Bob Strombergs Life on the Carousel Blog

MY PARENTS ENTRUSTED ME WITH TWENTY CIRCULAR SLIDE MAGAZINES, WHAT THE KODAK COMPANY CALLED "CAROUSELS". THEY CONTAINED CLOSE TO TWO-THOUSAND FAMILY SLIDES, FRUSTRATINGLY IN NO PARTICULAR ORDER, SPANNING NEARLY TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. I PUT A CAROUSEL ON THE PROJECTOR AND PRESSED FORWARD. THIS BLOG TELLS THE STORIES I FOUND THERE.

When I was five, I lay with my family on a woolen blanket in the back yard, gazing wide-eyed, open mouthed, as one lonely little star made its way across the moonless sky. My father said softly, “Look closely kids. That’s the first satellite and it’s gonna change the world.” His words were prophetic. He badly blew his later prediction about the demise of the Beatles but he sure nailed that Sputnik one. Today there are over eight thousand man made objects orbiting the earth and on top of one a little camera transports me in ways my father could not have foreseen. From my home in Minnesota, staring at my computer screen, I orbit halfway across the country in seconds and descend to about a thousand feet above my hometown. It’s not a live picture. In fact, it was taken five years ago but it captures my town below looking much as it did in my boyhood. The streets are laid out as they were and the houses all where they belong and the Allegheny still flows through, yet I know that much has changed.

I fly over my high school where the track team gathers at one end of the football field. In white hoodies they look like a flock of gulls against the dark rubber track. I hover slowly over the community pool and toward Hillside Cemetery where many of my family are buried. Then I soar above the hill toward my house. This is the hill for generations and for descriptive purposes called Old Baldy. Now the late afternoon sun casts long shadows through Baldy’s stark April forest. Visually it becomes chaotic and briefly I lose my way before climbing higher to regain my bearing. My neighborhood and then the top of my house appear. My parent’s pickup truck still sits in the driveway though they moved to Connecticut three years ago. I ascend. The chaos of forests and shadows reappear and then I stop. There is something in the trees—an odd convergence of shadow. I drop down for a better view but losing too much photographic clarity I rise again. There it is. I know what I’m seeing. I’ve found The Rocks.

They are house-sized boulders, slid about by glaciers long ago and conveniently deposited

high on the hill behind our home. They’ve changed very little since. During the eighteen years I lived in that town and every time I visited thereafter, I climbed the steep trail to The Rocks. Season after season I returned. Many times each summer and several times each deep winter, I went there with friends or family or all by myself. As a little guy climbing fast I could get there in half an hour or so. I doubt I could do it faster now. The more impressive rocks have names. The two largest are Elephant and Bird. On top of Elephant is a large slab called Table Rock. Another is named Pyramid and everywhere are smaller boulders tossed about creating room sized caves and one tight-squeeze tunnel. The tunnel was a frightening rite of passage for every child who found it as was the thrill of first scaling the front of Bird.

A memory

My best buddy lived across a field and over the little creek behind my house. In the late winter of our sixth grade year his parents had to fly to California where his dad was interviewing for a new job. They asked my parents if Craig could stay with us for a week. He and I were thrilled, almost as much as my little sister who adored my best friend. On the way to and from school each day we tried to encourage our hopes that his parents would turn down the job and stay in our town.

One summer night a few months later, Craig and I and our neighbor buddy David camped all night at The Rocks. I was a bit surprised that our parents allowed us to do it by ourselves but we convinced them that it was important. It was, after all, Craig’s going away party. We hiked up there early in the evening carrying sleeping bags, canteens, hotdogs and buns. We collected a lot of fire wood, started a blaze beneath an over hang and waited for the darkness. We didn’t sleep much. I’d never spent a night out in the woods and was spooked by the eerie squeaking of trees in the breeze. Foolishly we’d decided to sleep on the rock rather than the ground but we weren’t planning on sleeping anyway. Instead we talked most the night about all the fun we’d had together and even dared to share that we would miss each other a lot after Craig moved away. We told each other that, no matter what, we’d always be friends. Pretty vulnerable stuff for little boys.

