I’ve been thinking a lot lately about my high school art teacher, Walt Bartman. What I remember most about him was his intense devotion to his craft and his insistence that all of his students pursue their art with as much passion as he had. He always wore jeans and a flannel shirt, had big ol’ glasses and unkempt hair. He didn’t care what he looked like as long as he was doing art and showing his students how to do art.
Mr. Bartman also had the biggest key chain I have ever seen - at least 75 keys, no exaggeration, all attached together. There were no labels on any of the keys but he knew what each one went to. He would regularly loan out his key chain to students to open this or that closet in another part of the school. And when he did not get it back, he would go crazy the rest of the day, asking every student he saw if they knew where his keys were.
Mr. Bartman was personable enough, but pulled no punches when it came to art. I once painted this perfectly detailed and realistic portrayal of our basement, and he told me it used “too much local color” and was not art. I had painted the red stairs red and the white walls white. He wanted me to see the colors that were really there, not what I told myself were there. My friend took my painting into Mr. Bartman’s office and argued with him, sticking up for me but Mr. Bartman would not budge - I had not done real art. I’ve never forgotten that.
He also made us carry around a sketch book and turn it in at the end of the semester. He would flip through to make sure we had filled it. It was a lot of work to finish so I often had to sketch during other classes while the teacher was lecturing. My history teacher, Mr. Gilmore, was not having any of that. When I told him it was for art class, he raised his arms to the ceiling in exasperation, pointer in hand, and proclaimed, “it’s making me nervous!” I stopped.
One Christmas our family went up to Old Greenwich, Connecticut to celebrate with the Brinkerhoffs. I did not have presents for everyone so I picked one art piece per person. Mr. Bartman was horrified. I was breaking up my portfolio, he said. The fact that he thought I had a portfolio when I was just a high school student who was going to study history and join the Army was a new thought for me. I think he was right. I have lost those pieces forever and not sure they were all that appreciated anyway. Sometimes you just do art for God’s glory alone. You make a portfolio for yourself and your own health and flourishing. If others appreciate your work, well that’s just gravy.
Mr. Bartman lives in Middletown, not too far from my Mom’s. He still teaches studio courses, and if I had the health and time, what I would give to have him as a teacher again. Maybe I still do. Some teachers stick with you your whole life. Not because of what they taught but because of how they taught it. Find those ones. The others will fade. But the ones who really loved you and loved their craft, they bring life. Cherish their memory - and pay it forward.