Chapter 1: Beginnings
Vince isn’t exactly sure where he was born or even sure where to call home.
Well, that’s not entirely true. He does know that he was born in California. And he was actually raised all over California. But the specific “where” in terms of his roots is a bit difficult to pinpoint. He doesn’t recall ever seeing any street signs while growing up, nor can he remember any “remarkable” buildings that might later serve as a landmark memory he could point to in wonder and sudden discovery of a past long gone and mostly forgotten. No Coliseum, no Pantheon, no Acropolis. Rather, just a ghost of a feeling, a lonely empty presence that has no more structure than a gust of wind through the trees. Or in Vince’s case, through a vast and loudly silent open field somewhere---actually everywhere--- in California’s Big Valley, a seemingly endless bowl of land that runs from Redding all the way down to Grape Vine. 450 miles of very big and at times very brutal space. Depending on the time of year, and no matter where you might pitch your tent or whatever available lean-to you might occupy, it was like living on a steaming hotplate in the summer or on the frigid surface of a glacier in winter. Then it would rain. And rain, and rain, and rain.
The irony, however, is that his feelings of being “lost” as a kid has absolutely nothing to do with the 450 miles of open space Vince had wandered through as a child. Sometimes by dilapidated family bus, sometimes on foot. No. Rather, his feelings stem from having been “lost” somewhere in the middle of twelve other siblings, all of whom shared each other’s clothes, beds and, inevitably, the childhood diseases that not only ran rampant through nomadic families, but became difficult to treat because his parents could not afford the medicines necessary to treat them. Let alone enough food to feed them at times. Some of the most vivid memories for Vince are those times that he and his siblings had to take turns eating every second or third day. Sometimes even longer.
The reasons behind this rather bleak childhood had nothing to do with poverty in the “traditional” sense, such as the effects of a Great Depression or being neglected or even abandoned by alcoholic, uncaring, or thrill-seeking parents. Surprisingly enough, the lifestyle he suffered through was self-imposed by parents who were in fact very loving and very caring---though a bit eccentric and, perhaps, a bit ahead of their time.
Long before the “summer of love” and the “drop-out” attitude that became the heartbeat of the ‘60’s generation, which for some would evolve into a communal lifestyle that attempted to free the participants from the shackles of conformity and the pressures of an industrialized, materialistic and fast-paced society, Vince’s parents tried to protect their own brood by “escaping” into a nomadic and communal kind of lifestyle of their own making. Vince’s parents felt that rooting their family to one spot was as dangerous as planting corn in the same place year after year. Eventually the soil would become corrupted, unable to support other strains, making the roots susceptible to a disease that could wipe out the entire crop in one fell swoop. Although Vince’s father was of Italian descent, his mother’s side of the family was rooted in Ireland. And his great-grandparents on his mother’s side had suffered terribly during the great potato famine of the mid 1800’s. That horrible memory and the affects it had on his mother’s side of the family evolved into a tradition of “plurality” and movement. Sameness would no longer be an option.
And while the later flower-children of the ‘60’s would quickly become downright bored with the communal “cop-out” experiment, which in reality was nothing more than a “summer vacation” for most and just too much damn hard work for the rest---eventually causing them to trade in their love-beads for a set of BMW keys and their communal “farms” for membership in a condominium association---the Bova family had barely taken notice of those who had merely passed through. This whole thing wasn’t simply an experiment to them. It was a way of life, plain and simple. And absolutely necessary.
Vince’s parents felt they needed to prepare their brood for a world that was not only becoming difficult to fit into, but one fast becoming too violent on a personal day-to-day basis. They didn’t fear this violence in the way the meek and overly passive might, making them incapable of defending themselves even when desperate situations required an aggressive defense. After all, their nomadic lifestyle made them susceptible to the “Valley Riders,” groups of violent scavengers who took what they wanted, whether they needed it or not, in the same way the “Rail Riders” took from those who traveled the country’s freight trains in search of an unconnected and simple life. But this kind of violence was rare and therefore an acceptable risk.
