A pretty young first grade teacher played an upright piano at the front of a classroom of six-year-olds, as she led them in song.  One by one the kids stopped singing until the teacher noticed that their attention had been redirected to the back of the room.

Viktor Popov was painting at an easel but was oblivious to the attention he had attracted.  He was short for his age, his clothes were ill-fitting and he had a lop-sided haircut.  He appeared to be in a trance as he dipped his brush in small pots of paint and attacked the heavy sheet of paper clipped to a hardboard easel.  His focus was intense and drool hung from the corner of his wide-open mouth.  

The teacher walked to the back of the classroom as the children giggled.  A little girl pointed at him.  “Miss Pennington, he’s having a fit or something.”

She leaned next to him and put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Viktor?  Are you okay?  Do you feel alright, hunny?”

He slowly came out of his trance, stopped and looked around. 

When Miss Pennington saw what he was painting, she stared in disbelief.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

A few nights later, Viktor sat on a folding chair in the school hallway, right outside a classroom door.  He drew on the seat of the chair with a ball point pen.

Inside the classroom, Viktor’s mother and father were stuffed into child-size desks.  Miss Pennington leaned casually against her desk in front of them.

Viktor’s father spoke with a thick Russian accent, “Did boy do something wrong?”

“No, no, no, Mister Popov, he’s not in trouble.  Not at all.”

Mrs. Popov looked anxious.  “Why are we here?” 

“Maybe it’s better if you see for yourselves.  Let me show you something.”  

Miss Pennington lifted up a large sheet of construction paper from her desk and held it front of them.  On it was a child’s painting of a house on a hill. 

“This is done by a girl in Viktor’s class.”  Miss Pennington noticed their puzzled looks.  “This is a good example of the kind of paintings these kids do.”

Viktor’s parents looked at it and nodded slowly.  Miss Pennington placed the sheet on her desk and carefully picked up another.

“Now… This is what Viktor painted.”

“Hold on Mister Popov, Viktor is not in trouble.”

“He painted naked woman!” His voice rose and his face grew redder.

Mrs. Popov started to cry. “I am so sorry, he doesn’t know better.”

“You don’t understand.  This is not just any naked woman.”  Miss Pennington pointed at the picture.  “This is called Naked Maya by a painter named Francisco Goya.  Here, look for yourself.”

She opened a large coffee table book to a place saved with a little yellow post-it. 

 “Same picture,” Mr. Popov looked up at his wife, “It is same one.”

“There was no book or picture anywhere near him.  It is as if he memorized it.”  Miss Pennington showed them some squeeze bottles of tempera paint.  “And he did it with only these six colors.  Have you ever witnessed him doing anything like this at home?” 

Viktor’s parents looked at each other and Miss Pennington saw she was on to something.  “Does it ever seem like he goes into a dream or maybe looks like he’s having a… maybe a mild… seizure?”

“There is nothing wrong with boy.”  Mr. Popov started to get angry again.  “If you say he did nothing wrong then we go home.”

Miss Pennington looked worried and followed them to the classroom door.  “Viktor has a real gift.  This kind of talent needs to be nurtured.  The maturity of his brush technique is… is… startling.  Kids Viktor’s age just do not paint like this.”  Her eyes pleaded with them.  “I don’t know if anyone does.” 

By the expression on his face, it became quite clear that Mr. Popov’s patience had finally run out.  He took his wife’s hand and led her out the door where she grabbed Viktor and they walked away.  Near the end of the long hallway, Viktor turned and looked back at Miss Pennington.  She smiled.  He smiled back.

She noticed something scrawled on the seat of the folding chair:

For many years after that night, Janice Pennington stayed in teaching.  She became the art teacher at the high school and was Viktor’s senior year art instructor.  At his graduation, she presented him with a beautiful black leather portfolio case with his initials emblazoned in gold across the top.  She also made one last plea to his parents to help him become the artist he was born to be.  As always, it fell on deaf ears.

She married a man who owned a local dairy farm a few years after that.  She took a job teaching art appreciation at a local community college.  Within ten years her husband, Jack Kilduff, turned that little dairy farm into a successful dairy distributor, servicing most of the state.

She put off her own career to help Jack with his burgeoning company.  Occasionally, during weak moments, she complained that “living on a farm” just wasn’t her idea of living.

Very soon after that, Jack and Janice sold the dairy to a much larger national distributor and retired in their forties.  Their blissful retirement together ended the night Jack was killed in a car accident, a year later.  Janice sold their house and finally got her wish to live in the city and happily adapted to the city lifestyle.  After months of interviews and phone calls, she landed a job writing a small column called “City Art Scene” for one of the smaller newspapers.  In her first year on the job, she wrote a piece about a young artist from the Mid West named Mandy Blair.

Mandy was the toast of the city art world and Janice was the lucky one who discovered her.  At her first major show, which was an enormous success, Mandy was photographed for a front page article with Janice standing next to her in every shot.  That was how she caught the eye of New York Times Arts and Leisure editor, Andrew Vogel.

She was contacted discreetly and at a somewhat secret meeting in his office, Andrew himself challenged her to find another Mandy Blair - and if she could, he had a place for her at the Times.

In the taxi cab ride back to her apartment, Janice made a call on her cell phone.  “Hi, Sheila.  Listen, I need to find someone and you’re the only one I know who can help me.”

A week later, at Baldy’s Snooker Lounge, Ray Azzini parked his car in the back parking lot and noticed the brand new Mercedes.  He walked by it on his way to the back door and grumbled.