Two days later I stood quietly in the street in front of Craig’s house as he and his three younger siblings climbed into the sedan with his mom. The little ones were all crying and his mom was in a frazzle. His dad was waiting in California already busy at a new job. His mom would drive the family, by herself, across the entire country to Sacramento. Craig was quiet. We shook hands the way men do and I slapped him on the back as he turned to climb in the back seat with the baby. Then they pulled away. I knew they were going to say goodbye to some friends out on the east end of town so I rode my bike as fast as I could to the Tastee Freeze on Main St. I thought I might be able to wave goodbye when they drove back through. I sat at a picnic table for about twenty minutes and just when I thought I might have missed them, I saw the car approaching. Craig looking out the side window lifted his hand. I lifted mine. And then they were gone. It was terribly sad and perhaps the first time I realized that nothing remains the same. Everything changes… except maybe The Rocks.

Nearly fifty years later, staring at my computer screen I can see there has been activity in the woods. A number of new trails are cut for logging equipment and a few areas culled pretty thin so somebody’s making money. Even this economic change for the better makes me sad. I am, however, not concerned about The Rocks. Even in poor detail, the convergence of shadow is consistent with my memory. I can easily identify Elephant and Bird. The last time I climbed her I was surprised to find large trees growing on top of Elephant but she was, of course, still there. The same is true of the little town below nestled in the valley, shining on my screen and imprinted on my soul. It will change some for the better and some for the worse but it’s not going anywhere soon… and that makes me glad.

Three pretty girls walk toward my sister. They’re downtown. It’s a warm summer afternoon in '67. They all know Sally. This is. after all, a small town and well… she was the prom queen. “Smile girls,” she says. They do and Sally snaps the picture.

We are standing almost on the tarmac at the Mt. Alton Airport in a nearly forgotten time when, on summer days, we sometimes waited behind a wrought iron fence for planes to land. We would hear the twin engines roaring off in the distance and then see the Allegheny Airliner flying in from Pittsburgh, coming in low over the treetops and landing on one of the two runways. We covered our ears as it taxied within fifty feet. When the engines turned off and the props stopped spinning a man would open the iron gate and with a smile motion us through. We’d walk right out to the bottom of the planes’ descending stairway to wait for the passengers. By the time they stepped on the tarmac and everybody hugged, the man who opened the gate would have loaded the luggage on a handcart and pulled it over by the fence. We’d walk to the cart, grab a suitcase and head out to the parking lot.

In the slide I’m almost fourteen years old and had been through the routine plenty of times. People from our area occasionally flew off on vacations and when they returned we’d sometimes pick them up. But this day, as we pose for the camera—this day is different. Today, for the first time, my family and I are the ones flying. And flying as a family will not be my only new experience. In a couple hours, my father and I will play our first game of pool and then I will have my first brush with fame.

We were heading for San Francisco but couldn’t get there without a stop in Detroit. I was looking forward to the three-hour layover. I’d been in the Detroit airport the year before while traveling by myself—returning from my own vacation with relatives. At that time, unfortunately, the airlines deemed it necessary to escort me while outside the fuselage. I felt like a prisoner. To make it worse there was another minor on the plane with whom I shared the experience. She was a chatty, unattractive girl on her way home to Pittsburgh. Unfortunately, my route made a connection in Pittsburgh so we were required to stay together with an attendant for a couple hours while awaiting our flight. I sat uncomfortably as our female escort and the girl talked on and on about braces and dances and boyfriends. It was embarrassing. I stared from my seat in the terminal rotunda to an upper level where people played pool in a billiards parlor.

Now, a year later, I found my window seat toward the back of the plane. “Hey Dad,” I said, “When we get to Detroit can we shoot a little pool?” I’d always wanted to try the game. There was a pool hall in my town. It was just a couple buildings from my barbershop so I’d looked inside a few times. I didn’t actually go in the place but during the summer, when it was really hot, the door stood open and I could see dangerous looking people, mostly high school dropouts, hovering over the tables, vulture like, with a pool stick in one hand and a cigarette in the other. I noticed that they laughed and shouted the word "damn" quite a lot. You could hear it way down the street.

My father helped my little sister with her seat belt. “We’re only in Detroit for a couple hours,” he said, “I doubt we’ll have time to look for a pool hall.”

“Oh no Dad,” I said as if I traveled through Detroit regularly. “There’s one right in the airport. I can take you there.”