Not so in the “real” world, where the day-to-day violence permeated every facet of society and was sometimes so subtle and insidious that the affects may not become noticeable until it was too late. Vince’s parents felt that the only protection from this day-to-day threat was through hard, physical---and honest---manual labor. It would make their children self-sufficient and strong, emotionally and physically, placing them at the top of the ‘Survival of the Fittest” food chain. And as silly as this may sound, it was a kind of “Crocodile Dundee” approach to being able to survive in the wild.
Vince had of course experienced plenty of manual labor . He remembers spending countless hours in the sweltering heat in the middle of an open field, picking onions and tossing them into a burlap sack that, when empty, weighed almost as much as he. If that wasn’t bad enough, there were times that, as hungry as he was, he couldn’t eat afterwards because the pungent smell of rotting onions had made him too nauseous to do so. When his family had eventually migrated to that part of the Big Valley that grew cantaloupes, Vince had become much happier. At least in terms of not being too sick to eat. But, unfortunately, he ended up trading one problem for another in this respect. Because cantaloupes were so much bigger, and because he was still so small, the work was much more strenuous. So now there were those times when he was just flat-out too tired to eat. Sometimes his parents had to force him to do so.
Then came the time when his parents decided to move on to better things. They had heard through the grapevine (please excuse the pun) that there were rich landowners further north who needed grape pickers for their fields. Since grapes were becoming a major industry in California, the family decided to take advantage. So off they went.
During the trip north, they went through that part of Big Valley where sunflowers grew everywhere. Huge endless fields of gigantic yellow flowers that, to the young Vince, looked big enough to crawl into. He was enthralled, so much so that his father decided to make camp in one of the groves for about a week, since the family bus needed some serious maintenance anyway. And it was during this time that Vince had his artistic epiphany. He was just 9-years old.
Vince heard the story from his father during one of the evening’s campfires. His father told him about some long dead painter who would later become famous for his beautiful paintings of these very sunflowers that had so excited Vince. And this painter, Vincent Van Gogh, a lonely and complicated man, desperate for friendship and acceptance, for some unknown reason had cut off his ear in an emotional frenzy after an argument with his best friend and fellow painter, Paul Gauguin.
Vince of course was appalled. But at the same time he was drawn to the story in the same way a person is drawn to a car wreck. It was sad, horrific, pathetic, not to mention downright scary. Yet it excited Vince in some kind of weird way and he felt a kind of “connection” to this lonely and desperate man, inexplicable though it was. Perhaps it was Vince’s own nomadic and at times lonely lifestyle that caused this connection. After all, and because he was constantly on the move, he had no real friends of his own. And if he had had a close friend, then it would certainly have been traumatic to have argued with him and lost that friendship as a result. Or perhaps it was simply because Vince shared the same name first name as Van Gogh. Whatever the reason, Vince seemed able to feel Van Gogh’s pain, somehow knew that the reason Van Gogh had cut off his own ear had nothing to do with any kind of psychotic, destructive behavior---weird and, quite frankly, stupid as the whole thing seemed. Rather, to Vince, it was Van Gogh’s way of saying, “I bleed like any human being and I suffer! Therefore I am!”
And therefore, so, too, became Vincent Bova. While he had no intention of doing something stupid like cutting off his own ear (though he did worry about the subject matter and the possible connection by name alone), Vince created his first painting at the age of 9. A huge sunflower big enough to crawl into. And that’s where he’s lived ever since.
Yeah, okay, I know. At this point you’re probably thinking this whole story is a load of bullshit. Just some kind of fiction created to fulfill the obligatory "suffering artist" crap we're always exposed to on Entertainment Tonight. Well, to be honest, it is. Bullshit, that is. Entertainment? Well, what can I tell you? But give me a break, eh. I got nothing to work with here. I mean, sure, the guy’s an artist and we all know that artists are supposed to have had lousy and weird childhoods, which causes them to escape into all sorts of crazy, bizarre and esoteric images in their heads that need to be expressed on the canvas to prevent homicide, suicide, and masochistic masturbation (more than four times a day, which certainly indicates that "beating it" takes on a whole different meaning). Then there's cutting off one's ear, not to mention the kinky stuff as well, right? Well, apparently not in Vince's case, unfortunately. The truth of the matter is that the most traumatic thing that Vince ever suffered through while growing up was worrying about whether or not he could beat his sister home from school and get to the Oriole cookies before she did. Wow, now that's some kind of suffering, eh?
