Protege
Struggling artist gets mysterious help.
The small town of Cricketville is nestled in the hills of Georgia just across the state line bordering Alabama and not to dissimilar to other small towns in the Deep South. Out of the approximate 10,000 residents of Cricketville there are thought to be 5,000 that believe in Voodoo. Because of the isolation, many believers migrated here from Florida. Nobody knows the real number, because Voodoo is not something you brag about. All the ceremonies are practiced in the hills, in places that no uninvited visitors would stumble upon.
Serena is one of the Priestesses that practice Voodoo and by far the most notable in the region. You can catch her from time to time wandering about, but mostly in the park. She is always dressed in long flowing robes of dark colors, hair braided in long corn rolls reaching to her waist, a bandana on her head, sandals, and prominent dark sunglasses that she wears day and night. Her wardrobe is topped off with a dirty old broad brim hat. The designs of her cloths are from somewhere in the Caribbean where she was born. Nobody knows where exactly but her accent tends to indicate Haiti. Serena has very few friends because people are afraid.
It is a sunny day with only a few clouds in the sky. A slight breeze blows through the trees rustling the leaves. Serena is sitting on the park bench down by the lake so she can feed the ducks that make their way near her bench. She thinks of it as her bench, because she has been sitting there every day for 10 years. The bench is never taken because when people see her coming, they get up and leave. Serena is a distinctive dresser that even the ducks can recognize, and when they see her coming, they start their dance toward her bench.
The usual crowd is out by the lake. The lovers are pretending to be alone maneuvering their small boats slowly around the lake. There is the lunch crowd of shop keepers and clerks that come to the park to eat their homemade sandwiches and soak up the sun. The joggers come to run because they feel that exercise is more important than eating. But of interest to Serena is Clinton Farris. Clinton is a struggling artist. He comes to the park every day with his easel and paints trying to put his thoughts on the canvas. But, by the end of the day it is apparent that he will have to start over tomorrow. This has been going on for several years and Clinton is becoming increasingly discouraged.
Clinton always stops by Serena's bench to say hello. Serena's friends are few because of her religious activities, so she appreciates Clinton for his warmth and sincerity. They are friends only in the park, but that is enough for Serena. In fact, she's not sure Clinton even knows her name. Serena watches him every day and hopes that some day he will paint a master piece. She can feel it in him. He has the talent way down inside his soul and it just needs to be released. 'She will give it some thought,' Serena thinks as she heads home.
That night Serena was in her small one room cabin deep in the woods. A shack actually that was made of old lumber and dried mud to keep the rain out. She had all the candles lit for light because there was no electricity that far from town and she had no generator. Serena was chanting in front of an altar to help poor Clinton to search his being and bring forth the knowledge to paint as a master. The incense was burning in holders about the altar that was built of religious nick knacks and voodoo symbols. The chanting stopped briefly as Serena cuts the head off a chicken she had been holding upside down over the altar.
As the blood is draining into a bowl containing Clinton's picture, Serena waves her hand over the incense causing the smoke to drift into her face as she continues with the chanting. She carried on into the early morning hours of the next day.
The new day is a typical Georgia summer day. The sun is bright and temperature is sticky with a slight breeze that didn't seem to have any effect. As Clinton make his way to his usual spot, he notice that there was an older man painting there, by the lake not 20 feet from his spot. He stops by the old woman on the bench mumbling and talking to the ducks. She seemed like a nice lady that was here every day. Obviously not well to do, but then he wasn't either. "Good morning." Clinton says giving his customary wave to her and proceeding on to the lake concentrating on the old man.
Clinton dressed in his multi-colored, paint splattered white shirt and torn jeans, walked over to the old man. "Hi, my name is Clinton, Clinton Farris." He held his hand out, but the old man ignored him. The old man didn't even look up from his work. He just mumbled under his breath, "watch and learn."
For days the old man never talked, so Clinton named him Raphael after the great painter. He was always dressed the same in that dull blue short sleeve shirt, chinos, and a sun hat like you might see an old lady wearing while she works in her garden. The hat looked to be woven from corn silk and sat atop his head of long flowing silver hair. But, his hands were steady as a surgeon's operating in an OR.
Clinton watches the old man paint for days. His use of colors is extraordinary. The way he portrays light brings the canvas to life. His use of detail brings out the story the painting is telling the viewer. 'I have got to learn how to paint like Raphael,' Clinton is thinking to himself when the old man suddenly speaks softly so only Clinton can hear.
