I moved back out to California in 1991. I had lived in Philadelphia for the last 10 years, studying art. I was sick of the big city and came back to Laguna where I had started. I took my paintings around town and showed them to the local art dealers. They weren’t very impressed. They didn’t dig them. My work looked a lot different from what they were selling. They were selling bright seascapes in pickled white frames. That was ok with me. I wasn’t too impressed with their paintings either. I walked down Forest avenue and there was a fellow standing out in front of a gallery, painting on an easel. He seemed like a nice guy. We talked for a while and he asked me for some painting advice. I showed him a few things to improve the unity and color of his work. He thanked me and said he was very eager to use the tips on his next painting. About a week later I saw him out front again, on the sidewalk, in front of his gallery, on Forest Avenue, painting. I looked at his painting. It was the same as before, same crappy color, no unity. He looked at my expression and said, “I know. I tried painting your way. The gallery owner said if I ever painted a painting like that again he would throw me out of the gallery.” Hmm.
A few weeks later I was walking along the Coast Highway south of town. I saw an old man sweeping the sidewalk. As I got closer he said, “Hi.” Then I recognized him. He was the old time Laguna artist Vincent Farrell. I introduced myself. He was very friendly and we had a long talk. He told me about the time he painted Leon Franks’ paintings for him after Leon suffered a head injury and couldn’t paint anymore. Leon was pushed off a barstool at the old Victor Hugo’s. I had heard that story before from others. He told me the best thing to do is just to open up my own gallery. Sell my own work. Less trouble. I tried it, it worked and Jackie and I have had our gallery in Laguna for 30 years now.
Over the years, as far as the gallery goes, Jackie and I have sort of established our boundaries. I paint the paintings and Jackie does the hard work. Jackie and Rickii run the gallery and sell the paintings and I just try to stay out of their way. Rickii is the dog. Locals know what I’m talking about. Generally, everything goes smoothly. People like Jackie and Rickii better than me anyway. This arrangement worked for years until Jackie got pregnant. Then we realized we were going to need help.
We found a young man named Danny. He had a little experience working in other galleries in town. I told him I would spend a little time with him until he was trained. The first day we sat the gallery together and I watched him talk to the customers. He was tall, young, 30ish, quiet, and a little odd. He wore thick glasses and had a strange way of looking off into space when he talked to you. I just sat and watched him work, I wasn’t sure about him. He seemed a little spaced out.
After lunch, he said, “Mr. Whitney, is it ok if I make a few calls?”
I said, “Who do you need to call?
He said, “People, people to buy paintings.”
I said, ”Really? you want to try that?”
He said, “Yeah, I’d like that better. Just give me some phone numbers of your old customers and I’ll call them up and tell them about your great new stuff.”
“Ok,” I looked through the desk and found an old invoice book, “Here, there are probably some old numbers in here.”
He flipped through a few pages until he found a phone number. He dialed, “Hello, Mrs. Tankly?”
Mrs. Tankly didn’t want to see my great new stuff, but Danny and her kept chatting. She told him about her niece’s wedding in Des Moines and other things. I listened to them talk for a while and then I left to get a sandwich. When I came back with the sandwich, Danny said, “Hey, Mr. Whitney, guess what? I sold a painting to Mrs. Talbot.”
“Whose Mrs. Talbot?”
“She’s Mrs. Tankly’s niece’s new neighbor. She just moved.”
“Gee, that’s great. Gee. Wow. Beginner’s luck I guess. Huh?”
When I came home that night Jackie asked, “How’d Danny do?”
Well, pretty good. He sold three paintings. He’s a little odd, but he seems to have some phone skills.”
“Well that’s great, boy, three paintings. Maybe he’s going to work out.”
“Yeah, well maybe.”
The next day, I sat next to the desk and watched Danny work on the phones. He sold three more paintings. He had a very odd charm that allowed him to say things to people that most people couldn’t get away with. People seemed to want to talk to him and tell him things. Fascinating.
He asked me, “Mister Whitney, do you think I should get married.”
“What?!”
“ Well, Mrs. Fremont in Paradise Valley wants to introduce me to her daughter. You remember Mrs. Fremont. She bought a painting last year. I found her phone number in the desk”
“What?!” No, No, No, I don’t think that’s a good Idea. Forget about Mrs. Fremont’s daughter. I think you should just concentrate on this job right now, ok?”
“Ok. Mr. Whitney but I’ve been thinking. Why don’t you find some more old numbers for me?”
“Ok.”
I went home and found some more old numbers. I also went through my studio and pulled out a lot of stored old paintings down from the rafters, then I bought some new canvas and started painting as fast as I could.
Things went on this way for a few months, we sold every painting I had. Then we sold paintings I didn’t have. Danny just kept working his phone magic. Jackie and the baby were happy. But eventually, the day came when I ran out of phone numbers, then Danny said, “Don’t worry Mr. Whitney, just get me a number. Bring me a magazine.” He would just call any phone number; car dealerships, sanitation contractors, Lawyers. It didn’t really matter. He just needed a phone and a person at the other end and he could sell paintings. Customers would walk in the gallery and he would ask, “Mr. Whitney, do you want me to help them?”
“No, no Danny, I got ‘em, you just stay on the phone. Look, I found this old phone book. It’s from 1981. Some of these numbers must still be good. Check it out.”
He was like a machine, you put a phone number into one end and money would come out the other. Simple as that. But after he got his third paycheck he didn’t show up for work the next day. I called. No answer. I drove by his apartment. Didn’t seem to be anybody there. I asked around. I never saw him again. Ever. A few months later a neighboring gallery owner told me he heard about Danny at the New York Art Expo. Seems like an art dealer sort of kidnapped him. Was moving him around from hotel to hotel in the New York area. Taking him to trade shows. Like I said, I never saw or heard from him again but I was told he eventually returned to his parent’s home in the midwest and took up his classical piano practice again. I hope he’s happy. True story.
We eventually hired someone new. The first day I asked her If she wanted to work the phones.
She said, “What do you mean?”
I said, “Well, uh, don’t worry about it. Just watch the door.