“Well then,” he said, “if we have time we’ll check it out.” Then he looked at my mother and they smiled. Apparently something struck them funny.

We arrived in Detroit ahead of schedule and had more than enough time for my father and me to play our first game of pool together. He was very good or very lucky. After a few games he paid the clerk and then said to me, “I’m going down below and check on the women. You can wander around the terminal a bit if you want. Probably a good idea to stay close though.”

Halfway down the stairs we saw my mother and sisters in a waiting area just up the hallway to the left. Straight ahead, sitting on the edge of the rotunda fountain were several college aged guys. I couldn’t see them clearly because a group of girls, who looked to be about my age, stood in front of them facing away from me prancing about excitedly. My father turned left at the bottom of the stairs and I walked toward the fountain. One of the girls let out a scream and thrust her hand in the air holding a piece of scrap paper. It was then I realized that the guys were signing autographs. When I was within ten feet the girls screamed a chorus of “Oh thank yous,” and gushed off down the hall to the left, their heads close together staring at each other’s papers.

I now stood directly in front of the boys—or maybe they were young men. I couldn’t tell. There was, at that moment, no one else in the terminal. I stood staring at them. They sat staring at me. I could tell they were waiting for me to say something—almost leaning forward in anticipation of my comment or request. But as I looked from face to face—left to right— though they looked vaguely familiar, I couldn’t identify them. Then the skinniest guy on the far right said, “I think we better go guys.” I hadn’t gotten down the line to his face yet but glanced directly at him when he spoke. He had on a little corded captain’s hat—the same kind Davey Jones of the Monkees wore. He held drumsticks and casually beat out a complex rhythm on his thigh. I knew immediately who he was. He was Gary Lewis.

Gary Lewis and the Playboys was a huge band that year having hit the Top Ten seven times with releases including "Count Me In", "Save Your Heart For Me", “Just My Style”, “ Everybody Loves a Clown” and "This Diamond Ring” that went all the way to number one. I knew every word to every song. Now I recognized all the guys. I’d seen the band five times on Ed Sullivan.

I turned toward our concourse and could just make out my older sister Sally sitting in a chair, reading her “Seventeen”. Surprisingly she glanced my way and I shot my hand up.

I ran halfway to Sally frantically gesturing. She stood and walked casually my way. I sprinted the remaining distance grabbed her elbow and started speed walking her toward the band who appeared to be fleeing. I was surprised. I’d seen “A Hard Day's Night” three times. It was filled with scenes of screaming kids chasing the Beatles around London. Gary Lewis and the Playboys were huge stars but they sure weren’t The Beatles—they weren’t even British and it’s not like Sally and I were a mob. Why would they run from us? But as they turned down a concourse at the other end of the rotunda I realized we were chasing and they were getting away.

Sally was irritated. “What are you doing?” she snapped pulling her arm away.

We sprinted across the rotunda and saw them ahead standing at a boarding gate down the hall. The two in the back glanced nervously toward us and motioned the others to hurry. Gary Lewis spoke to a desk agent who looked our way and then gestured the band to follow. They disappeared around the corner. We reached the spot only seconds later and saw the last guy going through the jet way door. The others were ahead laughing, jostling, heading toward the plane. We watched the agent close the door and walk behind her podium to begin boarding the other passengers.

My sister looked disgusted. “That wasn’t Gary Lewis and the Playboys,” she said.

“Excuse me Mam,” I said. “We were just wondering if you could tell us. Was that...”

We walked back excitedly to tell our parents never wondering what we would have done had we caught them. I guess maybe we would have stood there and stared a while. I might have said hello.

That was my first of many encounters with famous people—singers, television and movie stars, sports figures and politicians. My vocation has introduced me to many but most often the encounters have been in airports and on planes. That is, after all, how these people get to and from work.

The next encounter after Gary Lewis occurred nearly a decade later. It was a double—two stars in one day. I was, by this time, beginning a career in performing, mostly singing and telling stories. Judy and I lived in Chicago where I worked in a Children’s Theater during the week. On weekends I occasionally flew away with my guitar slung over my shoulder. I went wherever people would pay me. I went wherever people would pay me anything at all.

