On Monday I got an e-mail from John Brosio, an old high school classmate of mine.   John is a professional artist and he emails me once a year or so, sending me updates of his work, and his work always reminds me of my favorite season. 

It’s the way he contrasts his foregrounds and backgrounds.  After a fall storm, when the sun breaks through the clouds and throws a building or tree into brilliant bright relief against a dark, threatening sky – it gives me a charge.  Always has. My senses come alive.  There’s an electricity in the air.  I think John captures this.

I asked what intrigued him about the pictorial theme of light/calm foreground and dark/menacing background, and he wrote back,

I can’t quite define what the dynamic in the paintings might be.  The foreground vs. background is a kind of intuitive thing.

I think.

Good enough.  Why should he know with certainty?  That’s not his job.  His job is to make paintings, not explain them.

Reminds me of something a psychoanalyst once told me.  A long time ago an agent read a script I wrote and asked me what the protagonist wanted.  I was a bit surprised, as he had just read the script, and I thought the answer to his question was absolutely obvious.  But since he asked, I answered.  I explained that the main character was “working his way out of an existential slump, wondering how to connect with people yet not wanting to risk the dangers of real intimacy.”  The agent stared back at me blankly and responded, “Right, sure, I get that, but what does he want?”

I was confused.

So I asked my former boss’ wife, a psychoanalyst, to read the script, and give me her take on what the character wanted for himself.  She stopped me right there.  She didn’t need to read the script.  She already knew the answer: “He wouldn’t know.  You can’t ask the patient to diagnose himself.  He simply acts.  He doesn’t know why.”

Ah.  I see.  Like John and tornadoes.

I presented this response to the agent, who said, “Oh, I totally agree, but what does he want?  Pussy?  Money?  The girl?  What’s the ticking clock?  Is he gonna be evicted from his apartment or something?”

I get it.  I do.  Battling a case of ennui is nowhere near as sexy and exciting as battling aliens, CIA snipers, or romantic rivals.

All this came back to me when I thought of John’s reply: his uncertain “I think.”  It’s not his job to know.  It’s his job to do. 

I’ve always admired and envied John.   Admired him for his talent – even if you don’t like the work, you have to admire his technical ability.  And envied him for the through-line of his passion.  He was born to paint.  That’s all he did.  In high school, math and English classes were a nuisance to him, something to get out of the way so he could pick up a brush.

Brosio self-portrait

I’m fascinated by people who are born with their calling stamped on their forehead.  It’d be like going down the cereal aisle at the supermarket and knowing, with absolute and total certainty, you were gonna get Frosted Flakes.  Every time.  No question about it.  Not even a sidelong glance at Sugar Corn Pops or Honey Bunches of Oats. 

Nope.  Frosted Flakes.  That’s it.  Done. 

Nice work, John, and happy fall everybody!