"Follow my lead son. Do as I do. Feel the painting's story from your heart. Let the story travel to the canvas through your fingers and brush. Move the brush in smooth even strokes. The painting is there, you just have to uncover it." Clinton bursts forth with a litany of questions but the old man goes silent again and answers none.
Clinton, preparing to paint the next day, starts by thinking of the old man's counsel. Clinton closes his eyes and tries to feel the painting. It isn't as hard as he thought it might be. The process seems to flow out of him and onto the canvas without effort. He continues to concentrate as Raphael had recommended and it seems to be working. For the first time he not only has a clear view of what he wants to paint, but the act of painting is easier. His first painting is not a master piece, but it is clearly the best work he has ever done.
Several weeks pass as Clinton and Raphael paint side by side. Clinton's paintings get better and better. Today a painter from Atlanta is in town visiting his latest fling and happens into the park where he notices Clinton by the lake painting. He walks over and praises Clinton on his work. "Did you hear that Raphael? This man likes my paintings." There is no response from Raphael. The visitor takes a quick look around, shakes his head and turns back to Clinton.
The painter continues, "When I get back to Atlanta, I am going to get a hold of my agent and have him drop by and see you. His name is Percy, Percy Whitmore. Do you have a card?"
Clinton instantly felt like an amateur, "No, I don't have a card, but I am here every day," he responds with a big smile on his face.
"Fine, I'll tell him to look for you here, by the lake." The man and his girl leave, while Clinton is beside himself with excitement.
"See Raphael, he didn't even mention your work. Who's the master now?" Again, there is no answer from Raphael. Serena on the other hand was nodding and smiling while sitting on her bench. Clinton grabs his stuff and runs over by her on his way home to tell his friends. "I think I made it," he says to her as he passes.
The agent Percy Whitmore did come by to see Clinton's work and became his agent. For several years, Percy sold Clinton's painting and Clinton became famous and rich. Clinton moved into a big house next to the park, but quit painting by the lake. He has a big studio now and does his painting there. He throws big parties for the well-to-do and dresses in fancy cloths. Serena would see Clinton through the windows on the second floor of his studio and she would stop and wave, but Clinton would close the curtain or just ignore her. She would mosey on to the park mumbling to herself. He had forsaken his friends that stood by him.
Clinton gets up from his large bed, has breakfast and a bath. With nice clean cloths on, he goes to his studio to paint. NOTHING! He can feel nothing. No ideas, no feeling of the story or the paint rushing through his fingers to the canvas. 'That's OK, it will come back. It's just like writers block. I'll work through it.' Clinton thinks. He tries and tries but nothing is forthcoming. His paintings are drab and lifeless.
Several weeks later, Percy is calling Clinton to see what paintings he can come pick up, but Clinton has none. He tells Percy that he has been ill and he will get some paintings to him in a week or so. But his paintings are amateurish. Percy doesn't want any of them and throws Clinton out of his gallery.
Clinton is desperate! He rushes down to the park but there is no Raphael. 'It is no wonder he left.' Clinton thinks. His last words to him were of ridicule. 'He must have gone home. But where is his home?' Clinton thinks as he searches the park for Raphael. He spies Serena on the park bench and realizes that she has been here every day just like he had been.
"Hi, I'm Mr. Farris, the painter." Clinton stumbles over his words realizing that after all these years, he didn't know her name. He had heard stories, but she had always been nice to him.
"I know who you are, Clinton. I've watched you for years struggling to paint." Serena says but is interrupted rudely.
"Yeah, Yeah, I know. Have you seen Raphael, the old man who has been painting here with me several years back before I moved to my studio?" Clinton is sweating and nervous and not just from the heat.
"Raphael? An old man you say? I've seen no such person here. It's just been you over there, by the lake." Serena says with a smile as she chuckles under her breath.
"Don't play games with me old lady!" Clinton shrieks. "What do you mean no old man? He has been here every day. Are you blind old woman?" Clinton is frantic.
"Mr. Clinton Farris, I have been here on this bench every day for over 10 years and the only person painting here, by the lake has been you." Serena says sternly as she pulls down her sun glasses and looks over the top. She didn't appreciate his tone or manner. She rises and collects here things to leave feeling sorry for Clinton.
"OK! OK! But that's impossible! You must have seen him. He was old and wearing a straw hat." Clinton says trying to reconnect with the old lady.
"You need to go back to painting on the lake. Become a humble struggling artist and search your soul for the answers. I have always known it was within you, Clinton Farris." Serena says mumbling to herself as she slowly walks away wondering, 'will Clinton ever realize his failings?'
