Recently, as in last week, a man named Neal Jenne died.
Now, I knew this man, he ran an art gallery that is a part of a historical re-enactment village that owns most of the land around my house. Neal a was an artist there, he used ink pens to make dot drawings of historical landmarks and houses around my town and had also done some commissioned pieces for theatres and other public places in the northern Ohio area. I
In 2005, the gallery was erected and, and my friends and I all took a day of our summer of building bike jumps and playing Halo 2 to produce some half-assed and really quite terrible pictures to try to get them into the gallery, nothing became of them afterwards.
For a year or so, my friends and I basically ignored the building's existence. Rather, we paid attention to the man with a wry grin and white, almost blond hair that came around the village every month or so with his little terrier and would let us pet it as he talked to people at the village, that was happening even before the gallery was built.
During my tenure at the Junior High School quite close to my house, I walked home each day we didn't have a snowday, and would pass the gallery on my way to my house 30 ft. behind it. Everyday that one guy with the terrier was there, either sipping a drink at a table, looking over some papers, or at his drawing station, at work on a new commission. The sign said open, but I never went in, the only time I mustered the courage to do so I simply made an idiot of myself gawking at the paintings that were there and spinning a yawp about how I was an aspiring artist. I said this because I thought I was, I had doodled a bit in school, and they caught the eye of some of my art teachers, so my ego swelled when I heard praise from people, and envisioned myself painting and drawing fantastic things and selling them for millions. When I saw the works in the gallery, it prompted me to go get some pieces of work that I had done, aside from my standard doodles, I sat down with my friend Chris Plog and me and him would draw monsters from fictional places inspired by the third Elder Scrolls game.
After I had assembled these pictures, I had went to him and shown them to him. In reply to these, he said "These are just doodles, I hope you weren't hoping of putting any in these in here, this place is already full as it it with other people's crappy artwork that they paid to have in here, hoping to sell."
I was taken right aback, but I didn't let it get to me, I simply packed up my pictures, went home onto my computer, and printed out some pictures to help inspire me to draw something a bit more professional looking that my current pictures. I decided to draw an Ordinator from Morrowind, the Elder Scrolls game mentioned earlier. I already had a drawing pad and a good set of drawing pencils from Mrs. Balukas, my art teacher my eighth grade year. I set out on my clandestine quest to make a perfect picture as I could, working for a couple days. Finally, I had finished, it's shading had slight smears and you could see the eraser marks very clearly in some places. I had showed it to him, he gave it an eye over, and asked me if I had a frame for it, the remark caught me completely by surprise. I left the picture there, rushed home, car pooled with my dad as he was going out to get some things at the store, and convinced him to take me to Pat Catans, I picked up the 7x14 frame. Later that day, I had a piece of my own art in the gallery, I was beaming.
After that I went into the gallery a lot, talking to Neal about random stuff, sometimes other artists from the area would stop in like Jerry Wolosyn, Mike Leuszler, Ted Litkovitz, and Bill Provident, he sometimes even had his terrier, Daisy, with him. I kept drawing, winning some things in my school, but I was still just an over celebrated doodler.
For awhile I would go there, talk, and draw with them, learning from just hearing them talk, especially Jerry, whenever I talked to him, he would talk about some deep stuff, to my newly blossoming mind with an interest in learning more, this is what helped me pursue more off the wall stuff at my school and wherever, simply for the sake of living it, and learning about it.
Sometimes, when I went to the gallery. It would only be Neal, and in his hands would be a small black Nintendo DS. Obviously curious, I entered and inquired as to what he was playing, and he replied to me: "This red little Mario guy!"
I was a bit confused , and kind of amused, a 70 year old artist known quite well throughout Ohio spent his days at the gallery sneaking a DS in so his wife would think he was working, it was priceless!
Later I would learn that Neal was diagnosed with cancer, I can't really remember what kind of cancer, but either way, he stopped coming around for awhile.
Other people came in each day, dealing with customers and artists in his place, he did come back, but all the time he wore a hat to cover his bald, now wrinkled head, I remember jokingly discussing with him how it would suck to have dandruff while being bald. Whenever he would come in before, he brought his dog every now and again, but now, he never brought her, one day I noticed and asked, he replied that she had died, she was old and was already blind before he ever had the gallery built. It wasn't long before he had a new dog, same type, same sex, same name, he was really lazy sometimes.
He gradually would come less and less to the gallery, and when he did come he never stayed long, and would usually just get a drink and sit on a bench outside before going in and doing some work before leaving. As time passed, his features changed, his skin wrinkled more, his cheeks lost color, but he still had a wry smile whenever I talked to him. During the summer after freshman year I would take my dog so he and his new dog would play together, and we would talk a little bit, but not like before, it stayed mostly to small talk, he asked me how things were going, I'd reply 'fine', how my girlfriend was, and again I'd reply 'Fine' but with a bit of a lecherous voice, a wry smile not unlike his, and a raised and lowered eyebrow. We'd both chuckle, and then he'd talk about things that were happening in the gallery, complaining about the area's artist's art, and complaining about how they would complain to him about how no-one would see their art where he hung it.
