down on his bed and took off her clothes and told her not to worry, he loved her even if her husband did not. But her husband did. He was at home, painting pictures of covered bridges and Amish barns, and he was glad she’d found a hobby, taking Latin, because she’d seemed so restless lately, so desperate for something. But he didn’t know what.
One more thing. In the far right corner of Pauline’s eye, you’ll see a door, because Pauline showed the artist the door, with no warning or compassion. Can you see the icicles on the frame? The holly wreath? Not a good time of year to find a new apartment, not in this part of Ohio, and not when you have to drive past the Amish farms and know that there are couples in there, simple and happy couples who have never been to the Tropicana or Palm Beach, and who make love by candlelight only to each other.
The artist realizes that if you have purchased this drawing, you have purchased it at the yard sale that Pauline has threatened to have so she can sell all of the artist’s things and start over fresh with her Latin professor lover. This was a gift to her, and the artist knows that if she has sold it, there is no hope, none at all, that she will ever come back to him, or even tell him what he did that drove her away.
The artist’s studio is open Mon–Fri from ten to four. Actually, it’s his apartment, and if you can’t make it between ten and four you can come by any time before or after that. Weekends are fine, too. Don’t worry about disturbing him. He hasn’t been working very much lately.
If the artist doesn’t answer the door, he’s just gone to the store for Ramen Noodles and Pop Tarts. Please wait in the stairwell. He’ll be back soon, and he’ll be so happy you came by.
Becky Hagenston’s collection of short stories, A Gram of Mars (Sarabande Books), won the Mary McCarthy Prize in Short Fiction. Her stories have appeared in Southern Review, TriQuarterly, Shenandoah, and Prize Stories: The O. Henry Awards.