Julia squinted at her painting and stepped back. She looked at the mirror on the wall of her studio. The reflection revealed false junctures in her painting. The mistakes that her eyes had missed.
She returned in earnest to her painting. Readjusting. Modifying values and correcting the aerial perspective. She stood back again and reappraised her efforts.
Something was still wrong. Julia felt a disquietude in her creative heart. Lately, all her paintings left her uninspired. Deep down, she knew that something was lacking.
It was then that she heard the scream in her backyard.
* * *
A gift to himself
Edward Larson recently moved to the hills of Los Gatos, California as a gift to himself. His entire finance career had been in New York, a city he loved dearly. But retirement and the death of his partner, David, changed things.
Edward visited northern California many times on business trips. Something about the charm of Los Gatos, with its many shops and restaurants, spoke to him.
After retirement and losing David, Edward knew it was time to move and begin a new chapter. Finance may have been Edward’s professional life, but his passion had always been art. Particularly, avian art.
He used to draw birds as a boy. He found a sense of tenderness and spirituality in the presence of birds.
His favorite bird of all? The peacock.
* * *
Encounter in the backyard
Startled by the scream, Julia grabbed her cell phone, prepared to call 9–1–1. She looked out her rear, sliding glass door and noticed the hedges moving along the rear of her property.
Just then she saw a slender man in blue jeans and tan polo shirt emerge from the hedges. He had white hair and looked to be about 70 years old.
She cracked the door slightly and yelled out, “Can I help you?”
He waved and shouted, “I’m so sorry to intrude. I’m afraid J.J. has gotten away from me. You haven’t seen him by chance?”
“No, but I heard a scream,” Julia answered.
“J.J. does that when he gets excited,” the elderly gentleman said.
“Who’s J.J.?” Julia asked.
“Oh, he’s my Indian peacock. I named him J. J. because it’s short for John James. Sort of a nod to John James Audubon.”
The gentleman had crossed the lawn and wiped his forehead, clearly a bit winded.
“I really must apologize. I’m your neighbor just beyond the fence line. I moved here last month. My name’s Edward. Edward Larson. But my friends call me Eddy.”
* * *
Stand out from the crowd
Julia realized Eddy was no threat and offered him a glass of lemonade. Eddy readily accepted and the two sat down in the kitchen to chat.
Julia learned about Eddy’s former career in finance and the loss of his partner, David. She told Eddy that she was a professional artist and worked at home in her studio. Eddy’s eyes lit up.
“I love art. Especially avian art. David and I collected many pieces over the years. Paintings, sculptures. I’d love to see your work sometime,” Eddy said.
“Well, I don’t paint birds, but I’m happy to show you my landscapes,” Julia offered.
Julia led Eddy to her open studio, with a northern light facing window and many landscapes adorning the walls.
Eddy smiled and studiously took in her work. “I see you favor a muted palette. Very strong work. I’ve always admired tonalist painters. Their restraint and subtle values.”
Julia could see that Eddy was knowledgeable about art. Also, he had a kind and gentle disposition. He was easy to talk to.
“I’ll be honest, Eddy. Lately, I’ve been feeling stuck. Something’s missing. When I compare my work to others in the art magazines, it all looks the same to me.” Julia sighed.
“I had an artist friend in New York who went through the same problem,” Eddy said as he sat down in one of the studio chairs. “I shared something that seemed to help him. It has to do with standing out from the crowd. I’m happy to share it with you if you like.”
Julia slid a chair closer to Eddy, sat down and said, “Absolutely.”
* * *
Peacock wisdom for artists
“Julia, if you want to get the attention your artwork deserves, then you have to stand out from the crowd. It’s fine to possess technical skills, but what gets noticed is unique work. Interesting work. Authenticity. It’s about listening to your creative voice.” Eddy sipped his lemonade and continued.
“What I love about peacocks is their uniqueness. Besides their colorful tail feathers, peacocks also make a loud and distinctive call that demands attention.
“Well, that’s for sure! Your J.J. scared the heck out of me today,” Julia said.
“Peacocks command attention. They’re bold. They stand out from the crowd with their beauty. They show their true colors. Do you show the beauty in your art? Does your art command attention? Or do you mask it out of fear? I’ve met a lot of artists who played it safe,” Eddy said.
He looked directly at Julia. “Do you know what makes the feathers of peacocks so brilliant? It’s microscopic, crystal-like structures in their feathers that reflect different wavelengths of light. Depending on how they’re spaced, the result is bright, fluorescent colors. That’s their secret.”
“So, what you’re saying is that I have to find my own secret to standing out. But how do I do that?” Julia asked.
“There’s a photographer I like named David Bayles. I memorized something profound he wrote:
‘The seed of your next artwork lies embedded in the imperfections of your current piece. Such imperfections are your guides–valuable, objective, non-judgmental guides to matters you need to reconsider or develop further.’
So, if you want to stand out like a peacock, take a closer look at your current artwork.” Eddy sat back, gazing at Julia’s landscapes.
“Look there, at the fresh painting on the easel. I see close values, muted tones. But I also see some specks of vibrant color. They don’t seem to belong in your picture, but there they are.” Eddy pointed at the painting.
“Yeah, I was getting frustrated and tried to experiment with some flecks of color. But now that you mention it, I’ve been wanting to loosen up and introduce stronger contrast and color,” Julia said.
“Unlike the male peacocks, female peahens are a mottled, drab, brown color. They blend into the bushes so that predators can’t see them while incubating their eggs. As an artist, you don’t want to be a peahen! You don’t want to blend in. You want to stand out, Julia,” Eddy said with a smile.
* * *
Birds of a feather
Suddenly a piercing shriek came from the rear yard. Julia and Eddy jumped up and went to the back of the house. There on the rear patio was J. J., strutting around and pecking at the ground.
Eddy opened the door, walked over and scooped up his peacock. He turned back to Julia and said, “You know the old saying, ‘Birds of a feather, flock together.’ Birds stick together because there’s safety in numbers, Julia. But artists, well, the best seem to stand out. Like J. J. here!”
Julia nodded, amazed at the wisdom coming from this refined, elderly man and his peacock.
“David used to love the Grateful Dead,” Eddy added. “He once shared a Jerry Garcia line with me:
‘It’s not enough to be the best at what you do; you must be perceived as the only one who does what you do.’
They say that birds of a feather flock together. But you don’t want to blend in with the flock. Stand out from the crowd. Amplify the clues in your current work. Before you know it, you’ll be on your way!”
With that, Eddy thanked Julia for the lemonade, waved and headed back across the yard. Julia, amazed by the entire encounter, returned to her studio. Anxious to stop playing it safe. Excited to discover her more authentic, bolder self. Ready to embrace a more vibrant palette of color.
Just like the feathers of an Indian peacock.
* * *
Playing it safe?
Are you still flying with the same artistic flock? Playing it safe? Emulating others? Afraid to show your true colors?
Maybe it’s time to spread your wings and show the world who you really are? Leave the flock, chart your own path, embrace your unique talents, and stand out like a peacock!
Before you go
I’m John P. Weiss. I draw cartoons, paint, and write about life. Get on my free email list here for the latest artwork and writing.
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Previously published on “Personal Growth”, a Medium publication.
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Artwork by John P. Weiss
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