By Adam Scott Williams
While it’s unlike me to either acquire “fine” art or, in general, reveal when thrilled, I’ve been doing both recently, gibbering about a particular painting to anyone who passes the threshold of our home. “I’m so happy to have this,” I say, over and over.
The painting is minimalist, using a simple composition and simple colors—only primaries, but for the random, sloppy swipe of green slurping along part of the bottom half. It’s an aesthetic aligned with my current creative impulses.
The 16- by 20-inch canvas of elementary school construction paper features a red car painted with aerodynamic resemblance to a bobsled—or low-rise moccasin—flowing left to right. (Or is it parked?) A distorted, canary-yellow sun peeks from the upper right corner. Most impressive, the crush of the inconsistent, blue sky weighing to a low horizon crashes into an Earth that mimics the sun’s yellow.
The crisp printmanship in the lower right corner identifies the artist—Adam Williams 1B—as a first-grade student. Last fall, at the age of 30, I stole the piece from a closet at my mother’s house. Looking back almost 25 years at the tender, soft-cheeked boy I was, I remember what I’ve known and done, and where I’ve been, since that age. After recently returning from an extended stay in India, I saw the artistic vision I’d held of the world so long ago. With a merry urgency, I ignored my six weeks of filthy laundry to frame the artistic radiance of a 6-year-old. It fits my newly found outlook on life. While in India with my girlfriend-of-four-years-now-fiancée (she said yes while there), I—we—had an epiphany about growing up: It’s OK.
The house my fiancée and I have owned for two years has the address I’ve kept the longest since I left my parents’ home a dozen years ago. There were different dorms and apartments in college. Various assignments and mail slots while in the Army. My apartment—followed by moving into my then-girlfriend’s apartment—in graduate school. And such here-and-there roaming until sort of settling down with a mortgage and a dog.
A varied decade or so: a year in South Korea; three months roaming in Europe; a few weeks in one country or another; later three more months living in a classic Volkswagen bus named Boiohaemum; and, as mentioned, most recently time in India. Hence making the statement about settling down with a mortgage and a dog a fidgety sort of.
Even the marriage proposal in Jaipur, India’s Pink City, was planned before the onset of rooted adulthood. But while in India—in Delhi, Lucknow, Agra and Jaipur—we never warmed to the experience. Life from a backpack no longer felt the way it used to. Traveling—at least for lengthy periods, and in distressing conditions—was no longer as exotic, as adventurous, as ... fulfilling.
While in India, I came to terms with Me. I thought I had resolved that years back. Now my understanding of self includes who I am not. It’s impossible to view anyone or anyplace in the world through eyes other than the ones I have, and that which influences them: that I’m American, male, white, educated—fortunate. That’s who I am. No matter how many times I ride a camel, I won’t be a Bedouin.
In my refusal to grow up and join what I may have for years misconstrued merely as the Status Quo of America, I’ve rejected corporate ladders, cubicles and a 401(k). I’ve scrimped income for basic bills or travel and have foregone pleasures of Saturdays spent splitting firewood, repairing the leak in my garage’s roof or vegging out with friends to watch football.
I’ve tormented myself over whom to be and not to be while watching TV aided by rabbit ears of marginal utility, listening to National Public Radio and complaining about the imperfections of Bush, low wages and all other disparities on the planet. Guilt and rebellion have driven a lifestyle opposed to stable comfort.
No more.
I returned from India with a new balance in reality. Reflections on a child’s painting eased comfort in knowing: that my 130-year-old St. Louis house is capable of being a home, with a little attention; that I can enjoy the privileges that accompany the geography of my birth without losing my compassion for the world; that consistency is not necessarily an enemy ...
And that growing up, getting married and joining the happy and settled in St. Louis is ... (with a sigh of relief) OK.
