Thursday, June 28, 2012

Match Race


“The straight sprints raced in heats or in match races where the two riders would balance for long seconds on their machines for the advantage of making the other rider take the lead and then the slow circling and the final plunge into the driving purity of speed.” –Ernest Hemingway*

Because life intended it this way, George Rodrigue and I are with characters in Houston, Texas for the summer.  One couple, Janice and Tom "Slim" Gray, pigeon racers, formerly horse racers, formerly rooster fighters, formerly dairy farmers, join us on Mondays for the baseball cap and banana bread swap.  We women nod “Mornin’” while the men forego the salutations in favor of the point:

“Years ago, when I was smokin’ and drinkin’ and runnin’ with wild women…”

…offers Slim, beginning the politically incorrect exchanges that flow naturally from a Cajun and a Cowboy trapped in a storytelling match race every week for six hours in a sterilized room.

“Call it like it is, Wendy,” says George as I read him this opening.  “A Coonass and a Horse’s Ass.  It was the cowboys that named us Coonasses; so we returned the favor.”


(pictured, Horse Race, 1973, oil on canvas by George Rodrigue; click photo to enlarge-)

For me, the days are full of firsts: 

…the first time I’ve heard of rice, when added to gumbo, called ‘ice cream;’ the first time I’ve heard a heated defense for electing convicted felons to public office; the first time, since my Papa Mac, who died in 1972, that I’ve heard the word “dago” in casual conversation.  

He kinda looks like Hank Williams, I whispered to George on the day we spied Slim.  We eavesdropped as he spoke to his wife,

“Is it next week we’ll be in New Iberia with those dagos?” he asked, as she shushed him and crawled under her chair.

I glanced at Janice with sympathy while George, hearing his hometown, jumped in.

“You’re going to New Iberia?”

They continued from one subject to the next across the room.

“You remember Moon Mullican?” called George.  “You know they say he wrote 'Jambalaya'.”

          “We got an ol’ boy in Alvin (Texas) plays 'Jambalaya' on the squeeze box,” replied Slim.   
          “Ya' know, Nolan Ryan’s from Alvin,” he continued.


(pictured, Racing at Broussard Farm (Match Race), 1982, oil on canvas by George Rodrigue; click photo to enlarge-)

It was also the first time I’ve heard of a match race outside of George Rodrigue’s 1982 painting (above) and, ironically, an offhand reference within Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast, which I finished, also this week, as the geriatric crowd slept.

It was Slim’s recollection of a match race, in fact, which gave me the idea for this story.

What’s a match race? I whispered to George.

“All of my paintings of horses running are of match races,” he explained, shaking his head, where has she been?  “Cajuns race quarter horses, matching one horse and one jockey against the other. 
“Many are ‘claiming races’ – you win the race, you win the other horse.   I saw them first as a kid at the track in Abbeville, and when I started painting horses, I went back to the races again.”


(pictured, A Horse Named Black Oaks, 1976, oil on canvas by George Rodrigue; click photo to enlarge)

“It was a lot like the cock fights, betting against someone else’s horse or rooster. 
“A lot of inside bettin’ on that….,” he continued.

          “I fought roosters,” interjected Slim.

“You ever shoot skeet?” asked George.

          “Yup, but we use live pigeons.”

In this weekly match race, George started on one side of the room and Slim on the other.  The first day they flung friendly obscenities.  The second day they sat two chairs closer; and by day three they sat side-by-side, exchanging thoughts on today as though they were days gone by.  In between lab runs and lunch orders, Janice and I occasionally get in a word.

You’re laying black top in Breaux Bridge, Louisiana? I asked Janice, knowing George was just as curious after over-hearing her phone conversation about work in the Crawfish Capitol.

“Yeah, but I’m having trouble getting my delivery.  I may have to do it myself.”

You’re a true modern woman, I commented, genuinely impressed. When I was a young girl we all aspired to be First Lady.  It never occurred to us to shoot for the top job.

“When I was a girl,” countered Janice, “we all aspired to wear an apron and raise kids.  That was the top job.”

George and I discussed our recent passion for 1960s Columbo, before Slim and Janice trumped us with The Waltons.


(pictured, At the Carencro Racetrack, 1980, oil on canvas by George Rodrigue; click photo to enlarge-)

Tell them about the preacher, I urged George. 

