The Painting Lesson

In 1950, we bought into a new, middle-class, bilingual suburb of Montreal just a few blocks from Grandmama Gauthier. Our house was on a cul-de-sac and it was great for the children, because the only traffic was the breadman with his daily delivery. We were thoroughly enjoying our new situation and the quietness of the area.

Being new property owners, with lawns and gardens and sidewalks to put in, trees to plant, and a myriad of other jobs to do, we had to learn new things every day. How else could we fulfill our quota of do-it-yourself chores in order to match our neighbours’ progress? So the education process was ongoing, and we picked each other’s brains. My specific contribution to the neighbourhood’s body of knowledge was limited since I had never tried or wanted to be a jack of all trades.

That summer, I was taught many “how-tos,” by neighbours; some, directly from their detailed instruction and some, indirectly by just watching them, often from afar. But more importantly, that summer, I learned some things about my mother-in-law, about my son Michael and about myself. It was rather odd that I learned these things during a “how-to” session in which, for a change, I was the instructor, not the student.

It all started because my wife, Marie, loved to tell people that we knew that our five-year-old son, Michael, was talented. You’ll notice that she included me in her statement, and she was right in one sense. I knew that he had talent because she had told me so. She knew about it because Grandmama Gauthier had told her and the news had come down come from on high through the medium of a pronouncement. The official wording of Grandmama’s pronouncement, as given, was, “Michael has talent.”

I have often thought about preserving Grandmama’s edicts on a large scroll, with Roman Numerals and fancy script but I decided against it because her words were already, in effect, carved in stone. Her family always took her pronouncements as gospel truth and invariably agreed with her. Mere sons-in-law, such as I, were expected to conform. And who was I to test the implied “or else.”

So the party line was established, “Michael has talent,” and I, in my compromising way, said nothing to suggest that I felt a certain measure of skepticism. After all, putting aside a father’s natural prejudice, Michael had never indicated any special skills or ability to me. He was just a normal boy and I couldn’t find any evidence to the contrary. I didn’t know how Grandmama had arrived at such a positive assessment of his ability. Looking back, I realize now that there was never much evidence to support any of Grandmama’s pronouncements.

I had viewed each successive piece of crayon-art when it was brought home from school. Each time I had nodded, and lied about how good it was. One day, during the usual kitchen ceremonies, when new art was being hung on the fridge, and the ladies were oohing and aahing, I turned to Michael. He was staring at me and when I winked, he hunched his shoulders, grinned, put his hand over his mouth and turned away. He knew that I was playing a game with the women and he had decided to be on my side.

We were closer now that we shared a secret, and, more than ever, he wanted to join into everything that I did. At that time, I must admit that I was a little piqued at Grandmama for trying to usurp the role of painting critic; a field in which I was naturally much more qualified than she. It was that particular fit of the Green Eyed Monster Syndrome which lead to the idea of giving Michael a painting lesson; with real paint; oils, no less. I’d put Michael’s abilities to the test. If anybody were going to decide whether or not Michael had talent, I’d be the one to do it, not Grandmama.

I had scheduled a period of painting for Saturday morning, and because the women were going to spend the day shopping, Michael and I would have the entire time to ourselves.

I told Michael a little bit about oil paint and how to thin it. I told him about colours and how they blend and contrast; I told him about brushes and how to put only the tip into the paint and how to wipe off any excess; and finally I told him how to use heavy and light strokes of the brush. That ended the theoretical part of the lesson. For the practical segment, we checked that we had all the equipment and supplies that we would need; hats, wipers, turpentine, brushes, and paints. We seemed to have everything except maybe an easel, but we wouldn’t need that today.

We started in and Michael did just fine with the light, one inch brush that I gave him and he worked right along with me until we had finished. I felt proud that I had been able to show Michael how to paint. I was glad for him about the results of his efforts today. His work in oils, out here in the open, would be judged by a bigger audience than that which viewed his crayon work on the refrigerator door. Already I had seen that some of the neighbours, walking by, had nodded their approval. They knew that Michael and I were doing an excellent job of painting the wooden floor and steps of the front porch of our house.

As I finished the last step, I told Michael that we’d need a sign to warn people about the fresh paint.

He said, “I’ve seen signs like that and I’ll go and make one.

“Wait a minute. Where would you have seen signs like that?”

“Gosh, I don’t know. They’re all over, usually they’re in the front window.”

Before I could say anything more, he was gone.

I was touching up a few spots, when he returned and handed me a white cardboard sign, about a foot square. I tacked the sign to the handrail and then stepped back to read the black printing.

It spelled out, “Pas de Pain.”

First I smiled, and then a gurgle escaped past the lump in my throat. I started to give him a big hug, then thought better of it; he wanted to be a man. While I shook his hand, this twisted brain of mine was telling me . . . “The old lady, God love her, was right after all, in her biased and unsupported ideas. In my opinion, Michael not only lived up to Grandmamma’s pronouncement, but I can say, now, with pride, that my son has latent talents exceeding even her wildest expectations. I consider myself lucky to have learned so much from Michael’s painting lesson.