Clinton lost his agent, his big house and studio. You can see him still, down by the lake trying to regain his former glory. He's wearing his holy blue jeans and paint splattered white shirt. He's not having fun anymore and has lost all his friends. Clinton never saw Raphael again.
Serena watches him still.
Serena is one of the Priestesses that practice Voodoo and by far the most notable in the region. You can catch her from time to time wandering about, but mostly in the park. She is always dressed in long flowing robes of dark colors, hair braided in long corn rolls reaching to her waist, a bandana on her head, sandals, and prominent dark sunglasses that she wears day and night. Her wardrobe is topped off with a dirty old broad brim hat. The designs of her cloths are from somewhere in the Caribbean where she was born. Nobody knows where exactly but her accent tends to indicate Haiti. Serena has very few friends because people are afraid.
It is a sunny day with only a few clouds in the sky. A slight breeze blows through the trees rustling the leaves. Serena is sitting on the park bench down by the lake so she can feed the ducks that make their way near her bench. She thinks of it as her bench, because she has been sitting there every day for 10 years. The bench is never taken because when people see her coming, they get up and leave. Serena is a distinctive dresser that even the ducks can recognize, and when they see her coming, they start their dance toward her bench.
The usual crowd is out by the lake. The lovers are pretending to be alone maneuvering their small boats slowly around the lake. There is the lunch crowd of shop keepers and clerks that come to the park to eat their homemade sandwiches and soak up the sun. The joggers come to run because they feel that exercise is more important than eating. But of interest to Serena is Clinton Farris. Clinton is a struggling artist. He comes to the park every day with his easel and paints trying to put his thoughts on the canvas. But, by the end of the day it is apparent that he will have to start over tomorrow. This has been going on for several years and Clinton is becoming increasingly discouraged.
Clinton always stops by Serena's bench to say hello. Serena's friends are few because of her religious activities, so she appreciates Clinton for his warmth and sincerity. They are friends only in the park, but that is enough for Serena. In fact, she's not sure Clinton even knows her name. Serena watches him every day and hopes that some day he will paint a master piece. She can feel it in him. He has the talent way down inside his soul and it just needs to be released. 'She will give it some thought,' Serena thinks as she heads home.
That night Serena was in her small one room cabin deep in the woods. A shack actually that was made of old lumber and dried mud to keep the rain out. She had all the candles lit for light because there was no electricity that far from town and she had no generator. Serena was chanting in front of an altar to help poor Clinton to search his being and bring forth the knowledge to paint as a master. The incense was burning in holders about the altar that was built of religious nick knacks and voodoo symbols. The chanting stopped briefly as Serena cuts the head off a chicken she had been holding upside down over the altar.
As the blood is draining into a bowl containing Clinton's picture, Serena waves her hand over the incense causing the smoke to drift into her face as she continues with the chanting. She carried on into the early morning hours of the next day.
The new day is a typical Georgia summer day. The sun is bright and temperature is sticky with a slight breeze that didn't seem to have any effect. As Clinton make his way to his usual spot, he notice that there was an older man painting there, by the lake not 20 feet from his spot. He stops by the old woman on the bench mumbling and talking to the ducks. She seemed like a nice lady that was here every day. Obviously not well to do, but then he wasn't either. "Good morning." Clinton says giving his customary wave to her and proceeding on to the lake concentrating on the old man.
Clinton dressed in his multi-colored, paint splattered white shirt and torn jeans, walked over to the old man. "Hi, my name is Clinton, Clinton Farris." He held his hand out, but the old man ignored him. The old man didn't even look up from his work. He just mumbled under his breath, "watch and learn."
For days the old man never talked, so Clinton named him Raphael after the great painter. He was always dressed the same in that dull blue short sleeve shirt, chinos, and a sun hat like you might see an old lady wearing while she works in her garden. The hat looked to be woven from corn silk and sat atop his head of long flowing silver hair. But, his hands were steady as a surgeon's operating in an OR.
Clinton watches the old man paint for days. His use of colors is extraordinary. The way he portrays light brings the canvas to life. His use of detail brings out the story the painting is telling the viewer. 'I have got to learn how to paint like Raphael,' Clinton is thinking to himself when the old man suddenly speaks softly so only Clinton can hear.
"Follow my lead son. Do as I do. Feel the painting's story from your heart. Let the story travel to the canvas through your fingers and brush. Move the brush in smooth even strokes. The painting is there, you just have to uncover it." Clinton bursts forth with a litany of questions but the old man goes silent again and answers none.
