| Author | Message | ||
  Lex |
Good story, Laura. I'm trying to resolve a current family conflict by moving my painting to an enclosed outside storage building. The house is big enough to accomodate one room as a studio, but I'm the only one who seems to think so. Like making sausage, everyone seems willing to share in the results but nobody except the sausagemaker wants to deal with the process. L The outside building will be intolerable in the Texas summer heat but a space heater can help me cope with our fairly mild winters. | ||
Laura36 |
I am one of seven children, and the first to go to college to get a bachelor's degree in fine art. My older sisters got out of high school and go married, had kids, got mediocre jobs. My brother went into the service. My younger sister went to technical school. My parents sold the house my father built, took some of the money from the sale to pay off my college loans. They lived in a trailer for a few years, hoping to build a dream house on the property and get rid of the trailer. My father sold that property because after a few years of reckless living I needed help again to raise my son. We all lived in a two-bedroom apartment, me with my college degree not able to find a job that paid well, and my father beginning to show signs of depression. I finally got back on my feet and got my own apartment, met my husband, got married, and now life is a definitely better. I look at what my family sacrificed for me, my sisters helping babysit, my mother babysitting while I worked, my father knowing I needed and wanted to pursue art, and I look at where I am now. I could not have done it on my own. I am painting nearly everyday, I have a huge studio to work in, I have a good job, good boss, and at least one of my sisters has gone to school later in life and is now a special education teacher. We're a family, and we not only support each other, we grow through hard times together. I really liked the story about Albrecht and his brother. Does it really matter if the lines are true, embellished or added to, the thought is, a great artist is only as great as the lives he has touched along the way. My art is not for me. If I look at my talent as my ability to produce what I want, then I have not become an artist, I've just become selfish. | ||
Cathy |
jj... Great story, I hadn't heard that before. Thanks for sharing. drollere, you better check your closet for a more inspiring story, already heard that one before (or did I see it on the news?). However, in all fairness greed visits all mankind, not just christians. Taking advantage, manipulation of others for gain is just plain wrong no matter what one's beliefs are. Don'tcha think? | ||
Lex |
If I were to relate the stories of my pursuit of the arts and the related family dynamics, well...I'd sound like an ingrate and a scoundrel. Better to remain quiet yet grateful for the help I've received. If anyone has personal experience with a family that actually was fully supportive of pursuing the arts, I'm always anxious to hear nice bedtime tales. | ||
drollere |
well, i do know the story about the kid from des moines who sat around all day making up bleary teary praise the lord stories for the hallelujah moment on those pass the cash christian cable channels. i think he got really rich on all the gullible gray rinse holy rollers and retired to the cayman islands. about the story, though, one question: how exactly is it that we know about those whispered discussions in the boys' crowded bed over 450 years ago, hm? did one of the boys write this story? or was it that guy from des moines, his ear pressed to the bedroom keyhole? | ||
jj |
It's kinda long but I thought you might all enjoy it... Praying Hands-- Back in the fifteenth century, in a tiny village near Nuremberg, lived a family with eighteen children. Eighteen! In order merely to keep food on the table for this mob, the father and head of the household, a goldsmith by profession, worked almost eighteen hours a day at his trade and any other paying chore he could find in the neighborhood. Despite their seemingly hopeless condition, two of the elder children, Albrecht and Albert, had a dream. They both wanted to pursue their talent for art, but they knew full well that their father would never be financially able to send either of them to Nuremberg to study at the Academy. After many long discussions at night in their crowded bed, the two boys finally worked out a pact. They would toss a coin. The loser would go down into the nearby mines and, with his earnings, support his brother while he attended the academy. Then, when that brother who won the toss completed his studies, in four years, he would support the other brother at the academy, either with sales of his artwork or, if necessary, also by laboring in the mines. They tossed a coin on a Sunday morning after church. Albrecht Durer won the toss and went off to Nuremberg. Albert went down into the dangerous mines and, for the next four years, financed his brother, whose work at the academy was almost an immediate sensation. Albrecht's etchings, his woodcuts, and his oils were far better than those of most of his professors, and by the time he graduated, he was beginning to earn considerable fees for his commissioned works. When the young artist returned to his village, the Durer family held a festive dinner on their lawn to celebrate Albrecht's triumphant homecoming. After a long and memorable meal, punctuated with music and laughter, Albrecht rose from his honored position at the head of the table to drink a toast to his beloved brother for the years of sacrifice that had enabled Albrecht to fulfill his ambition. His closing words were, "And now, Albert, blessed brother of mine, now it is your turn. Now you can go to Nuremberg to pursue your dream, and I will take care of you." All heads turned in eager expectation to the far end of the table where Albert sat, tears streaming down his pale face, shaking his lowered head from side to side while he sobbed and repeated, over and over, "No...no...no...no." Finally, Albert rose and wiped the tears from his cheeks. He glanced down the long table at the faces he loved, and then, holding his hands close to his right cheek, he said softly, "No, brother. I cannot go to Nuremberg. It is too late for me. Look, look what four years in the mines have done to my hands! The bones in every finger have been smashed at least once, and lately I have been suffering from arthritis so badly in my right hand that I cannot even hold a glass to return your toast, much less make delicate lines on parchment or canvas with a pen or a brush. No, my brother ... for me it is too late." More than 450 years have passed. By now, Albrecht Durer's hundreds of masterful portraits, pen and silver-point sketches, watercolors, charcoals, woodcuts, and copper engravings hang in every great museum in the world, but the odds are great that you, like most people, are familiar with only one of Albrecht Durer's works. More than merely being familiar with it, you very well may have a reproduction hanging in your home or office. One day, to pay homage to Albert for all that he had sacrificed, Albrecht Durer painstakingly drew his brother's abused hands with palms together and thin fingers stretched skyward. He called his powerful drawing simply "Hands," but the entire world almost immediately opened their hearts to his great masterpiece and renamed his tribute of love "The Praying Hands." The next time you see a copy of that touching creation, take a second look. Let it be your reminder, if you still need one, that no one----no one -- ever makes it alone! I came across this story and wanted to share it here. Does anyone else know of any artists life stories that are inspiring? |
