Renoir, Rockwell, and Jesse

I took a grand total of one literature course during my brief flirtation with college, and I attended class only once. That was enough time to realize that however much I loved to write, literature wasn’t for me.

 

The deciding factor in that decision came ten minutes after the first class had begun. The professor had taken that long to introduce himself, peppering his resume with words I could not understand. Then he asked that we each confess our favorite storyteller.

 

One by one he went through the class. Names of the immortals echoed off the walls—Fitzgerald. Kipling. Faulkner. Joyce. O’Connor.

 

I had decided beforehand that I was not going to lie, and it would have been lying if I offered up another name that would fit in neatly with the rest. So when the professor nodded in my direction, I answered with the truth.

 

“Jesse,” I said.

 

“Pardon?”

 

“Jesse.”

 

“I’m not familiar with his work,” the professor said.

 

“Oh, he doesn’t work,” I told him. “But if you go down to the hardware store where I live, you’ll see him. Best storyteller I know.”

 

The class snickered. I didn’t know why.

 

“Young man,” the professor said, “in this class we will deal with the Renoirs and not the Rockwells. Do you understand?”

 

I did. Which is why I never went back.

 

As a boy I’d walk from my house down the block to the hardware store just to hear Jesse talk. Age and a bad back had forced him to give up farming, so that’s where he spent most of his days—at an old wooden table beneath the mounted head of a twelve-point buck in the middle of the store, surrounded by six or seven other loafers.

 

Jesse would laugh and listen to whatever happened to be the day’s subject, which varied from politics to weather to baseball. Then at some point he would always remove the toothpick he kept in his mouth and say, “Well, let me tell you something.”

 

And then there would be quiet. Pure, utter stillness. Not just from everyone at the table, but from everyone in the store. Whether Jesse knew it or not (and I think he did), most people hung around the hardware store just to see him take that toothpick out.

 

Because Old Jesse knew how to tell a story.

 

His tales were snippets of his life, little moments that grew larger not because of  embellishment, but because of application. Jesse could turn a story about his truck breaking down into a critique of the socio-economic condition of the country. He would regale us with a story of his first unrequited love that was darn near Shakespearean. Jesse could make a tale about his outhouse catching fire sound like an Arthurian adventure, and he could make us feel like we were all knights.

 

It was magic. Pure magic.

 

But not to the professor.

 

To him the real storytellers were the masters, the Renoirs of the literary world. The rest, especially the ones who weren’t published because they never wrote and instead chose to spin their yarns in the middle of rural hardware stores, were less. They were the Norman Rockwells of the world. The pretenders.

 

I couldn’t blame him then and I guess I still can’t now. After all, Renoir was the one who held the attention of the elites. His Bal du moulin de la Galette sold for $78.1 million in 1990. All Norman Rockwell did was design some covers for The Saturday Evening Post.

 

But to me a painting is only as good as the story it tells. I can look at a Renoir and be dazzled by the colors and the details, but I can’t get much in the way of a story.

 

But Rockwell? He’s different. I can look at anything he painted and see a little bit of myself.

 

There’s a difference, I think. A big one.

 

That’s why I’ll never try to be a Renoir, but I’ll always try to be a Jesse. Because the stories we write should be everyone’s story in some small way. And because they should not only speak of a larger truth, but include everyone at the table, too.

 

 

Comments

[L.T. Elliot]

You are a Jesse to me and reading your posts is like poring over a Rockwell. You're a great to me, Billy.

[susan fish]

I had a professor like that in university. I auditioned and got into his creative writing class. And then, when I realized what he was like, I dropped it. Twenty years later, though, I regret it. I wonder what I could have learned had I been willing. Maybe it would have shaped me in ways I wouldn't have liked, but maybe it would have sharpened me.

[Madison Richards]

Every story shapes us. Every story tells the story of its characters but also tells the character of its teller. It was Jesse's authenticity that drew you, his style that kept you there, and the truth he spoke that stayed with you even after all these years.

Truth comes in many forms. Some pompous and self-important. Some genuine and simple. Everyone prefers a story they can relate to, even if it means they relate from a distance because that's all their walls will allow for, so I guess that's why there are all kinds of stories and all kinds of storytellers.

I love your hardware store style Billy. And I love that you too have learned the gentle art of making a point on the backside of the ordinary in life. That's what it's about, and yet your writing is sophisticated in ways that some of those elitists will never be able to capture. Thanks for sharing your gift with all of us...

[katdish]

What L. T. said...

It is one thing see beauty in things everyone else sees beauty in. You have to pay attention to find beauty in the common everyday. Of that, you are a master, Billy.

[Sandra King]

I love, love, love this. I want to be a Jesse.

[Candy]

You're better than a Jesse. You're Billy. Your writing has blessed me beyond measure.

[Sarah Salter]

I think there's something in the name... My Granddaddy was a Jesse. Literally. Jesse C. Staton, Sr. And he was the greatest storyteller I've ever known. Ever.

And darn that professor of yours! I LOVED my literature classes in college. I took so many of 'em that I'd have to take off my shoes to count 'em. And while some of the authors & works we read, I HATED, there were some that changed my life. And if a noodle-headed professor had driven me out of the class on the first day, I'd never have known it.

[Helen]

That snob may have been a professor, but he was NOT a teacher! God bless the Jesses of this world, who help us learn to actively listen!

[Kelly Langner Sauer]

wow - one of the reasons the Gospel is so good - and so neglected.

[Megan Willome]

I just get so annoyed when people like your professor run down Norman Rockwell.Just because it's commercial doesn't mean it isn't art.

[Melissa Marsh]

Amazing post. I would much rather be a Rockwell than a Renoir. And I really admire you for speaking the truth that day in class.

Thanks so much for this.

[susan fish]

Two cents more. Did the professor disparage Rockwell? Maybe indirectly, or maybe he just was giving the scope of his course. In any event, it sounds like you made the right choice for you, Billy, to get out of that class. The analogy breaks down for me a bit though: does visual art always have to tell a story to be good and worthy? I don't think so. Does a story always have to tell a story to be good and worthy? Absolutely. Let's be careful - all of us - not to disparage Renoir as some may put down Rockwell.

[Madison Richards]

Exactly (Susan) - Not everyone loves classical music, but those who love it find it to be life for their spirits and balm for their souls. It takes all kinds...

[Louise]

This is a really beautiful story -- the art is in the story-telling, not the story. Everyone has a great story to tell. Only those few can tell it in ways that make it everyone's story worth telling. You tell great story!