Chapter 4: The Real Story
Okay, fine. So, here’s the real story about the artist Vincent Bova.
One thing we know for certain, Vince was definitely born. (I swear it). In Oakland, California. (No, he's not an Oakland Raiders fan. As an artist, he's too "sensitive" to be part of that kind of vileness).
Although he hadn't spent his childhood traveling throughout the Big Valley picking produce out of the ground, he and his family did in fact move about frequently. Vince figures pretty near 20 times or more. This was the result of Vince's father, who was into buying older homes, fixing them up, then selling them. So, the only thing that Vince ever picked when younger was his ass off the couch to help his family move each time. Course in those days, like most of us, Vince was a lot lighter, so picking himself up wasn’t that much work.
Chapter 5: Beginnings (Redux)
Vince started drawing about the age of five, as far as he can remember. He just took to it naturally and needed no coaxing from anybody. All he can remember from that age is drawing anything anywhere and all the time.
By the time he was in his early teens, Vince had become quite good at it and had evolved into doing oil and watercolor paintings, as well as charcoal and black ink drawings. He had also become quite interested in sports. Therefore, much of his subject matter (even to this day) pertained to his own personal sports “heroes.” As a young teenager, and like most of us at that age, he had a keen interest in cars as well. The four cars shown in his gallery are the result of this interest and all were created during his teenage years. (Initially, Vince had “forgotten” to provide me with the cars shown. Come to find out that he didn’t think they were good enough to be displayed. Yeah, right. Like I said, artists---they’re so sensitive and weird).
Chapter 6: Digression
Just for the record, Vince’s interests in sports went beyond just watching his heroes play. He played himself. He started off in football as a linebacker. He was apparently quite good at it and was certainly strong enough to handle the position. Unfortunately, he started running into guys---or rather, guys were running into him---who were also good at what they did, and who were also strong enough to handle it. This led to a profound epiphany one day, which manifested into the following statement as Vince picked his sore, aching butt off the ground after getting run over (for the last time): “This really sucks the big one.” So, after that particular practice, he took off his football gear, placed it into a neat pile and turned it into the coach. He decided to play baseball instead. (Yeah, I know. Artists are not only sensitive, they’re obviously smart, too).
He took to baseball as easily and as naturally as he had taken to painting. He was so good at it that even though he had attended three different high schools as a result of his family moving so much, he made the starting varsity team at each school. Not an easy thing to do. He had played ball at one point with Barry Speir, Chris Speir’s brother. Vince remembers actually playing with Chris himself a few times on an inter-city team in Alameda, Vince at 3rd base and Chris at shortstop. Vince remembers that he thought Chris was pretty damn good. Yeah, I guess. I mean, Chris Speir went on to play shortstop in the majors for 19 years and was a 3 time National league All Star. So, yeah, I guess he was “pretty damn good.” (Artists. They’re so insightful).
Chapter 7: Time To Punt
During his teenage years Vince had submitted quite a few of his drawings and paintings in contests sponsored by the Oakland Tribune. His creations won first prize quite a few times. As a result, he was becoming fairly well known locally. This resulted in his being commissioned to do paintings for various people, which he did and subsequently sold.
Regardless of his output and some of the success he was experiencing, reality began to set in, especially after he graduated from high school. That is, it was time to “work” for a living. While the painting, as to most artists, is a way of life and in many cases food for the soul, it couldn’t adequately provide for something just as important. Food for the body. Vince, like most of us, regardless of our talents or lack thereof, does like to eat just about everyday. And there was just too much time between paintings, not to mention a big “if” in terms of any paychecks that may result, to provide the daily bread. So, hi-ho, hi-ho . . .
Chapter 8: Running On Empty
Eventually Vince ended up moving to San Diego in 1970. And though he realized that without a wealthy patron (and also realizing that it may have been a huge mistake to move away from his parents, who had all the damn food) he couldn’t spend the rest of his life lying around all day eating pasta and painting pictures of naked models lying around in his studio, he figured he could make a decent living in a related area. Commercial art. So, he enrolled in Commercial Arts classes at San Diego City College.
