The Value of Art

Ray packed his things into his car. A few clothes, he wouldn’t need much. Basic hygiene items. A couple books, just in case. Some stationary and one of his favorite pens, he’ll want to write to everyone back home. Painting supplies.

Ray paused. Of course he would take his brushes, paintes, and sketchbook. He loved to paint. He couldn’t imagine going long without painting. He’d also need a pencil or two. An easel would be necessary to keep from hunching over for long periods, and it allowed him to see the landscape while he painted. Some canvases would be needed for any proper works. He’d never been to Europe before, there was bound to be some scenery that deserved the utmost care and respect to recreate. The ship would be interesting too.

What was he thinking? This was no leisurely pleasure cruise, nor was it a business trip to expand his repertoire. There was a war to be fought.

Ray unloaded everything but just the bare essentials. He considered leaving everything, but he decided that these few items wouldn’t take much space. He truly couldn’t imagine going without painting for… however long it took to get to Spain, fight a civil war and come back to San Francisco.

He got in his car, thankful to have it to take him and his things to the volunteer recruitment office. Times were still tough, but he wasn’t suffering nearly as much as most folks thanks to some moderate successes. As he started up the engine, he thought back to the conversation he had with his friend Ansel the day before.

“It’s not right.” said Ray. “What those rebels are doing over there. They’re a bunch of fascists!”

“I know.” Ansel was trying to pacify him.

“And they’ve got German soldiers and weapons. The Republicans have nothing!” Ray slapped the article on the coffee table between them.

Ansel sighed - he had read the article, he was only a little less informed than Ray was. “But why would you be a soldier? Why don’t you write to the congressman to tell them to get the army involved?”

“Well of course I did.” said Ray, frustrated. “But the army doesn’t want to get involved in another nation’s civil war. They’ve got a non-intervention policy.”

“Then that’s it. The U.S. government doesn’t want to get involved. We’re Americans, so we won’t be involved.” Ansel took a sip of his coffee, trying to wrap up the conversation.

“We’re not part of the government. We’re citizens, Ansel. Citizens of the world. We have to fight for what’s right, wherever it’s necessary.” It was a grand statement, but Ray let the words come out easily. He felt no need to overstate the truth.

“So what will you do?” asked Ansel. “Buy a gun and travel across the world to fight for democracy?”

“The volunteer unit would give me a gun.”

“And get you on a boat to a warzone?”

A slight pause. “I think so.” Ray felt no need to overstate his uncertainties either.

Ansel sighed again and stood up. He paced around his photography studio, letting his eyes glance around his various prints and reference materials. “I just can’t picture it. You. With a rifle and a uniform. Shooting at your fellow man.”

Ray said nothing. He wanted to refute Ansel’s idea of him, but in truth he had just as hard a time imagining himself on a battlefield. How would he react to being shot at? What if he entered into close combat?

“I know you want to do what’s right. I know what you want most is to help people and enrich the world, but there’s more than one way to do that. Here, just a moment.” Ansel left to another room.

Ray was alone for a moment. He was still stewing, but some doubt had been sprinkled in. Ansel returned with a framed canvas in his hands. It was one of Ray’s paintings, a landscape of the Northern California coast near the redwoods.

“Look at what you’ve done here Ray.” said Ansel.

“Well… I’ve blended the colors poorly on the trees. I did a fine job portraying the cliffside, but it doesn’t convey the proper depth against the foreground.”

“Yes!” exclaimed Ansel. “You made all these mistakes, but this is still a wonderful, beautiful painting! What you’ve done here is something I cannot do in photography.”

“Uh, thank you…? But what are you getting at? What does this have to do with the war in Spain?”

“What I’m saying is that you’re a brilliant painter. I love this painting. The president of the United States has one of yours in the White House. There’s so much you can do for the world by continuing to paint, and making the best work you can. There are plenty of other people that are better at fighting than you. Let them fight the war.”

Ray stopped the car outside the volunteer recruiter’s tent. It was shaping up to be a wonderful day. Fair weather, sunny save for a few clouds dotted across the sky. As he collected his things he looked out across the bay. He started mentally composing his canvas almost instantly, and tore his eyes away, back at the car as he closed the door.

He was still in a huff when he left Ansel’s the day before, but he had cooled off since then. It’s true, that even though he was nowhere near as wealthy or renowned as some ritzy fine artists, his paintings had earned him this very car he drove. Ansel was a wonderful photographer, but even so he enjoyed Ray’s paintings. No sane person took pleasure from killing another man, even if they were fascists.

Ray breathed a deep sigh. He looked back across the bay one more time, and drove home to get the rest of his painting supplies.