THE ARTISTIC SOUL by Howard Feigenbaum
“Don’t bother taking art classes anymore. You have no talent for it.” My fifth grade art teacher mapped out my future. I obeyed her dictate. Unlike, Picasso, there would be no beret for me. She spoke with the authority of an artist and a teacher. It was clear that other students had a natural affinity for drawing and painting. I struggled to produce the mediocre.
The Kodak Brownie Camera was the one indulgence I allowed myself. A photograph hardly fit into the same classification as art. You pushed a button on a mechanical device and a picture resulted. This was an avocation in which I felt safe. I wasn’t engaging in art. I merely recorded the reality of my surroundings.
The process of photography, in fact, seemed more a science than art. At summer camp I learned how to develop and print the photos I took. Understanding chemistry and tolerating the smell of the solutions couldn’t be the defining traits of an artist.
I put the camera aside until I became a father. Like all parents, I wanted to have keepsakes of the birthday parties, the Halloween costumes, and the rites of passage that happen in families. But the photographs became seeds of discontent. The people stood too far away to make out their expressions. The background detracted from the scene, and faces appeared washed out from flash exposures, which also produced red-eyed vampires. I had to do better for the generations to come who might one day see the photographs. They would miss the opportunity to fully appreciate the obvious physical beauty of my children.
I sought out books and magazines about photography. I attended workshops. And then I took the big step—I bought an expensive single lens reflex camera with all the attachments. With steadfast determination, I investigated the use of every button and doodad. But the understanding didn’t result in the improvement I wanted.
I came to realize photography was about the light and the composition. That’s when my work improved and blossomed. I discovered flowers. What better place to find color? And who doesn’t think flowers are beautiful. Each rendition of a bloom became a portrait. Photographs of my children occurred in soft, diffused light. I knew my skill level had improved when my sister visited. I showed her a portrait of my three-year-old daughter taken under the shade of the oak tree in my front yard.
“That’s a great picture,” she said. “What kind of camera did you use?”
What kind of camera, indeed! The composition and the lighting made the shot work. My artistic self-esteem soared.
I still had a lot to learn. Like the time on a harbor tour, I photographed a windsurfer in San Francisco Bay. With the cityscape in the background, the surfer’s sailboard heeled in the wind. I printed, matted, and framed the shot. Every day for a year I walked by the picture, hesitating because something bothered me, but I couldn’t figure out what. Then I saw it. When I photographed the surfer, I only focused on him and ignored the background. The horizon, the shoreline of San Francisco, tilted downhill to the left. Never again did I ignore the horizon. I love the photo for the important lesson it taught.
The digital revolution in photography forced me to give up film. While learning Adobe Photoshop at the junior college, I realized the images could easily function as illustrations to accompany writing. An article in Nature Photography Magazine inspired me. During a Michigan winter, photographers made a snowman in the woods, recorded animals interacting with it, and published a children’s book, Stranger in the Woods. If they could do it, why couldn’t I?
After purchasing a bag of peanuts and mixed nuts in their shells, I created a storyboard accompanied by rough drawings. Goober, a young peanut, learns that he’s not really a nut but a legume. His disappointment and journey to self-acceptance became the book’s theme. My kitchen island served as the studio for photographing scenes. My computer functioned as the editing room.
The book appeared in 2008 to great reviews. A magazine for marriage and family therapists in California called my book, We’re All Nuts!, a coming-of-age story of considerable value. Teachers asked for free copies. My talented sister, Roberta, created a website, www.peanutstory.com where anyone can read the book for free.
More than fifty years after my art teacher’s comment, I proved her wrong. I discovered my artistic soul. I had to reconsider my self-image. The transition took a few years but, at last, I accepted the new me. I had earned the right to eccentric behavior and to wear a beret.
