Walter Wins

WHITE ON WHITE

 

Where were my parents' mind when they named me, their first child, 'Warren White'? During my early years it made no difference, but just about when I grew up and proudly could say, 'I'm eight,' my dad asked me, 'Where were you, Warren White?' and his jaw locked for a minute. We both were frightened. Then he laughed and I decided to hate my name forever.

 

I showed him the present Jeb gave me, the biggest box of Crayola crayons I ever saw. 'Dad, I can't read the names on all of them. What does this one say?' 'That's mauve, Warren, sort of pink with purple in it.' He asks me what the dark one looks like. I tell him 'dirty brown.' Dad asks me if I know anything that is about this color and all I can think of is 'dirt.' 'Warren White, use your brain and your eyes. Aren't the Sun Maid raisins Mom puts on your oatmeal about this color?' I make a few lines on the white sheet of paper Dad hands me and ask if the word on the crayon is 'raisin'. He gets me to spell the word out loud, learn it, and I do but I don't like that color and don't think I'll use it except maybe for tree trunks.

 

My favorite Crayola is white. I color the white paper white, add white chalk on that and sprinkle salt on top. 'Dad, look, what I did. I drew an all white picture that shows snow and ice. Dad looks at it and immediately thinks I am god's gift to the art world.  He keeps me waiting seven years, going to school, doing well,  before he takes me to the Virginia Institute of Art to discuss with the Provost whether I have talent or not. Smelling the oil paint, watching students work, I can barely stand still. My hands itch, my youthful soul cries out for a teacher, a good teacher, to lead me, help me. My world grows smaller and larger at the same time.  I don't play ball after school, have few friends, don't date. I know what I want to be, do. I want to be an artist, a real artist and spend Saturdays at the museums, studying, studying Pollack, Cezanne, Degas. Straight lines, simple, bright colors, thick paint runs thru my veins. Each painting is an adventure. The Provost displays two works of mine in the yearly raise funds exhibition. John Galt, writes his Sunday column in the Virginia Ledger about a young kid named Warren White who may be another Franz Kline. I work mostly with my white on white canvases,  painting thick majestic deep blue squares tumbling in from the top edge. Dad and Mom are very proud of me, invest the fantastic sums I am paid for everything I produce.

 

And who is the proudest, still talks about his giving me my first taste of art when he brought me the box of Crayolas. Jeb, Jeb, my childhood friend. I paint a black and white watercolor with bits of glitter as a belated thank you to Jeb.

 

All of what I sell is dated in the bottom right hand corner and signed W.W.U.W.W. for 'where were you, Walter White?'