“Years ago,” he began, “as I passed through Alexandria, a preacher and his wife approached me in the parking lot of Landry’s Restaurant for a Jolie Blonde print.  The preacher peeled $25,000 in one hundred dollar bills from his pocket, and they bought five paintings and a bronze from the trunk of my Lincoln Continental.  I threw in the print,” he laughed,  “lagniappe."*
“’Everybody thinks we live with hardly nothin’ in our shotgun house,’ explained the preacher’s wife.  ‘But we sure like our art!’”

With an unprecedented and unexpected pocketful of cash, George continued his drive from Alexandria to Shreveport, where he delivered paintings to a collector, who invited him to the Louisiana Downs Racetrack.  There they joined Racing Commissioner Gus Mijalis in his suite, and in less than an hour, betting with the rowdy bunch, George lost $22,000.  


(pictured, One Too Many Aces, 1987/2010, oil and acrylic on canvas by George Rodrigue; click photo to enlarge-)

Dejected, he moved to the bar, where he struck up a conversation with a small man hunched over a racing form.

“Got any winners?” asked George.

          “I got ‘em all,” mumbled the bookie through his cigar, sharing a glimpse of his form.

“I just need two,” said George, holding up his fingers.

Betting his last $3,000, he walked away with $23,000 and a lesson.

“I haven’t bet on the ponies since,” he says..

...and that's true, as I recall him playing the slots last time we joined friends at the track.

We all laughed, and Slim and George continued their colorful exchange, one-upping each other, pulling stories from memory in anticipation of this weekly match race.  As Janice returned to her black top negotiations, I opened my book:

“For a long time,” wrote Hemingway, “it was enough just…to bet on our own life and work, and on the painters that you knew and not try to make your living gambling and call it by some other name.”*

Wendy

Note: This essay was revised and updated 8/20/13 to reflect the version appearing in the book, The Other Side of the Painting (UL Press, Oct. 2013),  including, at their request, Janice and Tom Gray's real names- 

Pictured, Janice and Tom Gray with George Rodrigue, June 2013, Houston, Texas-




*Ernest Hemingway. A Moveable Feast, Scribner, New York, 1964

*the word ‘lagniappe’ is a Cajun term meaning “a little something extra”

-note: if you’re offended by this post, you’ll find me “hiding behind displays in the supermarket” with author Patty Friedmann-

-also this week, George Rodrigue’s portrait of Clifton Chenier in my latest story for Gambit Weekly, linked here-

-for more art and discussion, please join me on facebook-


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Thursday, June 21, 2012

Summer Distractions


“I know what your problem is, Wendy,” noted Heather, as she endured, as sisters do, my somewhat minor, but nevertheless ridiculous, breakdown over exceedingly minor things.

A whiny, determined adolescent wins out occasionally, lurking, pouting, and stewing within my, one-would-hope, adult mind over dumb stuff.

I am not exchanging a three-year old print purchase for the same print sporting this guy’s new lucky number!  Doesn’t my ‘anonymous’ cyber stalker know that she can’t hide from my stat counter? Where the heck is Downton Abbey, Season 2 on Netflix?

“You’re bored,” continued Heather, squeezing in a word.

It’s not boredom, I’ve decided, but it is a state of mind.  This summer the bigger issues overwhelm my conscience to such a degree that I shove them back, unwilling to face them twenty-four hours a day, filling my mind instead with folly. 

George Rodrigue, as far as I know, has never done this.  While I worry about explaining the paint splatters on our hotel room coffee table, he ponders, so I thought, the colossal quagmire, the very real situation that landed us in Houston for the next several months.  And yet, he counters...

"My concerns are primarily art concerns.  The Blue Dog never really stops talking to me."


Recently, for both our sakes, I pull a subject from the air, as we sit lost without Maggie Smith, looking through hundreds of paintings and letters from children at Liza Jackson Preparatory School from my hometown of Fort Walton Beach, Florida.

Did you ever have a pen pal?

“Of course, everybody did,” George shrugged; “it was the thing.  Somebody told my mama that her son dropped his pen pal, and so I took him up.  He was Turkish, and I could hardly read his writing.  Mostly we sent postcards.”

Did you want to go to Turkey?

“I had no idea what a Turkey was; nor did I really think about it.”


(artwork by George Rodrigue, 2nd grade; related story here-)

I tried again.

Doesn’t sound like much fun.

“No, it wasn’t fun!”

And finally, he started….