It was here he met a fellow artist by the name of Chris Paluso, who would eventually become a lifelong friend. They discovered they had a lot in common. A love of art, a love of sports as subject matter and, most important since they were both Italian, a love of Italian food. Chris, it seems, and as good an artist as he was in his own right, also liked to eat everyday. Hence his enrollment in Commercial Arts classes as well.
Chris got hooked up doing work for the Padres in the early ‘70s and one day they approached him with the idea of doing team logos on the outfield walls. Chris went to Vince to ask if he wanted to help. Vince accepted and they were off and running. They did the logos every year all the way into the mid ‘80s, including the special logos for the All Star Game held at Jack Murphy in 1978. (There are photos in the gallery showing Vince at work). The reason Vince eventually stopped doing the logos was that he had started making “too much” money as a salesman and could no longer find the time to continue with the logo tradition.
But there was another reason as well. Love. Rather, marriage. Well, love and marriage. Vince had married at the tender age of 20 and he and his (now former) wife started a family almost immediately. By the time the logo thing did in fact become a tradition, Vince and his wife needed to feed a son and daughter. (It seems the kids liked to eat everyday as well). So, the “too much” money thing was actually a “finally making enough” kind of thing necessary to support his family, which left little time for indulging in the logo tradition. Despite this need to perform real work, however, Vince kept at his painting and was actually producing quite a bit.
Chapter 9: Discovery
One reason had to do with the fact that he was being paid fairly well for some of the work he was producing and was subsequently getting a “reputation.” So much so, in fact, that the Padres in the late ‘80s commissioned him to do a painting of one of his childhood idols, Willie McCovey, as a retirement gift. (There is a photo of this field presentation in the “Bova Gallery”).
The figurine thing happened in the late ‘80s. Vince was living in Chino near Ontario at this time and heard about a company located in Huntington Beach, Gartlan USA, Inc., that was doing sports statues. Vince called to introduce himself and asked if he could come in to show them some of his work. Upon seeing it, the Gartlan commissioned him immediately to do the Monte Irvin piece (the player who, arguably, should have been the one to “cross over” first before Jackie Robinson).
This led to his being commissioned for a new and first time ever project, a series of figurines depicting some of the most prominent legends and heroes who had played in the Negro League. “Cool Papa” Bell, Ray Dandridge, and Buck Leonard. Each of these players had not only been three of the best in the Negro League, but, arguably, three of the best to have ever played the game professionally at all. No surprise that Vince felt honored to not only have been chosen to do the figurines of their likenesses, but to have met each one face-to-face.
As a result of this work, Vince attended quite a few showings, which drew collectors, buyers and retailers from all over the country, something he enjoyed immensely. He met a lot of interesting and some very well known people. Even better, the food at some of these shows was fantastic. And best of all, it was free.
While working for Gartlan, Vince was approach by Dave Grossman Collectibles. They commissioned him to do several pieces, including the following ballplayers: Steve Garvey, Rod Carew, Fergusen Jenkins, Harmon Killebrew, and Eddie Matthews. If that wasn’t good enough, the real kick came when he got to meet face-to-face some of the greatest ballplayers to have ever played: Joe DiMaggio, Ted Williams, Willie Mays, Yogi Berra, Whitey Ford, Stan Musial, Warren Spahn, and Ernie Banks---one of the nicest people Vince says he has ever met.
Couple of interesting notes about a few of the guys above. When Vince met Stan Musial, he was dressed in a gray and pink plaid jacket and was playing a harmonica. Draw your own conclusions. Steve Garvey and Warren Spahn both tried hitting on (then) Vince’s wife. (Don’t know about Warren Spahn. But, oh my. Steve Garvey hitting on someone else’s wife? I’m totally shocked)!
(Griiiiiiiiiiin)
But the biggest thrill of all with reference to hob-knobbing with so many legends was when Vince met and shook the hand of “The Greatest” himself---Muhammad Ali. Vince’s grandfather had had a career in boxing. And because Vince had such a special relationship with his grandfather with respect to this career, as well as those other profound reasons for why we may be drawn in a special way to a particular relative, meeting Muhammad Ali was like a dream come true. Vince remembers that when he was a kid, and during that time when Ali’s career was just getting started, his grandfather wasn’t too enamored with the “flash and brash” of this young Cassius Clay. Of course, in time, even Vince’s grandfather came to like and respect “The Greatest” for all the reasons most of us do. Vince feels it’s because Ali, the man, ultimately ended up transcending the sport itself.
