Claude's
Vanishing Point
by John Haynes
Lance and I
lost a member of our family the other day.
His name was Claude Anderson. He was an artist.
Subscribers who have been with Lance and I from the
beginning will remember Claude's stunning painting of Daniel Quinn's fictional gorilla
Ishmael, which graced the cover of the Winter 1996 issue of ILLUSIONS. Quinn liked the
picture so much he bought the original oil painting from Claude, and later used the image
on the cover of his book MY ISHMAEL.
When Lance and I were casting about for artists and
photographers whose work we might feature in ILLUSIONS, Constance introduced us to Claude.
He lived in a small house in a marginal section of Oklahoma City, and he shared this house
with his friend, partner, and landlord George Oswalt. Claude had use of two small
bedrooms. One he slept in. The other he painted in. The living room was used for storage
and the dining room was George's studio space.
Claude called the place Ronin Studio.
It was a funky place to visit. Always lively. On
weekends when both George and Claude were there, blues would be blasting from the stereo.
The place smelled like oil paint. If I dropped by to visit, odds are there'd be others
there, too, because Claude maintained a kind of an open door policy. His place was a
magnet for bohemians, and those who were trying to work up the courage to be bohemian. And
though Claude was 59 years old, as often as not you'd find just as many kids there as
older folks.
A slender man with light red hair and matching beard,
Claude spoke with an Okie accent, his quiet baritone often punctuated with laughter. He
smiled frequently and rarely seemed disturbed about anything. Years earlier Claude had
abandoned the 8-to-5 to devote himself to his painting. This in itself fascinated and
amazed me, as I've been trying to work up the courage to do the same thing [except with
writing] for years. So few who quit the straight life ever succeed; and by that I don't
mean "succeed in their art" or "succeed financially." I mean, so few
ever succeed in merely following that first step----continuing to liberate themselves from
the "normal" world so that they may operate ever after on its periphery as
Claude did. As a ronin---a masterless samurai.
It took courage, as I said. And for his courage
Claude was one of my heroes. He and I would talk about this from time to time. "Not
many people can get by on what I earn," he said, "which was about $8000 last
year." This was a few years ago, when we first met. In later years he was teaching a
couple of art classes a week, and probably selling more work, so he undoubtedly made more
money in the final years of his life. But not much more.
Claude kept the studio very neat. Books were arranged
evenly on the shelves, the bed was always made, brushes and pencils were lined up like
surgical instruments on his tables, drawers were labeled in his meticulous calligraphy,
and he always knew exactly where to find any bit of archived material. He had a Japanese
sense of order and precision; maybe he was always that way, or maybe this sense of order
infused itself into his soul after his tour of Japan while in the Army. The Zen experience
was a constant in Claude's heart.
From time to time we'd bump into each other at the
Red Cup, the local coffeehouse close to Claude's place. We'd chat, inquire about our
respective projects, speculate on future happenings, and let the hours flow past. If I had
a few extra dollars I'd buy the coffee. It was my way of thanking Claude for being here on
this strange planet with us. I couldn't afford to buy much of his work, though it was very
reasonably priced, so I bought the coffee instead. Support---and caffeinate---your local
artist.
Claude lived as if the Internet, computers, and
digital technology had never come into being. He had an old rotary dial phone that weighs
about 15 pounds. There was no TV in his home. From time to time I would encourage him to
let me post his art on our web site, and he agreed, but neither of us ever followed up. I
regret this deeply, because Claude's surreal images, with their extraordinary use of color
[and often, fierce but humorous social commentary---he loved poking fun of sacred cows
through his art] would have been one of the highlights of our site.
Two days after Claude died, I rode the scooter over
to the studio to visit George. We sat out on the front porch chatting. There were a few
other guys there, and they told me how Claude had been laid out in the funeral
home---wearing a kimono, his legs covered in a favorite Japanese blanket, wearing a skull
cap with feathers. In his hand he held incense, and among the many flowers people sent
there was a beautiful bamboo arrangement, sent by a former girlfriend who was traveling in
Europe when she got the news of his death. Claude loved bamboo and painted it in the
manner of the Japanese brush masters.
Later that evening I rode to a gathering held in
Claude's honor at a local restaurant in an old Oklahoma City arts district. Inside there
was a poetry reading in progress, unrelated to our gathering, so the Claude Contingent
spilled out onto the sidewalk...and the sidewalk, for one full block, was filled with
people. Artists, hippies, women who had modeled for him, and of course his family. As the
sun went down we were treated to an uncharacteristically mild, pleasant July evening.
Everyone was happy, for the most part, celebrating the life of this very unusual man.
I spent a couple of hours looking at all the
interesting people, chatting with those at my table, and offering my remembrances of
Claude to his family. One person told me: "Claude was a free man---TRULY free."
"Yes, he was," I agreed. "One of the
few I've ever met."
When it was time to leave, I walked down the block
toward my motorcycle and came to a low table on which was placed a memory book Claude's
infant grandson will carry with him into the future. The pages were black, the ink from
the pen silver. I knelt before the table, offered my thoughts, signed my name, then made
my way to the bike. Until this moment I had been quite animated and happy, but there was a
finality to signing my name in that book that caused me to suddenly choke up.
Riding along on the way home I had to raise the
goggles from my eyes so the wind could dry my tears, and in that moment I imagined my
friend grinning at me in his Zen Master way. "I bet you're having a beer with Monet
right this
 second, aren't you, pal?" I wondered, and I could see the grin broaden
into a toothy smile.
"Yeah, and Monet's picking up the tab," he
laughed.
Of course. Because Claude Monet is the lesser of the
two Claudes.
Artists must present their view of our three
dimensional world on a two dimensional surface. In order to compensate for the loss of one
dimension they utilize principles of perspective to fool the eye into thinking it is
seeing a three dimensional representation. Imagine a drawing of railroad tracks. At the
bottom of the drawing is the foreground, and the tracks are far apart. The tracks move
closer together as they move toward the top of the drawing.
The tracks finally come together at that
place on the imaginary horizon called the vanishing point.
We all walk those tracks, each of us moving ever
closer to our own vanishing point on our own horizon.
On July 18, 2000 our friend reached his vanishing
point. His life had been a surreal, but at the same time colorful, extraordinarily
real, painting.
His name was Claude Anderson.
He was a true artist, and we miss him. |
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