“I was interested in airplanes.  I wanted to be a pilot (note:  news to me-).  And I liked buying airplane books--- military, jet fighters, commercial, all kinds.   I wrote to airplane companies- Lockheed, Boeing and others, requesting photographs of planes.  They sent me beautiful 8x10 images.”


(pictured, The Wild Blue Yonder, 2000, part of the Xerox Collection)

“I worked on an airplane scrapbook.  It’s still in my attic studio on St. Peter’s Street. 
“The pictures were better than in the magazines, and it was free, just like the internet!  It was much more exciting than a Turkish pen pal.”

Distracted at last, George remained lost in the 5th grade, 1954, doodling airplanes as I continued reading get-well letters, 2012.

I like his diversions far better than mine, I thought, recalling my earlier complaints to my sister.  I focused on the hand-made cards.

“When you paint,” reads one, “take a sip of water after every stroke.”



“Use Band-aids and eat soup (or, rather, 'soop'),” suggest others.

At last, refocused, I dropped the petty worry, apologized to my husband and sister, and recalled the important things in life.



Wendy

-with sincere thanks to the children of Liza Jackson Preparatory School, who cheered our windowsills and our moods with their heartfelt words and paintings; we loved meeting you at your school last fall with the George Rodrigue Foundation of the Arts and the Mattie Kelly Arts Foundation; and we will see you again-


-also this week, I hope you enjoy “What is a Photograph?” my latest story for Gambit Weekly, featuring a classic Rodrigue Cajun painting and an outstanding summer exhibition at the New Orleans Museum of Art-

-for more art and discussion, please join me on facebook-


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Thursday, June 14, 2012

Happy Father's Day, George!


I’ve written before about brothers André and Jacques Rodrigue.  George painted his boys many times, and the paintings, including Kiss Me I’m Cajun with André and Paint Me Back Into Your Life with Jacques, are classics among his oeuvre

(For a look at those iconic works, along with a collection of family photographs, see the story, “André and Jacques:  The Rodrigue Brothers.”)

However, for this post, in celebration of Father’s Day, I asked George Rodrigue’s sons about their dad.

 “My dad is one of the most interesting cats I’ve ever known,” says André Rodrigue, age 37, “and I intend that statement as objectively as possible.”


(pictured, Three Amigos, part of the George Rodrigue Foundation of the Arts’ Print Donation Program, raising funds for other non-profits, and spearheaded by GRFA’s Executive Director Jacques Rodrigue; ...note:  it is so like André to refer to the Blue Dog Man as a cat- )

“My interest in so many things is because of his interest in so many things,” continues André, a lifetime scholar of history and science.  “When I was ten, he handed me a Stephen Hawking book and said, ‘Here, read this.’”

I asked George for a memory, and he laughed.

“André was smart even as a baby.  I remember years ago when a dinner guest, a university professor, challenged him, 
            ‘André, what will happen to the earth when the sun burns out?’ 
“My intense son, age four, replied, 
            ‘By that time scientists will know how to move the earth, and we’ll be saved.'"

(pictured, André and George recently at the Mission San Juan Bautista near George’s California studio)


Jacques’s broader interests developed later.  Whereas a young André and his dad discussed space travel and politics, Jacques and his dad shared the lighter side.

“As a kid I hung out in his studio late at night,” says Jacques, “and we played pool when he paused at painting.  Sometimes he set me up with paints and a canvas.  I worked alongside him while we watched Johnny Carson and David Letterman.”


“They were completely different as kids,” explains George, “and they were seven years apart, so they rarely wanted the same toy. 
“One time in the car, André read while Jacques, wanting his brother’s book, threw a tantrum.  I told an irritated André to share the book, hoping to quiet his three-year old brother.  Jacques opened the book, looked at André and asked, verbatim...
‘How you read?’”


(pictured, André, Brandon Poirot, George, Jacques, Shawn Poirot at the Big Texan, Amarillo, Texas during a road trip, 1995; click photo to enlarge-)

“My dad traveled often to shows and visited clients around the country,” recalls Jacques, “and during the summer, my friends and I tagged along in his van.  He was always so great and wanted us to see the coolest sights like the world's largest thermometer, the dinosaurs in Arizona, Route 66 and the Grand Canyon.   
“My friends and I cherish those memories and appreciate how hard he tried to make us happy even when we occasionally killed the car battery in the middle of the night by watching our movies or playing Nintendo when the car was off.  Sorry about that Dad!"