Chapter 10: Exposure
During the late ‘80s when Vince was rubbing shoulders with so many sports legends as a result of his figurine creations, his painting was also pretty much in high gear. Although Vince had “showings” in previous years at various galleries such as the Grossmont Gallery and others, he now felt ready to go to the next level. That is, entering paintings into very prestigious annual art shows in the hopes of having a painting accepted for viewing. These annual art shows are difficult to break into because they are in fact so prestigious, not to mention highly competitive. If your painting is accepted it provides the kind of exposure in the art world that many “wannabe” artists can only dream about. So, having a piece accepted as an entry was quite an honor and rather a profound statement as to one’s ability as an artist. It also meant that some very high profile art lovers---some of who had plenty of money to spend---would get a good look at your talent. Even if no one bought, an artist could create the kind of “buzz” heard around the world, literally.
Vince entered the “Halftime” piece (shown in the Bova Gallery) in the San Diego Art Institute’s annual show. It was selected along with about 75 other pieces out of approximately 3,000 pieces entered from around the world. This was truly a highpoint for Vince as an artist. Around this time he also entered his piece “Cozy” (also shown in the Bova Gallery) into the prestigious San Diego Watercolor Society’s annual show. This piece was also accepted.
(Both paintings, by the way, had been purchased for an undisclosed amount).
Of course it isn’t always about money. In fact, to most true artists, it isn’t about money at all. At least in terms of putting a figure on the talent (and of course the time) involved in creating the art itself. Hence, the “priceless” tags attached to so many wonderful paintings. This of course leads to the “suffering artist” syndrome. (“Soul” suffering, not lack of food suffering. If the dude’s got to work in order to eat like the rest of us then, hey, welcome aboard and quite complaining, right)? So, what’s it really worth? Don’t know. Aside from the “pain” this may cause, which to some might lead to cutting off an ear, this ends up with many artists just “giving away” many of their paintings---not only in terms of the relatively insignificant amount they may receive, or accept, for a particular painting, but in the real sense as well. That is, somebody may come along who just absolutely falls in love with a painting, which can lead to the (“stoked”) artist simply saying, “Here, take it. It’s yours.” (Picasso, where are you now? Want to come over to the house for dinner)?
The truth of the matter is that a profound appreciation of the art itself is what really gives a painting its true value. And if the artist runs into someone who honestly appreciates his talent, is in fact awed by it, then the artist will think nothing of giving away a painting. (Until the next day when he looks inside his refrigerator only to find it empty, which usually results in a profound observation of his own: “What in the fuck was I thinking?!”).
Exactly. Fortunately, most artists stop short of self-mutilation as a way of punishing their altruism. In Vince’s case, the closest he has come to any masochistic tendencies is to have accepted the job as the SDABu Umpire Assignment Coordinator. And that’s punishment enough.
Chapter 11: Art Appreciation---The Dave Winfield Connection
Of course it isn’t so much the actual giving away of a painting to just anyone who appreciates it that results in the artistic “high” experienced by the artist in doing so. Most times it is the “who” who receives it. In Vince’s case, the “who” was Dave Winfield.
In 1975 Vince met the young stud and exciting Padre newcomer Dave Winfield, who was in his “sophomore” year in the Majors, through an art gallery owner Jean Ashour, who loved Vince’s work. She had been so taken by Vince’s paintings that she began to put together a one-man show at her gallery. She came up with the idea of giving this show a “feel” of the ballpark, since the subject matter for so much of Vince’s work was legendary ballplayers and other athletes. And instead of the usual wine & cheese munchies, she was going to put out bags of peanuts and beer.
Jean called the Padres and managed to get to Dave Winfield. She showed him some of the paintings Vince had created and he was apparently very impressed, so much so that he agreed to help promote the show.