One Saturday morning I walked down a concourse at O’Hare and saw Jim Yester leaning against a wall carefully observing me walking toward him. Jim was part of the popular band The Association and was someone I had admired since jr. high. I looked at him and he smiled. “You’re Jim Yester,” I said informatively.

“I sure am,” he answered and reaching out his hand he asked, “What’s your name?”

“Oh… I write songs. I’m singing for some kids in Buffalo tonight. Hey… I’m a huge fan,” I said. “Really nice to meet you.”

He took a step back toward his departure gate and motioned me to follow. “If you have a minute—come over here and I’ll introduce you to the guys.”

And that’s what he did. Behind him sat the rest of the band. “Hey gentlemen. This is my new buddy Bob. He plays guitar and writes his own songs—our kinda man.” All but one looked up and smiled. Terry Kirkman, who wrote “Cherish” and many other big hits, extended his hand and I shook it.

The guys were not as talkative as Jim so I stood awkwardly smiling for a moment and then glancing at my watch I said, “Gotta go. Nice to meet you.”

Jim shook my hand again. “Happy Life,” he said with a smile and waved goodbye.

I was impressed. I have often reflected upon the encounter because it was unlike most to follow. I don’t know why he was so kind. Perhaps he saw me as a young kid with no idea how tough it could be to make a living as a minstrel. Maybe I reminded him of himself a decade earlier. Maybe he’s just a really nice guy. I don’t know. But I know our encounter was not typical.

A couple hours later I landed in Buffalo where I walked down another concourse and decided to stop in a café for a quick cup of coffee. There sat Wilt Chamberlain. I didn’t have to wonder if it was him. LA played the Braves the night before. He sat, his knees rising above the top of the little table. He ate Corn Flakes. I thought of my little brother in law and the possibility of handing him Wilt’s autograph moved me toward the table. Wilt did not raise his gaze above his cereal bowl. I stood for a few seconds digging in my jacket for a pen and retrieving my airline ticket from my back pocket. Still he looked at his bowl. “Excuse me,” I said, “I wonder if you’d mind….”

“Yeah I would mind,” he snarled. “ I’m wondering if you’d mind letting me eat my Corn Flakes.” He did not lift his gaze. “Would that be too much to ask? Do you suppose it would be okay if a guy could just eat some Corn Flakes without being bothered?”

“No problem,” I said feeling my face flush in embarrassment. “Sorry.” I didn’t bother ordering coffee. I walked away and promised myself that I would never again ask anyone for an autograph. I never have.

I have a friend who loves the idea of spotting celebrities. She’s interested in popular culture. She enjoys movies, and her favorite TV shows. She hosts a fun Oscar party every year on the evening of The Academy Awards. Because of her interests, there are a lot of celebrities she would enjoy encountering. We once sat with our families in a San Diego restaurant and another friend reported spotting Elton John earlier that day. She lit up with excitement. Responding a bit dismissively I said, “I would not walk across the street to see Sir Elton.”

“That’s not true,” she teased. “If you knew he was in that store over there, you’d go.”

I’ve thought about this a lot and I stand by what I said. I would not cross the street to see Elton John. I just can’t imagine being interested enough to take the steps. I could not, however, say the same of James Taylor. If James was across the street, I’d go over, but not so I could see him. I would go with the hope of thanking him for all the enjoyment he’s given me through the years. I know it’s an odd thing but I feel as though I have a relationship with James. And, if it’s odd for me, it must be really weird for him but I think he understands. Relationships are created through communication. One party speaks. The other listens and then responds back. James has been speaking to me for many years and I’ve been listening. I just haven’t had the opportunity to respond. So I’d enjoy walking across the street to say thanks.

I got the chance to do that very thing with Davy Jones. He sat in row 4B directly across the aisle from me. He spoke with a woman to his left and I recognized his voice before I looked at his face. “Well, how about that,” I thought. “It’s Davy Jones.” When we disembarked I stood and said, “Davy,” thanks for all the fun you gave me so many years ago. I appreciate it.”