(pictured, Jacques Rodrigue pulls prints earlier this week as his dad signs Big Texan Sky, an original silkscreen celebrating George's upcoming exhibition at the Amarillo Museum of Art; click photo to enlarge-)

This summer the Rodrigue family, these three amigos, hits the road again, returning to Amarillo as we open “Blue Dogs in Texas,” an exhibition at the Amarillo Museum of Art, August 10 – October 14, 2012.  We’ll also celebrate Jacques’s 31st birthday, by his request, at the nostalgic Big Texan.



“Do you think André will try again for the free 72-oz steak?” asked George, as we planned our trip.

But we all knew his question was rhetorical.

Wendy

-pictured above, George Rodrigue and his sons celebrate Father's Day 2012 in Houston, Texas

-also in honor of Father’s Day, a tribute to my dad, John Wolfe, in a story for Gambit Weekly, linked here-

-read about George Rodrigue’s love of Texas and the West in the links under “Rodrigue on the Road,” listed to the right of this story-

-for availability and pricing of George Rodrigue’s newest print, Big Texan Sky, email info@georgerodrigue.com





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Sunday, June 10, 2012

Dog in a Box


In yoga, I spent years within our bedroom practicing tree pose, standing on one leg, arms stretching skyward, until I balanced with ease.  Yet at my first attempt outside, at the edge of our patio in Carmel Valley, California, I fell.  Breaking my own rule, I donned my glasses, focusing on a distant tree, and tried once more, teetering a few seconds before falling again.

Obviously, although I never touched them, the four walls and ceiling of our house supported me psychologically without my realizing it during hundreds of tree poses, as though imaginary beams pressed and stabilized with energy from every angle.  It was easy to reach for Heaven when it extended past the ceiling, all buttressed by the walls of a residential box. 

But outside, the sky left me reeling and unsteady, both on my feet and inside my head, as I struggled for focus within, ironically, the freedom of a wide open space.

(pictured, Dog in a Box, 1990, 30x40 inches, oil on canvas; click photo to enlarge)


The earliest Blue Dog paintings of the late 1980s and early 1990s referenced, without exception and unlike today, the loup-garou, a werewolf or ghost dog that haunted George Rodrigue’s childhood memories:

“If you’re not good today,” warned the artist’s mother, “the loup-garou will eat you tonight.”

From the first Blue Dog painting, Watchdog (1984), Rodrigue imagined the mythical creature under a dark sky and within cemeteries and sugar cane fields.  It ran wild in the humid Louisiana night air, unlike its model, Tiffany, a family pet born and transported in a box.

“Tiffany’s first doghouse was a cardboard box,” explains George.  “We brought her home in it, and she liked it as her house, only venturing into the grass after she outgrew the box.  Even as I painted the loup-garou, at times my mind drifted to Tiffany, until eventually I created a series of paintings less about a ghost story and more about my dog.”

(pictured, The Re-birth of Tiffany, 1993, 36x24 inches, oil on canvas; click photo to enlarge)


Although wont to claim ‘claustrophobia,’ for George, enclosed spaces, unlike my supports and Tiffany’s home, are simply unpleasant and relate to ill health.  This began in his childhood when, while suffering from polio in the early 1950s, he saw other children, those in more advanced stages of the disease, confined within iron lungs. He talks of it today with anxiety as he faces medical tests or procedures, opting for an open tube whenever possible.

“First thing they ask you is what kind of music you want to hear – which doesn’t help at all when you’re trapped for an hour in a pipe.”

My advice fails too, as I suggest he close his eyes and imagine wide open spaces.

“All I think about is those iron lungs,” he explains. “And my aching arms and back, stuck forever in one position.”


(pictured, Box for a Cool Cat, 2003, 24x20, acrylic on canvas, click photo to enlarge)

On his canvas, the idea of a box changed over time as much as the dog itself.  In recent years, both the loup-garou and Tiffany remain mere roots of a series that developed beyond Cajun country and family memories.  Today the series ranges from acutely personal to universal, but always carefully planned, using shape, color and design, as though Rodrigue attacks a puzzle, transferring it from his expansive brain to the space bounded by four sides of a canvas.

“Tiffany outgrew her box; however, as an artist, the box idea never left me.  Every painting starts with a two dimensional canvas-box that has to be filled and dissected and arranged – eventually becoming a three dimensional illusion.  It’s the first problem I face with every painting.”

