Jo-Ann Mapson

Paintings in Bookstores: what a concept

The painting of the red two-story house with mullion windows hung above my parents' fireplace. Next to the house was a maple tree. Alongside ran a road that ended outside the painting's boundaries. While I got lectured at for childhood shenanigans or bad grades, I stared at the painting and imagined: I lived there alone; I drove past the house on my way out of town; high up in another tree, I spied on the people who lived in the red house and learned their secrets.

Reader's Digest condensed books stood spine out on the bookshelves. An illustration-free text on the workings of the human body taught me nothing useful about sex. Next to the books was a clock my mother won playing golf. Because she had five children, her doctor wrote her a prescription to play golf every Tuesday. That clock was likely a place for her to focus and ground herself, like the painting was for me.

Used brick on the fireplace hearth featured a single white tile with a shiny glaze. The couches were springy and worn. The coffee table top was marred with crayon, and circles from our glasses. My sister learned to play "O Susannah" on the spinet piano. I was jealous because money was scarce when I wanted to learn music, so I played a hand-me-down violin.

The painting on the wall belonged to all of us, yet I imagined it mine alone. I hated it as much as I loved it. Its sameness conjured up a dusty claustrophobia, and the shut-up house was even more stifling than my age. Yet it was a world I never grew tired of visiting.

Stewart has a show this month at Title Wave, where he'll hang finished paintings that I've considered "mine" for some time. Stewart sells prints all the time, but he also sells the paintings. He gets excited because he can use the money, and the validation of his craft is priceless. The buyer knows he's getting something special. Logically, I understand that nothing is ours forever, nevertheless, when his artwork goes, I'm sad. "It's no different than your books," he says. "Don't you want them in a reader's hands?"

We both begin with nothing. I face the empty, humming computer screen armed with an idea; he stares into the tyranny of the blank canvas. I spend a year or so typing, being edited, until my one-dimensional idea is given a binding and a jacket. Stewart lines up his paint pots and brushes, but his is a solo journey all the way until that idea takes on color, dimension, and becomes as real as The Velveteen Rabbit . My books get shipped to bookstores, and if they don't sell, they get remaindered, which is like permanent detention for books. When Stewart finishes, he starts hitting the galleries, hoping for a warm reception. Until now, there hasn't been a bookstore for his paintings. I like it that for once we'll be side by side.

When one of us finishes a project, we celebrate. We take walks, read books, and at least once a year, if the money is there, we buy a nice photo, print, painting, or a piece of sculpture to support the community (lofty reason) and because nothing lifts the spirit like art (selfish reason). When times are tough, pianos, hard cover books, and paintings are the first of life's pleasures we think to cut from our lives. But if it wasn't for that painting above the fireplace with its road and secrets, who knows where I would have landed, and what I would have done once I got there. To travel outside the painting, I had to have the painting in the first place.

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