I wouldn’t have that conversation with Elton John. I know many people would. I’m just not one. I don’t feel like I have a relationship with Elton. He may have been trying to speak to me through the years but I wasn’t listening so I have nothing to say. And that’s exactly how I feel about dozens of other celebrities who I’ve encountered in airports or on planes. I feel no excitement or fascination at all. I just see people going to work or flying back home —Dionne Warwick, Forest Whittaker, Martin Sheen, John Ratzenberger, Hal Linden (remember Barney Miller?), Brock Lesnar, Jesse Ventura, John Thompson, The entire Detroit Pistons basketball team, Teller of Penn and Teller, Richard Simmons (noisey flight) and of course Garrison Keillor.

I live in Garrison’s city and we fly out of the same airport so I’ve encountered him several times. Because he is arguably America’s favorite storyteller it is unsurprising that I would feel a kinship with him. But he is also, admittedly, America’s shyest storyteller. I’ve taken several opportunities to thank him for his work. Each time he muttered something.

Tiny Tim flew with me from Detroit. With his tall frame, large hooked nose, and stringy grey hair he was impossible to miss. There were less than thirty of us on the plane so most of the seats were empty. He sat across the aisle. I noticed that his grey hair was just about the color of his skin. The flight attendant announced that, due to the small number of passengers, we were free to choose a more comfortable seat. Tiny Tim shuffled way back to the last row where he sat alone looking out his window. Of course I can’t say he felt lonely but he sure looked that way. He died a week or two later. The memory saddens me.

As does my memory of Jerry Springer though not because he looked lonely. Unlike Tiny Tim, Jerry was surrounded on the plane with at least a half dozen noisy people though I couldn’t tell if they were friends or just fans who sucked on to him as he walked down the concourse. I sat in row five directly behind Jerry. I half expected a couple overweight trailer park women, sitting back by the lavatories, to parade up the aisle and claim that Jerry was responsible for their pregnancies. I imagined the plane cheering, “Jer Ree! Jer Ree! Jer Ree!” Listen… I don’t know Jerry Springer. I don’t know the man’s heart. But… I hate what he does for a living and it was sad to feel so little in common with another human being.

That was in contrast to my flight with Fred Rogers. I was living in Massachusetts and flying out of Bradley Airport serving the Springfield/Hartford area. Fred had been in Connecticut where he received and honorary doctorate at Yale. As I stood in line to board my flight I saw the familiar face of jazz pianist Johnny Costa who, being the musical director of Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood, made frequent appearances on the show. I introduced myself and thanked him for his great work, telling him how much my own children loved Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood and what that meant to Judy and me.

“Oh thanks so much,” he said. “When we get on the plane I’d love to have you share that with Fred. He’ll appreciate it so much.”

I expected to see him in first class but we passed by and walked several rows into coach where Fred sat talking very quietly and patiently to a little girl. The girl seemed quite unsurprised to see him on her plane but her mother was beaming. Fred reached out his hand to greet the woman and introduced himself.

"Hello, I’m Fred Rogers,” he said. Then placing his hands on the little girl’s head almost as in a blessing he said, “You have a very sweet daughter.”

“Thank you so much,” she said. “Amanda, can you say thank you to Mr. Rogers?”

“Fred,” Johnny Costa said, “I want you to meet Bob. He’s a musician and a storyteller.”

“Hi Fred,” I said, “Thanks so much for the joy you’ve brought to my two little boys and my wife and me. I was just telling Johnny that the kids can be bouncing off the walls but when he starts to play the theme music and you walk in that door they are mesmerized. And you hold them for half an hour. It’s amazing really.”

“Well that is so wonderful to hear Bob,” he said sounding remarkably like… well actually just like Mr. Rogers. “You know… here’s the thing.” He said, “I look into that camera and I imagine I’m speaking right to your boys. That’s the secret. But it’s not a trick. I’m talking right to them and you can tell them that.”

He was not guarded. While we spoke he looked me right in the eye. It was as if he recognized the relationship I felt with him and was not threatened. Ninety minutes later, at the baggage carousel in Pittsburgh, I grabbed my suitcase and glanced toward Johnny and Fred. They were looking toward me. They waved and Fred shouted, “Nice to meet you Bob. Hope to see you again.” I actually believed him. I still do. That was my best celebrity encounter though not nearly as thrilling as the day my sister and I chased fame through the terminal in Detroit. I’ll not experience that excitement ever again.