Clinton, preparing to paint the next day, starts by thinking of the old man's counsel. Clinton closes his eyes and tries to feel the painting. It isn't as hard as he thought it might be. The process seems to flow out of him and onto the canvas without effort. He continues to concentrate as Raphael had recommended and it seems to be working. For the first time he not only has a clear view of what he wants to paint, but the act of painting is easier. His first painting is not a master piece, but it is clearly the best work he has ever done.
Several weeks pass as Clinton and Raphael paint side by side. Clinton's paintings get better and better. Today a painter from Atlanta is in town visiting his latest fling and happens into the park where he notices Clinton by the lake painting. He walks over and praises Clinton on his work. "Did you hear that Raphael? This man likes my paintings." There is no response from Raphael. The visitor takes a quick look around, shakes his head and turns back to Clinton.
The painter continues, "When I get back to Atlanta, I am going to get a hold of my agent and have him drop by and see you. His name is Percy, Percy Whitmore. Do you have a card?"
Clinton instantly felt like an amateur, "No, I don't have a card, but I am here every day," he responds with a big smile on his face.
"Fine, I'll tell him to look for you here, by the lake." The man and his girl leave, while Clinton is beside himself with excitement.
"See Raphael, he didn't even mention your work. Who's the master now?" Again, there is no answer from Raphael. Serena on the other hand was nodding and smiling while sitting on her bench. Clinton grabs his stuff and runs over by her on his way home to tell his friends. "I think I made it," he says to her as he passes.
The agent Percy Whitmore did come by to see Clinton's work and became his agent. For several years, Percy sold Clinton's painting and Clinton became famous and rich. Clinton moved into a big house next to the park, but quit painting by the lake. He has a big studio now and does his painting there. He throws big parties for the well-to-do and dresses in fancy cloths. Serena would see Clinton through the windows on the second floor of his studio and she would stop and wave, but Clinton would close the curtain or just ignore her. She would mosey on to the park mumbling to herself. He had forsaken his friends that stood by him.
Clinton gets up from his large bed, has breakfast and a bath. With nice clean cloths on, he goes to his studio to paint. NOTHING! He can feel nothing. No ideas, no feeling of the story or the paint rushing through his fingers to the canvas. 'That's OK, it will come back. It's just like writers block. I'll work through it.' Clinton thinks. He tries and tries but nothing is forthcoming. His paintings are drab and lifeless.
Several weeks later, Percy is calling Clinton to see what paintings he can come pick up, but Clinton has none. He tells Percy that he has been ill and he will get some paintings to him in a week or so. But his paintings are amateurish. Percy doesn't want any of them and throws Clinton out of his gallery.
Clinton is desperate! He rushes down to the park but there is no Raphael. 'It is no wonder he left.' Clinton thinks. His last words to him were of ridicule. 'He must have gone home. But where is his home?' Clinton thinks as he searches the park for Raphael. He spies Serena on the park bench and realizes that she has been here every day just like he had been.
"Hi, I'm Mr. Farris, the painter." Clinton stumbles over his words realizing that after all these years, he didn't know her name. He had heard stories, but she had always been nice to him.
"I know who you are, Clinton. I've watched you for years struggling to paint." Serena says but is interrupted rudely.
"Yeah, Yeah, I know. Have you seen Raphael, the old man who has been painting here with me several years back before I moved to my studio?" Clinton is sweating and nervous and not just from the heat.
"Raphael? An old man you say? I've seen no such person here. It's just been you over there, by the lake." Serena says with a smile as she chuckles under her breath.
"Don't play games with me old lady!" Clinton shrieks. "What do you mean no old man? He has been here every day. Are you blind old woman?" Clinton is frantic.
"Mr. Clinton Farris, I have been here on this bench every day for over 10 years and the only person painting here, by the lake has been you." Serena says sternly as she pulls down her sun glasses and looks over the top. She didn't appreciate his tone or manner. She rises and collects here things to leave feeling sorry for Clinton.
"OK! OK! But that's impossible! You must have seen him. He was old and wearing a straw hat." Clinton says trying to reconnect with the old lady.
"You need to go back to painting on the lake. Become a humble struggling artist and search your soul for the answers. I have always known it was within you, Clinton Farris." Serena says mumbling to herself as she slowly walks away wondering, 'will Clinton ever realize his failings?'
Clinton lost his agent, his big house and studio. You can see him still, down by the lake trying to regain his former glory. He's wearing his holy blue jeans and paint splattered white shirt. He's not having fun anymore and has lost all his friends. Clinton never saw Raphael again.
Serena watches him still.
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