(pictured, Good Morning, Acadiana, 2010, 40x40 inches, acrylic on canvas; click photo to enlarge)


My yoga practice recedes and grows in the same way. Today I stand half-blind and steady outside, whether overlooking a valley or standing on a pier.  It’s when I close my eyes, however, that the new supports fail again, and I’m falling, flailing as though once more out of my box and new to the world.

(pictured, Higher Places, 2003, 36x24, acrylic on canvas; click photo to enlarge)



Years ago, after four failed MRI attempts, my Grandma Helen, at her doctor’s suggestion, endured my voice throughout her test as I recounted family stories.  I guess it was my first speech, as she remained captive for thirty minutes or more, trapped and unable to respond, while I rattled on about holiday plans, George’s latest paintings, new growth in our garden and whatnot. 

She came through it, relieved, no doubt, to escape my droning soliloquy as much as the tiny tube.

Recently I shared this memory with George and made the same offer.

“That’s okay; I’ll make it,” replied the Blue Dog Man. "Besides, they gave me something for pain."

And I swear he rolled his eyes.

Wendy

- Melanie Falina with the New Orleans Examiner caught me recently for “A Life Among Art:  An Interview with Wendy Rodrigue,” linked here-

-for more art and discussion please join me at Gambit Weekly and on facebook-




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Tuesday, June 5, 2012

Clifton Chenier and a Cajun Explosion

In 1985 George Rodrigue painted the great musician Clifton Chenier (1925-1987).  At the time, Chenier was world-famous, crowned a Grammy Award winner in 1983 and summoned everywhere from San Francisco to Switzerland to share his unique Louisiana sound.

Rodrigue’s timing in painting the portrait honors Chenier not only for his music, but also for his passion and perseverance, as he entertained crowds throughout his struggles with diabetes and kidney disease. 

“He inspired me,” says Rodrigue.  “Still does.  He didn’t curl up and let his disease stop him, even after losing a foot to diabetes.  He kept on playing.”


(Clifton Chenier, 1985, oil on canvas, 24x20 inches by George Rodrigue; a recent addition to the collection of the George Rodrigue Foundation of the Arts; graciously donated by Don Sanders of Houston, Texas for permanent display within GRFA’s Education Center, New Orleans; click photo to enlarge-)

I asked George Rodrigue if he ever met Clifton Chenier.

“No, but I often passed him on the highway.  He traveled from Loreauville to Dallas for gigs, and I’d see his convoy when I traveled the same direction selling my paintings.  He pulled a trailer behind his gold 1972 Cadillac Eldorado.  Across the sides it said, “Clifton Chenier:  King of Zydeco,” with a big picture of himself wearing a red crown.”

Gold?  I asked George, imagining the car.

“They were all gold,” he laughed.

Rodrigue’s portrait is typical of both the musician and the artist.  Chenier wears his trademark rings, headband, and smile while playing the accordion.  He stands not on a stage, but framed within the branch and trunk of a Louisiana live oak, a strong shape developed within Rodrigue’s earliest landscapes.

Chenier was the third of Rodrigue’s portraits featuring an accordion player.   The first, in 1971, honors Iry LeJeune (1928-1955), the blind musician who by all accounts influenced every Cajun musician following. 


(Click photo to enlarge; read a detailed history of this painting here).

And in 1983 Rodrigue painted Clay “Baby” Meaux in a painting celebrating New Iberia's Cajun Fun Fest.


“I ran into him performing on stage at the St. Martinville Boucherie Festival and took about fifty photographs of Meaux and his band.  He was a striking figure.  Had to be over 250 pounds, wearing his big white shirt and his cowboy hat.  The typical Cajun accordion became small in his presence, competing with his size, shirt, boots and hat.  Just a great image.”


In 1975 photographer Philip Gould captured the King of Zydeco, Clifton Chenier (above; be sure and click to enlarge), at the Cajun Music Festival in Lafayette.  Known for his personal and documentarian interpretations of Louisiana’s land and culture, Gould* is also a musician, partial to the accordion, a passion uniquely linked to his subject, including an ongoing series of "Accordion Portraits."

According to George Rodrigue, it is music, along with food and art, which characterizes Louisiana’s culture as a whole:

“People outside of Louisiana first connected the word ‘Cajun’ to music.  Soon after came Chef Paul Prudhomme, Tabasco, and in 1975, art, when The Cajuns of George Rodrigue became the first book published nationally on the Cajun culture.  The music, food, and art of the 1970s and 1980s introduced ‘Cajun’ to the world.”


