CANVAS BLUES
Vignettes Regarding the Artwork of Brendon Kotes

XXXIX: Yesteryears

There are some kids who, finding out their parents think a certain way, latch on to it like glue. Faith, politics, morals. Just the tip of the iceberg, those are. Entire families create dynasties in this way…or at least a locally owned gas station chain.

Then there are other kids, the kind who, upon finding out a parent’s belief, will run like hell the opposite way. Called “contrary.” “Difficult.” Or, Casey’s favorite: “wild.”

So when Casey’s father began his ranting on about Taylor L. being a cheap-ass mother-fucker who wouldn’t know his fender from his tranny if they both hit him upside the head, well, Casey took that as permission to get to know the newly minted drag winner. He’d tag along, on the outskirts of that circle, perched on the tailgate of someone else’s truck, elbows on knees as he listened and laughed and talked shop with young men twice his age and just as reckless.

Brendon found out later—much later—that Taylor L. had been only twenty-one during that first race. Messed up nose from too many boys-will-be-boys neighborhood brawls. Crooked teeth, not because his parents didn’t have dental, but because they just kept “forgetting” to go to checkups. Hair to his shoulders, dark and wavy and full, yet pulled back into a tight bun the moment things got serious.

And things were always serious during midnight hour, illegal races down Ol’ North Main.

At least according to Casey. Continue reading →

CANVAS BLUES
Vignettes Regarding the Artwork of Brendon Kotes

XXXVIII: Present

Brendon waited until the car doors both closed. “If you’re going to accost all my previous customers about their grief, I won’t share any more of them with you.”

“She liked me. She called me young man. No one but my mother calls me that.”

“You have a mother?”

Orion sat back in the driver’s seat and pursed his lips in an unreadable expression.

“When I was working on the painting, she called me young man when she couldn’t remember my name. Be more respectful.”

“I will be the epitome of respect, Mr. Kotes.”

“Sarcasm? Your repertoire must be limited.”

“Why are you upset, truly?” Continue reading →

CANVAS BLUES
Vignettes Regarding the Artwork of Brendon Kotes

XXXVII: Yesteryears

One of the first assignments Mr. Wexlar gave the eighth grade art classes was to paint a study of a habitat. They started with nature, him pushing them to take that autumn to look around, see the world outside of video games and television. Brendon’s first turn-in ended up getting a scowl because the cattail-engulfed and lily-pad-dotted pond for a turtle had not been researched well enough.

“Stop curling things that shouldn’t be curled. Did you bother to actually go to a pond? At the very least do an internet search.”

Brendon had done an internet search; he’d just been a little preoccupied at the time because Casey had been doing push-ups and raging on about Tori Kel some more. The distraction had been real and he’d kept swapping back and forth between sketchbooks, one of them spread on his lap. For reasons.

He then turned in a nesting pole jutting from an inlet off the bay and at least there he got full marks because Mr. Wexlar liked the detail on the osprey. After that, the assignment turned weird because now Mr. Wexlar wanted everyone to create a picture of a person’s habitat.

“Show me who they are! Books for the bookworm! Trophies for the athlete! Get creative. Give me hints in their chosen clothing and layers within the setting. However! No one is one note. Remember that. No one person can be captured completely in a painting, but we can sure try. And that’s what I want you all to do this week.” Continue reading →

CANVAS BLUES
Vignettes Regarding the Artwork of Brendon Kotes

XXXVI: Yesteryears

Between Wild Woods Street and Grazer Road lay a bit of tarmac, crumbling at its sides, that stretched into a hill that waxed from a forty-five degree angle to one just over sixty. All the kids called it The Big Hill since it was a big hill.

The Big Hill was where Tony Surlay practiced skate-boarding tricks and ended up tumbling one autumn, landing at the bottom with a broken arm. The Big Hill was the locale for impromptu summer bike-races for all the neighborhood kids. The Big Hill was where Robbie cracked his forehead open when his tire caught in the chasm of an crack along the edge of the road.

Brendon tore his shirt off that day—primary red with the black lettering of a local rec sports team—and held it to Robbie’s face while Casey ran to Mr. Don’s door and banged and banged as if he hadn’t just shouted obscenities at Robbie, as if he hadn’t cut his rusted bike into Robbie’s brand new six-speed with black paint and green pinstripes and shiny chains and working hand brakes.