During my whole 10th grade year, I barely saw him around the gallery. By 2011, I stopped seeing him at all around there, and I stopped going over, except to look at myself in the full glass door that acted as a mirror to me, the place was always closed.
During my social studies trip to the cemetery to document the dates and ages of everyone there for the local historical society, I came across his headstone.
The picture on the front of it is what caught my eye, a deer in a forest scene etched into the marble with a familiar precision that made me stop and look at the name, 'Jenne' was etched into it.
I lost my breath and pangs of pain erupted in my eyes, I couldn't believe it. I looked at the date on the stone, there was a birth, but no death date.
I gasped for breath, the family had bought the stone pre-humus, I walked back to school in a kind of stupor, my mind sailing back to when I actually saw him and everyone. I eventually completed 10th grade, and strode my way into summer with a sigh of breath, and a lucrative grass cutting job, and eventually, a job at the local flea market for a hotdog vendor, it's hardly glamorous, but it's money.
The Sunday after my first Saturday working, which was Father's Day, my family went to my grandparent's house to have a get together like we do there for nearly every holiday. I sat in the back table, reading The Island of Dr. Moreau when I heard my father and his brothers talking about people from their school days, eventually it drifted to people around town in general. I heard one of them mention casually "Oh, did you know that Neal Jenne died?"
Everything stopped, I suddenly focused on their conversation, that is all they said of him, likely because my uncles never had really heard of him. I sat in near silence for the rest of the time there, occasionally opening my book, my face was pallor, I could feel it, my mother asked what was wrong, I replied simply "Book." and pointed to my novel, this must have answered her question because she turned away again, I went on reading the same sentence for a half hour, my mind sailing back in time.
When I had gotten home, I got onto my computer and searched his name, the first result took me to his online obituary, it was true.
I opened Facebook in a daze, and searched his name again, I don't really know why, but a result came up with Mike Leuszler linking the page I had just viewed, and commenting on his death. Neal had died the Tuesday before, and I only learned on Sunday.
It's better than learning a month after I suppose, but it really left me with nothing, no funeral to go to so I could pay respects, I had already missed it, and no paper to cut out his obituary. No, all I have left is a webpage with his obituary that will probably be taken down after awhile, a gallery he used to frequent, nearly empty of art, and a memory of a guy that I never really knew a whole lot about, but enough to know that I'll miss him. I sat there at my computer, and for the first time, I cried.
I sat there for awhile, my face red and wet, wondering if it was something to really cry over.
I've kept myself busy this week so far, but it's still on my mind alot, and how my last memory of him is a vague one, and how I never got the chance said goodbye to my friend.
In 2005, the gallery was erected and, and my friends and I all took a day of our summer of building bike jumps and playing Halo 2 to produce some half-assed and really quite terrible pictures to try to get them into the gallery, nothing became of them afterwards.
For a year or so, my friends and I basically ignored the building's existence. Rather, we paid attention to the man with a wry grin and white, almost blond hair that came around the village every month or so with his little terrier and would let us pet it as he talked to people at the village, that was happening even before the gallery was built.
During my tenure at the Junior High School quite close to my house, I walked home each day we didn't have a snowday, and would pass the gallery on my way to my house 30 ft. behind it. Everyday that one guy with the terrier was there, either sipping a drink at a table, looking over some papers, or at his drawing station, at work on a new commission. The sign said open, but I never went in, the only time I mustered the courage to do so I simply made an idiot of myself gawking at the paintings that were there and spinning a yawp about how I was an aspiring artist. I said this because I thought I was, I had doodled a bit in school, and they caught the eye of some of my art teachers, so my ego swelled when I heard praise from people, and envisioned myself painting and drawing fantastic things and selling them for millions. When I saw the works in the gallery, it prompted me to go get some pieces of work that I had done, aside from my standard doodles, I sat down with my friend Chris Plog and me and him would draw monsters from fictional places inspired by the third Elder Scrolls game.
After I had assembled these pictures, I had went to him and shown them to him. In reply to these, he said "These are just doodles, I hope you weren't hoping of putting any in these in here, this place is already full as it it with other people's crappy artwork that they paid to have in here, hoping to sell."
I was taken right aback, but I didn't let it get to me, I simply packed up my pictures, went home onto my computer, and printed out some pictures to help inspire me to draw something a bit more professional looking that my current pictures. I decided to draw an Ordinator from Morrowind, the Elder Scrolls game mentioned earlier. I already had a drawing pad and a good set of drawing pencils from Mrs. Balukas, my art teacher my eighth grade year. I set out on my clandestine quest to make a perfect picture as I could, working for a couple days. Finally, I had finished, it's shading had slight smears and you could see the eraser marks very clearly in some places. I had showed it to him, he gave it an eye over, and asked me if I had a frame for it, the remark caught me completely by surprise. I left the picture there, rushed home, car pooled with my dad as he was going out to get some things at the store, and convinced him to take me to Pat Catans, I picked up the 7x14 frame. Later that day, I had a piece of my own art in the gallery, I was beaming.