Upon meeting, both Dave and Vince were kind of in awe of each other’s talents. At one point when Vince suggested to Dave that he do some paintings of him, Winfield jumped at the idea. (Vince would eventually do several paintings of Dave Winfield). They agreed to meet at Jack Murphy stadium on a given date so Vince could take some photos of Dave from which he could work. It was on a game-day that Vince arrived and he will never forget hanging out in the clubhouse with all the players before the game. It ended up being a kind of surreal experience, sitting on a bench in front of Dave Winfield’s locker as Rollie Fingers sat 5 feet away getting ready for the game. Vince figures that Bob Shirley must have sensed some nervous tension that Vince was experiencing, so Shirley went over to Vince and introduced himself. Apparently it had the opposite affect and made Vince even more nervous, which added to the overall excitement. Vince was also introduced to Dave Parker, a very close friend of Winfield’s.
Since Winfield had already given away his allotment of free tickets to the game, Winfield asked Rollie Fingers if he had any tickets available, which he did. So he left one for Vince at Will Call. Vince met Winfield after the game and walked him to his car. Vince will never forget the way Winfield introduced him to his friends and fellow athletes: “This is Vince Bova. He’s an artist and does what he does as well as I do what I do.” Pretty damned profound, if a bit egotistical. Of course Vince recalls thinking (a reality that any true sports fan is aware) that aside from having the talent, you most definitely have to have an ego in order to survive in the Big leagues. Winfield certainly, and obviously, had both.
Dave, even as a “sophomore,” ended up playing in the All Star game that year (1975). Vince remembers being at home working on the upcoming show of his work sponsored by Jean Ashour when the phone rang.
“Vince?” said the voice.
“Yes,” responded Vince.
“This is Dave.”
Vince’s mind went blank. Dave who, he wondered. He didn’t know any “Dave.” (Kind of reminds you as umpires of Vince’s response when you call him these days, right?---grin).
“Dave who?” Vince finally said.
“Dave Winfield,” said the voice.
Oh, that Dave!
Anyway, it seems that Major League Baseball presented Dave with a portrait of himself (along with other gifts) as a result of his having been selected as an All Star. Unfortunately, the artist who had created Winfield’s portrait had mistakenly made the browns of the then brown and gold Padre uniform green instead. Winfield asked Vince if he could correct that, which Vince gladly did.
Eventually it was “show” time for Vince. He will never forget standing in Jean Ashour’s gallery with her and Dave Winfield, talking about his paintings and of course that other profound subject---baseball. At the time Winfield was involved in contract negotiations with the Padres and a figure of one million dollars was being kicked around. In 1975 that was not only huge money, but totally unheard of for an athlete, even one as good as Winfield was becoming.
Suddenly Vince was blind-sided. That is, Winfield asked him what he thought about the whole thing. Vince almost wet his pants. But the dude wanted an honest answer, so Vince gave him one. He rather naively, though respectfully, told Winfield that he didn’t think any ballplayer was worth that much money.
Okay, let’s think about this for a moment. I mean, here you have a professional athlete who is gaga over your paintings and who stands to negotiate a million dollar contract (which can buy an awful lot of paintings) and you’re telling him he’s not worth the money? Good Lord, what planet was Vince living on at the time? Talk about your proverbial balls (not to mention the absurdity of ever being honest about money and what somebody is or is not “worth”). In retrospect, and with no intention whatsoever of insulting Vince---since I know he agrees with this completely---I suppose his response to Winfield’s question at the time might best be summed up now in a quote from a well known movie: “Stupid is as stupid does.” (Whatever the hell that means). Draw your own conclusions. (Grin)
Of course Vince now admits to how “off” he was in his assessment so many years ago. But he wasn’t finished being wrong that day (which Vince now figures was perfect preparation for eventually becoming an umpire). At one point, the gallery owner Jean Ashour pointedly asked Dave Winfield if he though he would ever be in the Baseball Hall of Fame. Vince couldn’t believe his ears. Here was Winfield in his second year of the Majors, and though he was obviously one helluva talented ballplayer, being asked to predict an induction honored by an entire lifetime of profound achievements that had yet to be realized. Didn’t this poor, naïve woman know anything about baseball? And though her inquiry was obviously as sincere, heartfelt, and as honest as Vince’s own comment had been about Winfield’s monetary “worth”---or lack thereof---Vince couldn’t help saying to himself, “My God, what a stupid question!” Vince was so embarrassed for his friend Jean that all he could do was stare at the floor, wishing he could sneak away.
