Not Quite the Picture of Dorian Gray
It was February, 1995. I was 30 years old, living alone for the first time in a bachelor apartment in Ottawa, when I bought my first piece of art.
A few months earlier, in December, I started my first full-time job, after finally withdrawing from the Master’s program in German Language and Linguistics at Carlton University. I owed $20K in student loans and had no business buying art. Yet this wasn’t a thoughtless or nonchalant purchase.
I was in Toronto for a few days on business and read about a showing of the artist, Steve Walker at a local gallery. Images of his work were showing up in posters for events, as a book jacket cover, and the artist was getting extensive media coverage. Steve was an out gay artist who celebrated the male form and depictions of gay male intimacy. His work had a Norman Rockwell feel, minus the American traditionalism and family values.
The walls of the gallery were covered with paintings from many exceptional Canadian artists, most of which were large canvases. I was overwhelmed at first because there was so much art to look at. Steve Walker’s canvases were displayed closely together, and most were 36” x 48" in size — large enough to draw the viewer’s eye fully into the scene.
It was a beautiful show. Walker had a way of telling a story that captured a simple emotional moment in time. The faces he painted never looked at you directly. Instead, he painted the side of a man’s face; a man’s eyes looking into the eyes of another; a man sleeping on a bed, eyes closed, the arm of another man draped across his chest. Every painting carefully told the story of a moment that happened just before the telling of the picture before you. Each story told of a gay experience in a loving, unhidden, matter-of-fact, and unique way.
As I approached the back of the gallery I saw the door to a small office. I wasn’t sure if I could go in so I asked the curator if it was okay. There were canvases everywhere, some resting on the floor, leaning against each other two or three deep. There were so many paintings on the wall you could barely see the space between them.
I walked behind the office desk and then I saw it.
My body began to shake. My knees felt weak and wobbled. I was warm, almost sweaty, and felt faint.
I’m not sure how long I stood there as I fell into the vortex of the painting’s story — my story.
My story of living on my own for the very first time. Of painting the walls of my new home. Of starting over… again.
When I left the gallery, pressing open the doors into the sunny February afternoon, the dry wash of the -20°C air shocked me from my altered state.
I didn’t know what to do. I called a close friend who was a retired philosophy professor and art collector, and told him what happened — and the price of the painting. He told me I probably needed to do this and I’d somehow find a way to afford it.
The next day I went back to the gallery. Steve Walker was there and I had the chance to speak with him for almost half an hour. He seemed a nervous wreck, smelling of cigarettes, and probably smoking (I can’t remember but I think it was still legal at that time), which surprised and shocked me. I could only think of the nicotine damage to the art hanging on the walls.
The gallery owner offered to arrange for a payment plan. At that time $3,500 before taxes was almost as much as I needed to survive a semester at university. While he was writing up the documents he invited me have a drink with him. “Why not come have a glass of wine and spend the night on my boat in the Toronto harbour?” He was the classic, dirty old man. His fingernails were yellowed from years of smoking, as his hand touched mine, and his breath had that familiar ashtray smell. He was sitting much too close, but I dared not move. The thought going through my head was, “If he offers me at least a $500 discount I’ll sleep with him.” But he never brought it up, even when I ask if the price was negotiable.
Back home in Ottawa, I told one of my best friends about the encounter. Daniel was French-Canadian, but English was his second language. He had one of the sharpest, wittiest, and devilish tongues I’d ever met. In his best “femme fatale” persona (I’m sure he must have done drag!) he said, “Dahlink! I am so proud of you! You would have whored yourself for art!”
Starting Over… Again
A single man sits on the floor, alone, his back to the viewer. He’s reflecting on his work, of making this space his own. As the light caresses the wall from a high window, he’s taking a last look at what was, before he covers up the old with a new colour of possibilities.
Seeing that painting for the first time was like looking into the mirror of my soul.
Cliched? Maybe, but why would I have experienced such a profound, physiological response? 30 years old and living on my own for the very first time. I had painted my cute little bachelor pad (boy if those walls could talk!) and made it my own. 1995 was a significant year in my life for the losses that had preceded it. I had withdrawn from from my Master’s program, which was emotionally crushing, and ended an almost five year relationship with my partner. I was starting anew and trying to figure out who the fuck I was at 30.
