God must have gone to art school

Something was happening, all right. The problem? I didn’t have a clue what it was. Should I have just stopped right there?

Should Neil Armstrong have stopped before taking that first historic step atop Mount Everest? Should Columbus have turned around before arriving at the teaming shores of Plymouth Rock? Should Wink Martindale have given up before stumbling onto the recipe for biscuits n’ gravy? I think not! So I battled on, attempting to keep the magic alive in my potential masterpiece the teacher insisted was unfinished.

Ten minutes and a few tubes of paint later, I had done it. I had created … mud. Okay, I should have stopped 10 minutes earlier. In those few moments, I had somehow managed to paint all those vibrant colors into one muddy mess. Today, 20 years later, I still am unable to create abstract art. Oh, I’ve made the occasional attempt, but when I show the finished piece, I always get the same look a trout gives you when you first reel him in. (Please take a moment to envision trout.)

This was art school, and God was there, despite my lack of "abstract" abilities. He was with me when I rode the bus each day into downtown Denver, when I walked past the strip joints to my school, when I gave some pocket change to one of a multitude of homeless people, and when I sought inspiration in class.

At the time, the school was located in a handful of old buildings off East Colfax Ave., one of the worst areas in Denver. One class might be three city blocks from another. Me and my classmates would lug our portfolios and tackle boxes of pencils, brushes and paints from class to class, passing beggars, prostitutes, and a guy named Jack who always thought the sky was falling. Ironically, he was later injured when a piece of the Russian Mir space station fell on his head.

I had two good friends, Lorraine, a bleach blonde California girl, and Daniel, a Rod Stewart look-a-like who had the sad habit of snorting cocaine on his lunch break. I still thank the Good Lord that I never accepted his luncheon invitations.

Despite the tough landscape, it was a place where God’s presence was clearly visible. I was very naive at the time, having lived a sheltered life. My early years were spent in a small cave. At 12 I moved to an old mine shaft. My friend was an aged volleyball named "Wilson," and a hubcap named "Betsy." I later befriended a stick named "Edgar," but only after days of earning his trust.

So, in art school, I truly was able to see a multi-layered world I had never seen before. In class we’d draw still-life and live models; often we’d venture off into the streets, alleys, and among the skyscrapers a few blocks away to draw buildings old and new, and the people walking by. It was always hard to get crowds walking by to hold still for 45 minutes.

One day an older lady – I’ll never forget; she was dressed a bit like a gypsy – really did sit down next to me and told me that she had recently communicated with her deceased husband. She spoke of doors opening to different planes of existence. Though perhaps not fundamentally Christian, her vivid expression of the after-life is something I’ll never forget. When she finally went on her way, I gazed upward, packed my pencils, and got the heck out of there.

I had faith then, but it was a shy faith – much as it is now. I didn’t preach, but I did manage to let people like Daniel know of my faith, so that when refusing his invitation to do drugs, he could perhaps see the strength behind my convictions.

There was vibrant color in this world. One day a stereotypical gang member decided to chat with me about the joy of the Broncos finally winning a game. I developed a crush on a girl working at Wendy’s who always laughed when I ordered my chicken and tartar sauce sandwich. The fact that she was African-American doesn’t matter, except that it helped to open my eyes even more to our multi-layered world.

When I think about those days, I see a canvas filled with colors and characters and experiences; a masterpiece created by the Master Painter.