Mr. Black Died Six Days Ago

I was just thinking about him, just talking about him actually.  I think Hemingway got me thinking about Mr. Black.  Hemingway and Black don't have anything in common,  except maybe the white beard, but there was something someone said about Hemingway that got me thinking about Black.  I don't even remember what it was now.  I was also thinking about Black because I'm reading poetry and fiction more than usual, which over the last few years had been not at all.  It takes a long time for the rigors and mindsets of academia to leave the system.  

Mr. Black taught me about perspective, texture, Dadaism, that colored pencil drawings need to pop and for them to pop you have to put your back into it.  I made one of my favorite pen and ink drawings under his tutelage.  My mother had it framed and it's still hanging on the wall in their back hall.  Mr. Black was one of the old guard and he tended to intimidate most of the students who encountered him.  He still lived in the pre Post Modern world.  His style hearkened back to ads you see in Time Magazines from the 1950's.  He didn't get in on fads.  He rarely gave out A+'s.  He grunted if you had questions.  He positively yelled at those who wasted his time or, worse, were wasting theirs.  He was a grumpy second generation German-American.  He was so much more than that.

He told me I had potential.  I could really create some great things.  But.  But.  I was holding myself back.  I needed to give into the creative side more.  I was too concerned with structure and rules to really realize what I was capable of.  So, he lent me fiction.  It was fiction they didn't have in the school library.  Eduction at that school went only so far and would stop abruptly before it would offend any sensitivities.  I don't think you could even find Hemingway on those shelves.  The books he lent weren't very good by literature standards.  He knew that.  The school would not have been pleased he was loaning them out.  He knew that too.  The point of the books was for inspiration, a tap to access the right brain, to introduce a young artist's mind to images and worlds outside the strict Doric boundaries of a private, religious education system.

Mr. Black was an ally in a soulless place.  He knew the darkness inside those of us who inhabited that school on the fringes.  In his own gruff way he taught some of us that contrary to what we're learning in the other 90 minute sessions, a little darkness is just fine.  They kept him up on the second floor in the back corner where they thought he couldn't cause too much trouble.  He still did, quietly under the radar.  In a realm of black and white rules, with a Victorian sense of morality laced with hypocrisy, with a collective soul as dark and putrid as the world that it judges, there was an art teacher who kept generations of outcasts, teen philosophers, dreamers, and timid artists sane.   He died six days ago.  He lives in countless doodles, sketches, water colors, sculptures, screen prints, oil paintings, and photos created by those generations.