Jeber – a portrait
Back in 1983 I was at loose ends. I’d been out of the Army for two years and had received my second degree from a local college. I had screwed up big time at my job and been fired. My future, at least in San Diego, appeared bleak at best.
My father and I first met as adults the year after I graduated from high school. I spent a Summer with him in Plainview, Texas where he was working for John Deere as a tractor field-mechanic. Those three months summed up my knowledge of my dad first-hand until I was 29, in 1983.
By then dad had moved back to his hometown of Rupert, Idaho, and I decided to write him and see if I could spend some time with him there. He agreed to this, so in March of ‘83 I and my Keeshond puppy Colin flew to Boise. We both arrived in our San Diego coats. Colin arrived a few hours after me, having been accidently diverted to San Francisco. He obviously had his own plans. Neither of our coats protected us from the freezing cold of an Idaho Winter.
So there I was, in a strange town living with a near stranger, no job and a dog I was responsible to keep fed and healthy. Before leaving San Diego I’d sold nearly everything I owned. I arrived with a week’s worth of clothes, my dog and enough cash to keep us both alive for a few months. Then I found out a few ways my dad and I were alike. We were both opinionated and curmudgeonly. We weren’t social kingpins. We were both sarcastic. We rubbed each other the wrong way. We agreed I should live on my own and visit now and then. I really needed a job.
In Burley, near Rupert, I met a painter named John Horejs (pronounced hōrsh). Not a house painter, an oil painter, a landscape painter, an artist. He was about my age and a very enjoyable person to be around. We were polar opposites in two ways. He was a Mormon and I was an atheist. He was married with nine kids and I was a single bisexual. Normally when two people disagree over sex and religion, any type of friendship is near impossible. Not so with John and I. We both respected the other’s right to their life and beliefs. We were both raised to be tolerant of those not like us. He knew gay people from the art world and I knew Mormons from having one as a friend through high school (we were both in the school’s barbershop quartet). We hit it off and soon he asked if I’d be willing to do some framing for him.
John Horejs
I had a degree in drafting and that made learning the art of framing a bit easier for me. Like most of the jobs I’ve ever held, I hadn’t a clue how to accomplish the task I was being hired to perform. But I’m a quick learner and don’t hesitate to ask questions, and I really like gaining new skills. I loved framing. I can’t paint a lick. Can’t really draw much of anything. Prior to this, drafting had been my artistic outlet. “Drawing” with the aid of French curves, a straight edge and templates. It was as close to being artistic as I’d managed at that point.
Framing was to me what John’s painting was to him. John studied in France and I’d just been an intelligence analyst for the Army Security Agency. We both enjoyed talking about world affairs, art (him, painters: me, writers). We discussed philosophy. We both loved nature, hiking and photography.
John was a great companion as well as an employer. He, I and my two dogs spent a week once around Jenny Lake. It was perhaps the best week of my life. Sharing his company and that of his friends, getting to stay in a condo in West Yellowstone, knowing his wife and kids, watching him build his dome house, many were the benefits of working for John. Who would have guessed I’d have to travel to Idaho to find the international scene. The closest I’d come before was being stationed just outside Washington, D.C. during my enlistment.
Another benefit of working for John was that a couple of times I traded framing work for paintings instead of pay. I have two oils hanging in my front room, both landscapes painted by John and framed by me. I love them now as much as I did when I first saw them. They were quick one-offs for John. He usually paints huge canvases.
One day he asked if I’d like to pose for a portrait holding my then pup, Hillery. Of course I was flattered and intrigued. John didn’t paint portraits. Maybe he had as a student, but as an established artist he was strictly a landscape artist specializing in Idaho and Montana scenery. So I was curious to see how he would render a human and his dog.
Jack and Hillery by John Horejs
Since we cannot see ourselves as others see us, I’m a poor judge as to the accuracy of the image, but I can honestly say that this is the one and only oil painting I have of myself. Good or bad, it’s certainly unique.
It’s not painted on canvas. It was painted on a piece of artist’s board, so it’s all of a quarter of an inch thick. It’s also not signed, but John would remember it, I know he painted it and now I’m preserving that knowledge online, where thanks to Google it will forever be available to anyone who wants the information, like whoever will be selling it or buying it 200 years from now.
I’m glad I had a chance to meet, know and spend time with John Horejs. He was a down-to-Earth guy with his head in the clouds. I’m sure he still is. He’s not into the web, and I haven’t been in touch for several years. We didn’t have so much in common that we ever became like brothers. My life has taken different directions from what I was doing then, and John appears to be getting shown in more galleries around the country. Any gallery anywhere that features nature paintings on a large scale ought to be showing his work.
That’s the tale of the portrait. It is the only self-portrait I own. It’s still unframed.
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