Even after they climbed into Mr. Don’s dirty truck and rode to Robbie’s house, Casey remained quiet, a combination of shame and satisfaction in his countenance. Robbie claimed an accident and Brendon hadn’t been snitch enough to tell, but he’d stared at Casey, willing him to admit the part he’d played. Continue reading →

CANVAS BLUES
Vignettes Regarding the Artwork of Brendon Kotes

XXXV: Present

The next of Brendon’s customers they visited was an older lady by the name of Emma Holde. Clutter lined her hallways and stacked itself in piles on the coffee table, the bookshelves, the wide windowsills. But it was the careful sort of clutter. The memories one didn’t wish to toss when memories happened to be all that was left.

Orion stared at the picture—rolling river waves, a boat race in the springtime, a man standing at the helm of one Dandelion Roar while three children crawled about the prow and the sun counted another day in lives worth living.

“That’s me standing beside him,” said Emma, voice aged and fine. She gave a sigh and a secret smile for Brendon, wisps of variegated gray tickling her cheeks. “He got the likeness of us all down, even to the way Gina used to twist her knees in when she was little.”

“How long have you had it?” asked Orion. The picture hung over a well-loved sofa. A focal point in the room. A memory welcoming all the others piled up along the walls.

“Three years,” murmured Brendon.

“That’s right,” agreed Emma. “Three years ago. Tommy commissioned it for me and Gina sifted through all the photos to give Brendon what he needed. Tommy even took him for a tour of a boat the like we used to have. Not the Roar, of course. It’s been long since it sailed its last voyage.”

Orion turned from examining the painting, his gaze cutting across the bookshelves, over the trio of cats lounging in the early sunshafts, and settling on Brendon.

“When was the last time you sailed, Ms. Holde?” Continue reading →

CANVAS BLUES
Vignettes Regarding the Artwork of Brendon Kotes

XXXIII: Yesteryears

The Bayscape sat between a coffee shop and an herbal remedy shop, which meant it smelled about a dozen ways delicious. Peppermint accosted Brendon on two sides as he stared into the wide gallery windows, the edges frosted and the OPEN sign nothing but a wind chime made of letters that tingled and clanked against one another. Inside, no one moved, but canvas and pottery perched on wall space and squat white tables.

He pressed a hand against the window that first afternoon, fingers chilling through his gloves. A want had stirred deep in his gut that day Donna Pierceman had stood in front of the art tables in her flowing, flowery dress. A want that twisted his imagination into dreams that many from his neighborhood harbored in the recesses of their minds. Not of football though or of full-ride scholarships or California beaches or talent discoveries outside Manhattan.

The grip of shyness held him near that window for long minutes. Two streets over, the mechanical church bell sang and then donged four times to announce the hour, like Grandma Angel’s old grandfather clock times ten on the decibel scale.

Like magic, the bell woke Brendon from his ruminating and had him acting before his mind could catch up and second-guess for him. Continue reading →

CANVAS BLUES
Vignettes Regarding the Artwork of Brendon Kotes

XXXII: Present

Jennifer Craugh walked them out and stood on her doorstep to watch them leave. Her head remained cocked as if she attempted to solve the question of what Orion Livesey had truly wanted. Brendon stared at her in the side mirror as Orion pulled away, out into the summer morning and through the young neighborhood with its just-planted trees and too many roses.

“She’s been in those woods,” said Orion.

“You can’t be sure. Not when you frame your questions about dreams.”

“You can’t be sure. I can.”

Brendon shot him an annoyed glare, but Orion didn’t react.

“Aren’t you worried those wolves might tear her apart?” Continue reading →

CANVAS BLUES
Vignettes Regarding the Artwork of Brendon Kotes

XXXI: Yesteryears

Brendon met Donna Pierceman through Mr. Wexler, his art teacher bringing her in one afternoon to speak to all his students. Donna wore a flowery dress that flowed and flowed about her curves as she nervously shifted during her presentation. Her hair—brown and bunned—wisped around her face in escaping curls. Her eyes held the same critical estimation as Mr. Wexlar’s and Aunt Laurel’s.

“The Bayscape focuses on local artists. We feature collections occasionally, but more often than not we do themed displays. We also have a section for students, from elementary to college, to give young men and women, such as yourselves, a chance to showcase your own work.”

Brendon didn’t raise his hands during the question and answer section at the end. Instead, he sat through fifteen minutes of Dylan asking things like, “What if you break a piece of art?” and “What if you hate what someone’s designed?” and “So anyone can put pieces on display in your gallery?”

“Not anyone. We expect quality, but we want to help motivate young artists who are stepping into the field.” Donna cocked her head in a such a manner that made Brendon think Dylan would never have anything on display inside The Bayscape.

After, Brendon lingered, fingers working over the straps of his book bag. Donna didn’t notice, a lot of her nervous bravado sluicing off her back as she checked her phone in a spare moment of relaxation. But Mr. Wexlar did. Continue reading →