Through the last couple years, as a result of some success in my work, I myself have a small degree of celebrity status. By this I mean that I get recognized very often—mostly at the airport. It’s always people who are happy to share how much they’ve enjoyed a performance—people who just want to say thank you. It’s nice to never feel the urge to run away like Gary did. I always try to have an encouraging smile and a ready handshake like Jim. Most of all, I try to be loving and real and patient like Fred. People deserve that much. After all, they didn’t initiate the relationship.

Our parents were not familiar with the band we’d chased through the terminal though my mother didn’t care much for their name. We made our way outside to await the plane that would carry us to San Francisco. My father lined us up on a bench. My little sister Ingrid was, of course, clueless. Sally tried to look composed the way she might imagine the girls in "Seventeen". I was still elated, reliving every moment of our breathtaking pursuit. He snapped our picture.

Film is exposed at the speed of light but most of us don’t move that quickly. That’s why we’re so often caught unprepared in photographs. In this slide my mother is somewhere between facial expressions and my big sister who is tenderly cradling our little sister’s doll… well… who knows what going on there? But my grandfather, the subject of the photo, smiles in obvious delight at his Christmas gift. It is a King Size paint-by-number oil set from Craftint. My father raised the camera, focused carefully and snapped the picture.

“Sheesh Dad,” Sally complained. “Thanks for letting me know. That’s gonna look stupid.”

My grandfather turned the box around so I could see. The two panels shown on the front were shown on the back as well though one of them, the one of The Last Supper, was pictured in stunning color. I followed along as he read aloud.

Each set contains, two huge 18 x 24 genuine artist's panels, 30 numbered jars of oil paint, 3 deluxe artist's brushes, a large bottle of brush cleaner, and complete directions.

It's exciting and challenging for you to paint the 2 beautiful panels in each King Size Set. Remember BOTH of the panels paint-up in FULL COLOR! One is shown in black-and-white merely to withhold the thrill of achieving the actual FULL COLOR results!”

My grandfather laughed. “No Bobby. I think I’ll work on these myself. This project is going to take some very careful work. You see, this is what you call real art.” And with that he raised the age- old question. What is art?

My mother and father bought the gift knowing he would love it. He had retired from the bottle factory and needed something to keep himself busy. And, where some would suffer from the tedium of filling one paint number at a time for hours on end, my grandfather had just finished forty years on the line putting bottles in boxes one by one, hour after hour, day after day. Tedium would not be a problem. Furthermore he had an artistic bent—or at least a creative one. He loved to build things. He played nearly a dozen instruments including the musical saw. He sang, whistled, whittled and carved. And he’d been hinting about a paint-by-number set. For years he’d seen full-page Life magazine advertisements promising that anyone could be a Rembrandt. Of course it wasn’t quite true. What they meant was, anyone could put paint on a panel - or as Craftint called it a HUGE 18 X 24 genuine artist’s panel –and after a few days or maybe weeks they could have a painting that reminded one of Rembrandt. But, of course, Rembrandt never painted the way these paint-by-number painters did. I wonder though…what if he had? What if Rembrandt or Leonardo or Michelangelo or Picasso had decided to create this way? I’m guessing these guys could have still pulled off some real art?

Craftint did not start the odd revolution. In fact Michelangelo may be guilty of inspiring the whole thing by assigning pre-numbered pieces of his famous chapel ceiling to his students. But Palmer Paints, the first of many paint-by-number companies, launched Craft Master in 1951. In the first two years they sold nearly five million kits created by a staff of twenty-five full time artist/designers. Wide-eyed kittens, Scotty puppies, New England seascapes, Swiss Alps, tropical lagoons, Alaskan glaciers, oriental shrines, Venetian canals, snowy egrets and yes even nudes—all could be painted by anyone able to hold a brush and see. Stores were forced to set up entire paint-by-number departments to handle the rush of sales. In what became a huge publicity ploy, red-faced judges at The San Francisco Art Show awarded third prize to a Craft Master painting. Even President Eisenhower was a paint-by-number enthusiast giving kits to his entire White House Staff for Christmas. Television stars “Ozzie and Harriet” were seen on their show dipping a brush into tiny vials of premixed color and painting away at the kitchen table.