Wendy

*With sincere appreciation to Philip Gould for the use of his iconic Chenier portrait; Gould's photographs are the subject of my recent essay for Gambit Weekly, linked here-

-Also, Lafayette artist Francis X. Pavy, dubbed by Rolling Stone “the Picasso of Zydeco,” in a related story for Gambit linked here-

- Melanie Falina with the New Orleans Examiner caught me recently for “A Life Among Art:  An Interview with Wendy Rodrigue,” linked here-

-for more art and discussion please join me on facebook-



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Friday, June 1, 2012

Hopeful (Discomfort)


“Medicine is an art, not a science,” explained a friend recently, as I struggled with misdiagnoses and conflicting reports.

“Fifteen people looked at my wife’s images,” he continued, “and only one analyzed it correctly.”



(pictured, Dr. Dog, a 7-foot mixed media on chrome, from the collection of Lafayette General Hospital as part of the George Rodrigue Foundation of the Arts' Art for Healing Program; more on mixed medias at this link; click photo to enlarge-)

I’ve thought a lot recently about opinions, specifically about how we view others, how our egos guide us into dangerous errors and, without mentioning specifics, how hero-worship precludes not only effective analyses, but also focused concern.  After trying for years, I've finally mastered answering well-meaning, impossible questions like "How's George?" or, worse, "How are you?" with a question, lest I drift into overreaction or, worse, reality.

The word “hopeful” haunts me within emails and conversation, losing its meaning in repetition.  Articles and websites mention the latest medical procedures as “hopeful,” not to mention the word's proliferation within personal health blogs, support groups and, until this realization, my own email updates.  As I sat in another hospital waiting room today, author Liza Campbell admitted, “I do not feel at all hopeful,” on the pages of A Charmed Life, a gift, pre-crisis, from my sister Heather.

I asked George about the word, but he claims not to have noticed.  

“Discomfort,” he declares.  “That’s the word of the month.  If one more doctor or disclaimer mentions ‘discomfort,’ I’ll scream.  ‘Discomfort’ means pain for days, especially the promised ‘discomfort’ as they send you home on the Friday of a holiday weekend.  Discomfort, HA!”


(pictured, Doctor on the Bayou by George Rodrigue; detailed at this link-)

I wonder, had I questioned the hopeful doctors and fought with the hopeful nurses, would my mother be alive today?  Instead, my ego guided me, as I worried more about interrupting the stressed health care workers than addressing her discomfort, an issue that even I, a medical novice, noted with suspicion.

The oil paints and especially the spray varnishes that assaulted George’s body with hepatitis in the mid-1980s returned with a vengeance in recent months, despite his switch years ago to acrylic paint. 

“Many nights I fell into bed as the room spun around me.  It’s the reason I moved my studio from Jefferson Street to Landry’s,” explains George. “I couldn’t breathe anymore in the attic.  I don’t know if it was those forty paintings or what…”

… recalling the paintings from the book Bayou, a project for the 1984 World’s Fair, including the first Blue Dog painting.  Despite the move, however, George continued to poison himself, painting the Saga of the Acadians, several presidential portraits, and numerous early Blue Dog works all in oil before a doctor diagnosed the source of his illness.


(pictured, George Rodrigue at his easel, mid-1980s; click photo to enlarge-)

“I don’t want to hear about these problems anymore,” said George recently. “I only want to make art.”

Twenty-five years later those same toxins ate away his L-1 vertebrae, nearly collapsing his spine until a savior, a single doctor, recognized the crisis on an MRI last week, after half a dozen others dismissed George’s pain as ordinary discomfort.  The surgeon filled his vertebrae with concrete, securing his spine just days before paralysis.  

I asked him before surgery if George would be fine.  The doctor replied,

“We have every reason to be hopeful.”

Are you depressed? If yes, explain…, asks the hospital forms.  I hesitate, Of course he’s depressed! I want to scream, Who wouldn’t be?!  But that would be a tirade, so unlike me, and, for better or worse I mark “no.”

 “He is already well,” stated a friend earlier this week.  “Remember that, whatever the doctors say and whatever the test results."

He has a good brain…. I thought to myself as George entered his brain scan the following day.


And I was right.

Wendy

For more art and discussion, please join me at Gambit Weekly or on facebook-



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