Sean McCready was aware he had selfawareness. He was an artist. He knew he was a particularly good artist. He also knew that he was not good for much else. As a child he dreamt of being a soldier, drawing perfect images of uniforms and guns and caissons. When he grew up, and finally became eligible to go to war, he knew he was too gentle to be of any use. His mother and father encouraged him to pursue a vocation other than artist. He knew he was not suited for any other thing.
He left home. It was hard. Almost no one wanted his drawings or paintings. Sean McCready was ahead of his time. He eventually took various odd jobs – dishwasher, gardener, theater usher, sign painter, forester, and fisherman. He knew he would not excel at any of them. Being very likable, the bosses of the various jobs terminated him with a smile, a handshake and a “good luck.” He left them with a small portrait. Their grandchildren would cherish those petit sketches many years later.
Sean travelled the roads of the country, back and forth and back again. His hair white and skin blotched and wrinkled, his legs swollen and giving him great pain, he decided he must stop, settle down. He was resting on a low stone wall one fall morning when he heard the sound of digging. Turning he saw an old woman digging potatoes. She appeared to be having a hard time, but her countenance appeared peaceful and happy. He climbed over the wall and asked if she needed help. She laughed and asked him if he would help her up, she needed to go to the outhouse. When she was gone Sean took up her shovel and began digging. He dug and he dug, accumulating a handsome pile of potatoes. The old woman returned, surprised and greatly pleased. She complimented Sean on his ability to dig potatoes.
The old woman asked him if he would like to stay. He agreed. They lived in perfect harmony for a number of years, both dying within days of each other. The little cottage was full of wonderful paintings and drawings. When the curator of the museum visited the cottage to get the art for a retrospective, (Sean’s work had become a sensation), the Curator found a small diary he left behind. The very last entry said, “I can dig potatoes….” From “He Could Dig Potatoes” By Franklin Cincinnatus.
(Kevin Tully is an artist, gallerist, woodworker, and writer. He has been a golf columnist and an all-around agitator. Kevin has a figment of his imagination, Franklin Cincinnatus, who dictates short stories ostensibly representing larger bodies of work. Kevin writes them down. kevin@asmithgallery. com)
