The year was 1986, and I had just graduated from college
that summer. I was working for Pamela Auchincloss in her art gallery in downtown
Santa Barbara; her new husband, Garner Tullis, had built one of the largest monotype printing presses in the country and a revolving cast of well- and
lessor-known artists were often invited to come and print for a week at a time.
Pamela had decided to hold a show of Francis’ paintings while he was working in
town. I recalled reading about Sam in my History of American Artists textbooks
in college, and was excited to be asked to pour wine at his impending gallery opening.
Pamela promised she would introduce me to him, but as the night got underway
with important collectors coming in from L.A., she became distracted and managed
to forget about me. I needed to take my fate in my own hands if I was ever
going to meet someone of merit; after all, wouldn’t it be fitting for me as a
gallery employee to introduce myself to the artist we were showcasing? And so I
walked up to Sam at a quiet moment in the evening and offered my hand as a means
of introduction. Sam was in his late 60s, somewhat stout and not what I would
have termed handsome by any stretch of the imagination, but I was still excited
to meet someone who was regarded as a significant painter by modern day
standards. I tried my best to be charming without seeming too obvious or
star struck, and Sam seemed to find something about by confidence alluring. He
had just married his fifth wife, who was expecting a child any day now and was
therefore not present, but this didn’t seem to deter him much. From the moment
he took my hand in his, he began to grace me with compliments. He said
something about how all the men in the room seemed to naturally gravitate
towards me (I scoffed that was probably because I was responsible for keeping
everyone’s wine glasses full for the evening). He protested, saying I had
fascinatingly feminine hips that exuded the power of a Chinese water buffalo; I
of course had no idea what he was talking about, but it occurred to me that
being likened to a large bison was probably not the most endearing of comparisons
I could think of. Since I was a teenager, I had felt cursed by my shapely
figure, wishing instead to look more like those girls with flat, boy-like
silhouettes whose tiny butts could fit into the smallest of jeans. Regardless, I
remember feeling both unworthy of his praise and deeply flattered that perhaps
he saw in me something special. I also recognized that I should probably extricate
myself from the conversation soon, before either the bubble burst or he decided
to make a move on me, of which I was completely unprepared to handle. And so I
excused myself to get back to my job, and politely avoided him for the rest of
the evening.
The next day, Pamela apologized for not introducing me to
Sam. “Oh, I did it myself,” I explained. “You did?!” she said, sounding
surprised by my boldness. Later that day, she had plans to have lunch with him at
Garner’s studio to see how his work was progressing. When she returned, she
announced, “Well…you made an impression.” I didn’t know what he’d said, but she
eluded that he had included me in one of his prints, stating so with a bemused
look on her face. I couldn’t ask her any more, as I felt like I had somehow
crossed a line already with my forthrightness. But as brief as our introduction
had been, the moment quickly passed: by the week’s end, Sam had to return home to
be with his wife for the arrival of their child and I never saw or heard about him
again. For weeks, though, I wondered what type of impression I might have made during
our short meeting. After all, how do one’s womanly hips inspire a true artist -
through especially graceful strokes of the brush, or perhaps a suggestion of
passionate color?
Finally, a couple months later, his prints were delivered
from the framers to be hung for a solo show. Pamela pulled one in the series
aside and declared, “Well, there you are.” I looked at the bright all-over swirls
of color, a cross in styles between Jackson Pollock and Matisse’ cutout works. Unlike
his purely abstract paintings, Sam’s new prints contained more literal shapes
and symbols imbedded within them. It took me a minute or so to finally see it,
but eventually, the imagery made itself known to me; there in the middle of the
vibrant field of color was what appeared to be a large, upside-down heart, a
shape meant to signify my ass. And on it lay an open handprint. I didn’t know
what to say to Pamela, who in turn seemed apologetic that I had become the
object, if only momentarily, of a lustful older gentleman that she’d somehow brought
into my small-world stratosphere. We never talked about the painting again, but
I did manage to sneak off with a slide of it to keep as a momento… I have no
idea where that slide is stashed today. But whenever I find myself in the
United terminal at SFO, I look up at the enormous Sam Francis painting that
hangs above gates 80-90, and think back fondly to a time when I was once someone’s water-buffalo muse.
