Teaser: What would you do to meet your favorite star and what would you give? Find out how one such encounter affected the fan.
Her painting took my breath away. Leaning against a chair in our hotel room, I couldn’t stop myself from moving closer and crouching before it; the scene drew me right in. The tall pine trees of a northern forest filtered the strong sunlight into dramatic streaks. The lush foliage covered most of the woodland floor, with a small path wandering its way into the horizon. Along the trail, ever so small and off-center, stood a lad looking up at the beam of light streaking down on top of him. For the simplicity of the composition, the message was quietly dramatic: spotlight.
I was overwhelmed by her labor. But the artist, Alice, was less sure.
“I hope he doesn’t just throw this in a closet or something,” her voice offered, not covering her uncertainty and fear. My lack of comprehension at her words must have done a Broadway musical number across my face because her own reaction indicated astonishment at my admiration. How could someone not love this picture?
But I could see, as I delved into my art history and rhetoric to break down on a fundamental level why the arrangement of the picture fit all the criteria of art, that my assurances of worth had no effect. She didn’t spend all those weeks struggling and praying to produce this masterpiece for my appreciation. Her motivations drove her to seek another’s approval.
“He’s given me such inspiration with his own talent that I just wanted to give something back.” A stay-at-home mom of two drove from New Hampshire to attend Shore Leave 24 in Baltimore to see her muse. “I mean, I haven’t painted in five years. But when I heard he was coming, I just got the books out and started looking for material.”
“I just hope he likes it.”
But the next day was filled with even more anxiety as instructions were given on the signature line: she would only have a scant few seconds while he signed whatever she had to sign. Because of the large number of fans and the convention personnel trying to satisfy as many of their customers as possible, the mandate came down that special exchanges with the star wouldn’t be allowed. A suggestion came, for any intimate messages: a note with your gift would probably be the best method for communication.
“How can I explain everything in a letter?” she fluttered, nervous and anxious. In her hand, she clutched tightly the handle to the shingle box. Inside, she carried her gallery for one showing and now she was being told she might never get her chance for an opening. “I mean, how fair is that?”
But later in the day, in passing, I spied her secluded on a stair, eating salad for lunch, with pen and paper on her lap. In my mind, I knew she struggled with the idea of bucking the system over composing a note. Having struggled with the painting alone seemed suffering enough; now to express her thoughts with words instead of paint did seem unfair.
I stood outside the Marriott in the late afternoon, smoking, grasping some much needed space and solitude from the crowds, when I encountered Alice again. Surprisingly, I felt as if I was meeting her for the first time. Gone was the self-doubt, slumped shoulders and nervous smile. She floated towards me on cloud nine with great exuberance. Instantly, I knew.
“I think he liked it,” she burst, face breaking from such a wide grin. Of course, I goaded her for the whole story. Even after taking much of the afternoon to compose her message on paper, she ended up bucking the system by showing her creation. “James Marsters just looked at it for the longest time. Everyone around him commented on it.”
I swear I could just feel the electric charge off of her.
“I don’t know who said what, but James turned to me and said, ‘She knows she’s good.’” Unable to contain my own smile at her tale, I noticed her eyes close with the memory as she became lost in the wash of accreditation. “I did ask him not to put it in a closet or something like that. He leaned over and told me that he could hang this one up because it wasn’t of him.”
The colors had changed in her world right then. I could see her outlook and perception changing. We spent the next few hours talking about art, being an artist, working your artistic routine into your daily life with kids and family, and how the need to express a message drives you. How getting a late start in life doesn’t invalidate your work or effort
And when we parted, I didn’t leave Alice the fan. I left Alice the painter, because “she knows she’s good.” Plus, I’m fortunate to say I shall be the recipient of her next great work. I’ll be picking out an appropriate frame shortly.
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