And what made it even worse was Winfield’s own response and his own surprise at his having been “blind-sided” himself by the question. Though Vince can’t remember exactly what Winfield said, and despite being aware of Winfield’s own self-confidence in his abilities, Vince is almost certain that Winfield honestly felt that he (probably) wouldn’t make the Hall of Fame.
Seems Vince and Winfield had a lot more in common than an appreciation for art. Both of them were Forest Gumps, and both of them were certainly “negatives.”
Stupid question? Well, to be fair since timing is everything, it was hard to tell at the time. All we do know is this, that Winfield eventually ended up being the product of a mathematical certainty. That is, the multiplying of two negatives will always give you a positive. Period.
And all Vince can think of to say in retrospect is, “Jean, wherever you are---you go girl!”
On the day of Vince’s show at Jean Ashour’s gallery, Winfield showed up with several Padre ballplayers, including Bob Shirley (and his wife), Gene Richards and “a player to be named later.” Vince was in his glory. His excitement culminated later when Winfield was drawn to Vince’s painting “Relaxin’,” which had been created long before Vince and Winfield had met, and wanted to purchase it. Since Winfield was obviously so enamored with the piece, Vince was gladly willing to just give it to him. But Winfield insisted that he pay for it. (Vince, having looked into his own refrigerator that morning, didn’t put up much of an argument).
(Taking a closer look at the piece, it seems to make sense as to why Winfield may have been so drawn to the painting. Using a bit of imagination, the man on the porch does seem to have a striking resemblance to Winfield. Tall, lanky, athletic looking, and he even has a mustache. A family member perhaps? Grandfather, father, or brother? Maybe even Winfield himself).
Not to be outdone, however, by Winfield’s instance that he pay for the “Relaxin’” piece, Vince himself insisted that Winfield---and Winfield’s mother, who was in attendance---accept two other paintings both had been attracted to as gifts. Vince recalls Winfield’s mom being a lovely woman, as imposing a figure as Winfield himself. She was tall, lean, and athletic looking. And easily as nice and as friendly as her son.
It had truly been a wonderful and certainly memorable day for Vince. Absolutely no doubt about that.
Afterward
Which perhaps begs the following (stupid?) question. Why in the hell is someone with so much talent, and who had obviously made so many wonderful “connections,” now spending his spare time umpiring and working as an umpire assignment coordinator instead of painting? Yeah, maybe it is a stupid and an unanswerable question. But it certainly is a good question.
So, what’s the answer? Who knows. Like all of us, Vince may not see himself as others do. Maybe to him, Vince’s talent just “is,” simply nothing more than an inherent part of his normal self and consequently nothing “special.” After all, everything is relative. Still, it is frustrating, especially to those of us don’t have any special talents and are for the most part “bored” with our spare time. We end up telling ourselves, boy, if I had that kind of talent, I certainly wouldn’t waste it, right? Maybe. But then we all have a tendency to view someone else’s gifts through rose-colored glasses.
In reality, this kind of talent could actually be a “curse,” if for no other reason than in knowing we will be “judged” publicly by what we create. Subsequently, we will end up being compared to others, especially to those with similar talents. Yeah, Vince can point to most of us and say, “I can do this better than you.” Problem is, he can also point to a Rembrandt or a Van Gogh and say, “No way can I do it as well as them.” That’s just too much pressure.
Then there’s this to consider. Maybe he has pointed to himself and now realizes he is no longer capable of creating at the same profound level he once could. Perhaps the passion is simply gone. Or maybe the muse has “died” and no longer exists.
Or perhaps it’s this: MAYBE HE’S JUST BECOME TOO FREAKIN’ LAZY!
Yeah, that’s the ticket. So, forget about all that esoteric, philosophical crap just mentioned. The dude has just flat-out become lazy.
Therefore, I invite you all to email Vince below to encourage him to get his butt back in gear. In fact, send him a photo of yourself or a family member, or anyone or anything else you would like to see immortalized, and demand that he paint it. And don’t take “no” for an answer.
John Marabeas
Email Vince here: bluebrother35sd@cox.net