THE ARTIST AND THE BULL

I most likely should have paid more attention to the sign, BEWARE OF BULL, which was tacked on the fence that I climbed over, but the peaceful meadow was devoid of any animals, only birds darting from tree to tree, their cheerful melodies heard. The grass was golden, tall and wispy and gently waving in the breeze as I packed my easel, small blank canvas, brushes and paints down the slight incline to a meandering brook chuckling between the boulders before disappearing beneath a copse of birch trees, strands of white bark peeling in the sunlight. The indigo-purple mountains in the distance poking up from behind the green undulating hills, their lavender snowy peaks stretching upwards into the approaching sunset looked serene and majestic.

The wooden box with a small leather handle that I was carrying contained everything I needed, including the easel, which had three-fold up wooden telescopic legs that were attached to the bottom of it. Although I mainly worked in my studio, many of the paintings becoming so detailed, they almost looked like photographs once the last brush stroke was in place, I also enjoyed the looseness of painting plein air landscapes. And, since the sun would soon been dipping behind the mountains and I wanted to capture the beautiful setting before me as quickly as possible, a plein air painting was just the ticket.

As soon as I had each of the three legs firmly placed on the ground, the easel set up with the canvas in place, I decided which colors of acrylic paint I would use. I arranged them on the palette from the lightest to the darkest color: titanium white, cadmium yellow, cadmium red medium, cobalt green, cerulean blue and then black. Since I’m a rather tall man, almost 6’4” and prefer standing while painting, the easel always seems a little low for my liking and sometimes by the time I finish a painting, my back aches. Besides being tall, my overall physique is similar to Ichabod Crane. Not only am I as bald as an apple, but my Adam’s apple is also very preponderate, which small children occasionally make fun of. However, although I’m gangly, spindly and thin as a rail, when I was younger, I excelled at sprinting and high jumping, had even considered training for the Olympics.

I have always loved this time of day when heaven and earth begin to meld together before night descends, the splendor of the sparkling stars and luminous moon becoming prominent. As I quickly and lightly begin sketching the scene before me with a small, pointed brush dipped in black paint, a dark boulder surrounded by the tall grass not far off from my side begins to move slightly. At first, it seems as if I’m witnessing the meadow’s gentle spirit beginning to levitate but when a huge head with curled horns emerges, a gentle spirit is the furthest thing from my bewildered mind. When the enormous black bull is fully standing, he shook his massive head and gazed towards the distant mountains, while the sun glinted off its sharp pointed horns. I don’t know if the bull knows I’m so close that if I spit, it will most likely hit him in the eye, but I am afraid to make the slightest move.

Seconds pass by like lingering eternity as I stared at the massive bovine and thoughts like Ferdinand the Bull crept into my mind. He was supposed to be fierce, a matador’s nightmare come true, but instead was gentle and abhorred violence. However, Ferdinand was a bull in a cartoon movie; what were the chances this bull had a similar personality? More likely he was the seriously dangerous type that the author Ernest Hemmingway enjoyed watching as it battled a matador; loud cries of ole echoing throughout the stadium. As the magnificent beast stood silently peering into the glorious sunset, switching its long serpentine tale containing a tuft of long hair on the end, flies buzzed about its snotty nostrils. I don’t know what overcame me because I was scared to death but the artist within soon emerged. Like Pablo Picasso during his toro and matador period, I dabbed my brush into the black acrylic paint and began quickly capturing the bull’s image on the canvas in slender and thick strokes, emphasizing his strength, menacing horns and gonads the size of a gaucho’s bolos. I was so engrossed in painting the bull’s image, I hadn’t noticed his massive head turn until his big obsidian eyes and sharp horns were pointing directly at me.

It’s supposed to be a myth that the colour red enrages bulls and although matadors’ capes are red, it’s the movement of the cape that catches their eyes, which cause them to charge. Just the same, I glanced downwards at what I was wearing and was glad that neither my shirt nor my pants were red, and surely, a tiny gob of red acrylic paint on my palette wouldn’t draw the bull’s attention as I slowly set it and the brush down.

I glanced at the distance from where I was standing to the bull and then to the fence, trying to assess the lay of the land. I may have been a very fast sprinter and able to jump very high at one time, but I was much younger then. Also, I wore shorts and running shoes, not long pants and heavy shoes. The bull and I appeared to be in a Mexican standoff, except in my estimation, he most definitely had the upper hand and as I stood squinting at him with Clint Eastwood eyes, trying to look as dangerous as possible, I somehow didn’t think I could bluff my way out of this precarious situation. My only hope was that the bull would forget about my presence and wander off through the deep grass or perhaps go down to the brook for a refreshing drink of cold water.

My heart was pounding in my chest like a blacksmith’s sledgehammer, and I hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath until the natural urge overcame me to keep breathing. I kept telling myself to relax, he’ll go away, but the unsympathetic eyes of that monstrous black bull held me as if I had been hypnotized by a cruel magician. When the bull began slowly rolling his head from side to side, the sharp curled horns continually aimed directly at me, I began to get very worried and when he blew a clot of snot the size of an oyster out of his nostrils and it landed at my feet, I was, to put it bluntly, scared shitless. And, when he began slowly lowering his head and pawing the ground with his left hoof, he was more than just a little intimidating. Realizing might is right or even if it’s wrong, it was time to take flight and like a racehorse out of the starting gate when the bell rings, I began running as fast as my long, lily-white, skinny legs would go towards the safety of the fence.

When I used to race, I never looked over my shoulder to see where my competitors were and so it was with the bull. I kept my eyes and mind on the finish line, which in this case was a wooden fence about 6’ high that had a strand of barbwire running along the top from post to post. Yelling fearfully, actually screaming like a lunatic, I could feel my Adam’s apple rapidly bobbing up and down in my throat as I sprinted for my life. My strides were so long as I sped across the ground like a gazelle with a lion on its tail, at times, it almost felt as if I was going to take flight, soar upwards out of the meadow and then glide over the fence. However, just as I approached the fence, about to lift off and leap over it to safety, I felt my right foot sliding in a cowpie, or more likely a bullpie, so my liftoff was more than a little sloppy. My arms were flailing in the air attempting to get some sort of balance as I brought my legs up as high as possible. While airborne as if shot from a canon, for a moment I thought I was in the clear, that is, until my pantleg snagged the barbwire. Luckily the momentum tore the pantleg loose as I flew over the top of the fence but instead of being able to land on my feet, the ground was rushing up to greet my face. As I plowed headfirst into the ground towards a boulder, I heard a loud crack somewhere in my body and the last thing I remember seeing as I lifted my head and before everything went totally black, was that big black bull standing at my easel casually admiring his portrait; he hadn’t been chasing me at all.

Luckily, the farmer who owned the bull had heard the ruckus and had come to my aid. When I woke up in the hospital the next day, my head was pounding and swathed in bandages which had an opening for one eye. The loud crack I heard must have been my right leg since it was in a cast and hanging dramatically from an overhead sling. My wife was holding my hand compassionately and when she told me that the farmer’s bull wouldn’t hurt a fly, I couldn’t help but burst out laughing despite the pain.