After that I went into the gallery a lot, talking to Neal about random stuff, sometimes other artists from the area would stop in like Jerry Wolosyn, Mike Leuszler, Ted Litkovitz, and Bill Provident, he sometimes even had his terrier, Daisy, with him. I kept drawing, winning some things in my school, but I was still just an over celebrated doodler.
For awhile I would go there, talk, and draw with them, learning from just hearing them talk, especially Jerry, whenever I talked to him, he would talk about some deep stuff, to my newly blossoming mind with an interest in learning more, this is what helped me pursue more off the wall stuff at my school and wherever, simply for the sake of living it, and learning about it.
Sometimes, when I went to the gallery. It would only be Neal, and in his hands would be a small black Nintendo DS. Obviously curious, I entered and inquired as to what he was playing, and he replied to me: "This red little Mario guy!"
I was a bit confused , and kind of amused, a 70 year old artist known quite well throughout Ohio spent his days at the gallery sneaking a DS in so his wife would think he was working, it was priceless!
Later I would learn that Neal was diagnosed with cancer, I can't really remember what kind of cancer, but either way, he stopped coming around for awhile.
Other people came in each day, dealing with customers and artists in his place, he did come back, but all the time he wore a hat to cover his bald, now wrinkled head, I remember jokingly discussing with him how it would suck to have dandruff while being bald. Whenever he would come in before, he brought his dog every now and again, but now, he never brought her, one day I noticed and asked, he replied that she had died, she was old and was already blind before he ever had the gallery built. It wasn't long before he had a new dog, same type, same sex, same name, he was really lazy sometimes.
He gradually would come less and less to the gallery, and when he did come he never stayed long, and would usually just get a drink and sit on a bench outside before going in and doing some work before leaving. As time passed, his features changed, his skin wrinkled more, his cheeks lost color, but he still had a wry smile whenever I talked to him. During the summer after freshman year I would take my dog so he and his new dog would play together, and we would talk a little bit, but not like before, it stayed mostly to small talk, he asked me how things were going, I'd reply 'fine', how my girlfriend was, and again I'd reply 'Fine' but with a bit of a lecherous voice, a wry smile not unlike his, and a raised and lowered eyebrow. We'd both chuckle, and then he'd talk about things that were happening in the gallery, complaining about the area's artist's art, and complaining about how they would complain to him about how no-one would see their art where he hung it.
During my whole 10th grade year, I barely saw him around the gallery. By 2011, I stopped seeing him at all around there, and I stopped going over, except to look at myself in the full glass door that acted as a mirror to me, the place was always closed.
During my social studies trip to the cemetery to document the dates and ages of everyone there for the local historical society, I came across his headstone.
The picture on the front of it is what caught my eye, a deer in a forest scene etched into the marble with a familiar precision that made me stop and look at the name, 'Jenne' was etched into it.
I lost my breath and pangs of pain erupted in my eyes, I couldn't believe it. I looked at the date on the stone, there was a birth, but no death date.
I gasped for breath, the family had bought the stone pre-humus, I walked back to school in a kind of stupor, my mind sailing back to when I actually saw him and everyone. I eventually completed 10th grade, and strode my way into summer with a sigh of breath, and a lucrative grass cutting job, and eventually, a job at the local flea market for a hotdog vendor, it's hardly glamorous, but it's money.
The Sunday after my first Saturday working, which was Father's Day, my family went to my grandparent's house to have a get together like we do there for nearly every holiday. I sat in the back table, reading The Island of Dr. Moreau when I heard my father and his brothers talking about people from their school days, eventually it drifted to people around town in general. I heard one of them mention casually "Oh, did you know that Neal Jenne died?"
Everything stopped, I suddenly focused on their conversation, that is all they said of him, likely because my uncles never had really heard of him. I sat in near silence for the rest of the time there, occasionally opening my book, my face was pallor, I could feel it, my mother asked what was wrong, I replied simply "Book." and pointed to my novel, this must have answered her question because she turned away again, I went on reading the same sentence for a half hour, my mind sailing back in time.
When I had gotten home, I got onto my computer and searched his name, the first result took me to his online obituary, it was true.
I opened Facebook in a daze, and searched his name again, I don't really know why, but a result came up with Mike Leuszler linking the page I had just viewed, and commenting on his death. Neal had died the Tuesday before, and I only learned on Sunday.
It's better than learning a month after I suppose, but it really left me with nothing, no funeral to go to so I could pay respects, I had already missed it, and no paper to cut out his obituary. No, all I have left is a webpage with his obituary that will probably be taken down after awhile, a gallery he used to frequent, nearly empty of art, and a memory of a guy that I never really knew a whole lot about, but enough to know that I'll miss him. I sat there at my computer, and for the first time, I cried.
I sat there for awhile, my face red and wet, wondering if it was something to really cry over.
I've kept myself busy this week so far, but it's still on my mind alot, and how my last memory of him is a vague one, and how I never got the chance said goodbye to my friend.
