Coming of age

It was all over the headlines.

James P. Waldorf, 37, has just been named the artist of the year. His portrait appeared in the front page or all the major newspapers, and they have been sold for millions of dollars each. He has, in short, become a household name. He is referred to as The Waldorf, JPW Amazing, and most notably, the Portrait man. But to me, he will always be The Potato Kid, the kid who persevered to greatness.

It was a sweltering summer day when I first met The Potato Kid. I was twelve, at the edge of manhood, and reluctant to go to the oil painting camp my mother had signed me up for. I sweated profusely in my mother’s car as she drove me to Teacher’s studio.

I was setting up my Easy Artist 1-2-3 and adjusting the canvases when he walked in carrying two paper bags full of materials. His appearance astounded me. His severely pimpled face was accessorized with black thick frames, and his hair- it was the color of bright copper, and it topped his hair like toothbrush bristles. He wore a light yellow shirt with the long sleeves carelessly rolled up, and around his neck, a ridiculous black and white checkerboard scar. I stared at him in all.

It was quite a comical sight-watching him stride around the room trying to fit his equipment together. With that scarf swinging around, nobody would brush past him without a stare.

There were about eight kids in the classroom-three boys, and five girls. As Teacher explained to us the key paints of the lush green farm scene, the kid was quietly squeezing tiny pearls of color neatly onto his palette.

A showoff, I thought with dislike.

After a few hours though, it became clear that the kid was the only one there who could paint. My whole canvas was composed of a drab dab of muddy green. But the kid’s was beyond wonderful. The clouds he painted drifted magically across the clear blue sky, and his grass appeared so fresh that the ominous fumes of oil all but disappeared. He was, no doubt, an artist. I changed my opinion of him, and knew that he was, in fact, anything but a showoff. He took Teacher’s praises modestly, and acted graciously towards our pigment horrors when we had to do peer critiques.

At lunch, as we unpacked our sandwiches, the kid reached into his khaki pocket and took out a plastic bag with four small potatoes in it. Boiled, I supposed. He chomped on them, biting his way through all four-how bland, I thought. But from that time on, I thought of his as The Potato Kid.

The days passed-slow, routine, and steady. I got to know the other boy in the class-Jordan. He was gangly, but fairly talented with the art. A few strokes of his would make his painting finished, and he’d ramble around the room looking to tease someone. Usually, it was the Potato Kid.

The Potato Kid took it cool, though. He’d usually just raise his eyebrow until it created a subtle arch, and go back to his painting.

The Potato Kid produced more artwork in those weeks than I’d ever done in my whole life. Most of them were portraits. I remember one of them, it was the portrait of a bearded man. The backdrop was an unrelenting pit of black, but the chiseled flesh on the man’s face shown a rosy brightness. The hair was black as well, but showed a bit of brown. The man’s gray eyes pierced through the canvas with a strong dimness. Though I didn’t realize it then, that portrait was a masterpiece that could not be easily achieved. However, Teacher did realize his talent, and wanted to make the best of it.

Teacher was overwhelmingly excited at the prodigy he discovered, and asked The Potato Kid if he could perhaps showcase some of the work in an exhibition.

The Potato Kid raised his eyebrow again, this time, an arc with a high peak. The corner of his eye was also raised, creating a chilling image of a man who knew exactly what he wanted.

“No.” He stated, refusing Teacher in one single word.

The Teacher tried to argue his case, to no avail. He then got angry, and threatened to drop him off the list of students.

That day, The Potato Kid packed his equipment, unfitting the pieces together with ease, and left camp for good.

Over the last few days, I heard pieces and words of The Potato Kid’s life, and realized how little I knew about him. The Potato Kid’s mother was a drug addict, and didn’t have a father. He came to art camp on a scholarship offer. Teacher told us that it was wholly ridiculous that the center that horded deprived children helped The Potato Kid drop out without a lot of trouble. And that was the last I saw of him, for a long time,

Though that was the last I’d physically seen of him, he remained in my thoughts year after year. I never really understood why. Was it his amazing ability to paint, or his bronze colored hair? Because every time I pass a man with bright orange hair, I catch my breath, thinking it’s him. . .

The Art America magazine featured a story on The Potato Kid after his fame erupted, and I saw the portrait he painted during camp. I examined the portrait closely, to realize that I’d remembered wrong. The background was not pitch black, there was rose around the contours of the man’s face, and his eyes were not gray, they were an intense shade of blue that looked right through.

It took me a long while to understand my obsessive sentiment towards The Potato Kid. I was never a connoisseur of art, never really that curious with his red hair. It was his strong sense of self, along with the pleasant modesty that made him so special. He made me learn to know what I want, yet not be totally outspoken about it. But mostly, it was his determination, his will to push through. That summer, he had pushed through all the dreariness of his life to achieve something he loved, and I too, became inspired by that.

James Waldorf will be in Boston for an exhibition next week. I’m going. I want to thank him for all he’s taught me, and let him know that he’s a real hero. He didn’t make a conquest, he pushed through.