My First Artist Friend
Barbara Bose
In 1970, when I was a high school sophomore in Stamford, Connecticut, a senior named George spotted me during a fire drill. He had the wildest hair in the school and was an artist. He appeared out of a sea of students and told me he liked my nose. I was glad someone liked it because I sure didn’t. I told him I liked his hair.
George was magnificently real and funny, insightful and sarcastic. I ended up dating his friend Russ and the three of us had many an adventure together. Like the time Russ borrowed his friend’s father’s Monza without asking. Notorious for splitting in half upon impact, at least this Monza didn’t do that. But the brakes failed and we literally hit a traffic jam on I-95 while returning from Port Chester, N.Y. with a bag full of wine. Ourselves, our ill-gotten jugs and another more worrisome substance required immediate evacuation from Russ’s friend’s dad’s car with newly the smashed-in front. The instant we got out of the Monza it received a matching smashed-in back.
George encouraged my art ability. Both of us Libras. we talked easily and often. But if big swaths of time went by, that was fine too. George was a built-in part of my heart and the first friend I’d learned that, well after the fact, he’d died of a sudden asthma attack in a hotel room. I am wondering if, when I see him on the Other Side, he’ll say it was his stylish grand exit. But meanwhile, it remains a tragedy for everyone on This Side.
The other day I happened to be in a graveyard, parked next to a big headstone engraved with the same last name George had, “Tilton.” Just in case just thinking about someone calls in their spirit, I told the Tilton marker that I missed him and loved him and that I was thankful for him. Did he know I had recently found his letter and a sketch of him? Is it OK if I share part of it? As I got back in my car I noticed a similar big headstone engraved with same font, “Johnson,” my old last name. Typical George.
He modeled for my high school Studio art drawing class. This is my drawing of him from that day and below it is an excerpt of a letter he wrote me when I was 17.