Paint-by-numbers were an American craze. Nearly every home had one hanging somewhere. Art critics were, of course, beside themselves—nearly apoplectic—but they held little sway over America. Certainly no one in my town paid them any attention. We lived in a fairly artless, culturally deprived part of the Appalachians. Did we think paint-by-numbers were tacky? Hey, we’d just spent four months gluing together a ten thousand-piece puzzle of the Taj Mahal. We hung it over the fireplace. We were probably the wrong people to ask that question.

“Okay,” the critics said, “but all this staying in the lines is defeating the artistic process and destroying the creative spirit.”

Well, I wasn’t so sure that was true. After all, staying in the lines was pretty much what we did in the 1950s. And who was to say we couldn’t get a little crazy once in a while--maybe use vial number 9 to paint all the 1s and 4s. I’m not saying I ever got so wild but hey—I could have.

My son Nate is a real painter—an artist and teacher. We often find ourselves grappling about the art world. Judy and I recently returned from a trip to Washington where we visited The National Gallery of Art. It was there, one floor down from a gorgeous exhibit of small French landscapes that we gazed upon a shower stall hanging on the wall. It was an old ceramic shower stall just hanging there—about three feet off the ground, placed at a twenty degree angle. I later told Nate, “I’m not sure how many of my tax dollars were used to create this grand masterpiece but whatever I paid was too much.”

“You have to understand Dad,” he said, “There are two camps. There are the fine art people and then there are the conceptual artists. Most of the time, they don’t have much in common.” He went on to explain that fine art is often quite beautiful… or if not beautiful at least displaying the effort of a skillful artist. Fine art is the kind most of us like to hang in the dining room. On the other hand, conceptual art is not concerned with skill. Conceptual art is all about the idea as in, “Hey I have an idea. I think I’ll write a grant to hang that old shower stall on a wall. I’ll put it about three feet above the ground at, let’s say, a twenty-degree angle. I was thinking ‘bout the National Gallery.”

I know that art appreciation is a matter of personal taste. I’ve seen television ads and heard the announcer screaming, “The Starving Artist Sale at The Holiday Inn! Three days only! Original paintings! All for under $14!” A thirty-second ad is long enough to know why these artists are starving and why some should probably die. But, I gotta say… forced to decide between these works and an askew shower stall hanging in my living room, I’m going with the crappy paintings every time.

Nate just earned his MFA. He spent two years creating paintings using old 50s snapshots as source material. I think he did a great job combining skill and concept. In his own words: “My paintings navigate and comment on the historical space of 1950s America as seen in discarded snapshots and slides. Paint and brush become the tools for possessing a photograph and the memories of people and places. The camera captures a moment of frozen time, but by slowly remaking the photographic image into a painting the viewer is compelled to reconsider what is depicted and to search for its inherent meaning.”

What a great concept. And the viewer is indeed compelled—which, I think, is a characteristic of real art. Real art compels one to ponder, consider, contemplate, feel, act, change and on and on.

So here’s what I’m thinking. Conceptual art is about the idea. That being so, can you think of a more exciting idea than the one Dan Robbins thought? In 1950, Dan was a twenty-six year old artist working as a package designer at Palmer Paints. He had an idea. I can’t say he thought of it as conceptual art. It was probably just a way to make money—but what an idea! He decided to make paintings and then deconstruct them into areas of pure unblended color, each color represented by a number. Then he would mail the numbered drawings to millions of people around the world. Many of these people would never have held a paintbrush in their lives but that was the idea. Dan would convince them that if they followed his simple instructions they could create a work of art. If they believed him, it would result in millions of paintings. What would happen in the art world… no…. what would happen in the world if he could pull this off? Well he did pull it off. And what difference did it make? I can only speak for one man.

During January and February of 1964, nearly everyday after school, I stopped by my grandparent’s to see my grandfather’s progress. Each day I got more excited. And so did he. As I walked in the front door I could see him seated at the dining room table covered with newspapers. He peered through the bottom of his bifocals carefully filling in the spaces.

“I finished all the 26s this afternoon,” he said proudly. “Now I’m thinking it’s time to stop before I go blind. Look it here.” Then he held up the panel so I could see and each day I was more amazed. If I stood far enough away, all the pure colors blended beautifully. “Yes sirree Bobby,” he said. “This is gonna be some real art.”

What did Dan Robbin’s dream mean to my grandfather? I can honestly say that I never saw him happier.

LIFE ON THE CAROUSEL