 Fifteen minutes later, Ray held a glass of scotch and stood across the bar from Janice.  The bartender, Skinny Louie, stood nearby, listening in and trying to look busy.

“He took off last Tuesday, haven’t seen him since.  I don’t go stickin’ my nose in nobody’s business.  End of story.”

Because the helpful attitude had slipped away, Janice tried lightening her voice, “Does he usually stay away this long?”

“I don’t know.  Ain’t my job to watch him.  Long as he pays the rent…”

Janice looked a little frustrated.  “Could you do me a favor Mister Azzini…?”

“Ray, name’s Ray.”  When he smiled, she did her best to not stare at his missing front tooth and chapped lips but his breath was impossible to ignore.

She asked in her sweetest voice, “Do you suppose we could take a look upstairs?”

Ray shook his head, “Now, I don’t think I’d be very… comfortable with that, I live by a code, y’see?”

She put her hand on his forearm.  He looked down at it as she squeezed, “Now… Ray, I would be so grateful if we could take the shortest look.  I wouldn’t disturb anything.  He would never even know we were there.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

When they arrived at the apartment door, Ray made a big show of looking for the correct key on a big chain of keys.  He picked one, stuck it in the lock and twisted.  “Hey, he ain’t retarded or nothin’, is he?”  

“Of course not.  He…” At that moment the lock clicked, the door open and they gasped as the inside of the top floor apartment came into view.  Every inch of wall space was covered with sheets of exquisite watercolor paintings roughly taped to the walls.  The apartment was completely empty except for the paintings and a thin metal case on the floor.

“He’s gone.  There use to be furniture and shelves and books and…”  Ray trailed off as he watched Janice wander around looking at the paintings.  “How did he get all that stuff outta here?”

Janice moved around slowly and spoke softly to herself.  “Gainsborough.  Turner.  Homer.  Butler.  Klee.”

“What?”

“It’s as if he is teaching himself to paint in watercolor by copying the greatest watercolorists.”  She looked at each one individually as Ray watched her from the doorway. 

She bent down and picked up the slim metal case.  She flipped it open to reveal a simple 8-color watercolor set and a sable brush.  Each color pan was almost empty and dried up.  “Eight colors.  He uses eight colors, now.”

Ray noticed something underneath the last painting.  He lifted it away from the wall and written underneath…

 Two months later, 30 year old Viktor Popov exited the Seattle Art Museum onto First Avenue, holding a small pad and a cheap watercolor set.  He crossed the street and entered the Cherry Street coffee shop.  He found a seat at a back table and opened his pad and paints.  He went into the men’s room to put some water in a small travel cup.  When he returned, Janice Pennington-Kilduff sat at his table waiting for him.

 

 

She looked at him anxiously.  “Viktor.  I would know you anywhere.”  But her face gave away the lie. 

He was tall and built solidly.  So different from the awkward boy he had once been.  He had the swollen fingers of a laborer.  His bulky sweatshirt had holes in it and his hair and beard were long and messy.

 Viktor sat down across from her and cleaned his glasses with his sweatshirt.  “What’re you doing here, Miss Pennington?”

“It wasn’t easy finding you, I’ll tell you that.  I’m sorry to hear about your parents, by the way.  You’ve been traveling a lot, I guess?”  Viktor put his glasses back on and squinted at her while she continued nervously, “I saw your work - the watercolors at Baldy’s.  They’re beautiful.  How could you just leave them like that?  They're in a safe place now and I can ship them to you here if you want?”

He shook his head.  “You can have ‘em, I got plenty.”  He looked back out onto the street as if he had forgotten what he is doing there at all.  Suddenly, he turned to her, “How old are you, Miss Pennington?”

“I am fifty one now, Viktor.  Why?”  He shrugged and looked back out onto First Avenue.  She continued, “I came to ask you… I have, what I think is, a wonderful opportunity for you, Viktor.  For us.”

He chuckled softly to himself.

 

 

Janice grabbed his two meaty hands and leaned her face closer to his.  “How would you like to come back to New York with me and see if we can get you set up in your own studio and get you some press - some big press?”

“What makes you think I want press?”

“Every artist needs publicity.  Right?”  Viktor sat back and smiled so she continued,  “I’ll bring you to New York with me – everything will be taken care of.  You just relax and enjoy yourself while I show your art work to some very important people.  Now, how does that sound?” 

He turned away again and looked out across the street at the Art Museum.  After what seemed like ten minutes without any reaction, she slowly tried again.  “Viktor?  Doesn’t that sound good to you?”

Another long wait until he finally turned to her.  “How old are you Miss Pennington?”     

“I am fifty one, remember?”  She started to look worried as he seemed to drift in and out of the conversation. 

“Is your parents’ money starting to run out, Viktor?  I can help, you know.  If you come back with me, I will make sure you never run out of money again.  It'll be great.”

Viktor grabbed his stuff and stood up next to the table.  “I have to go now.”

Janice scrambled to her feet.  “Wait.  Before you go… where are you staying?”

“Round the corner.”

Do you think you want come back to New York with me?”  She tried to keep up to him as he made his way out of the door and onto the sidewalk.  “Viktor, please come with me.”

He stopped so suddenly that she almost walked right into his back.  “Fine.  I'll go with you.”

“You will?  That's marvelous!  Can you leave right away?”

He shrugged. “Tomorrow?”

“I’ll pick you up.  I have a driver and I can get a flight for tomorrow afternoon.  Can you be ready?”

“Sure, I guess.”

She handed him a business card.  “Here, write down your address and phone number on the back.”  

He wrote down his address.  “I don’t have a phone.” 

“That’s okay, can I pick you up at noon?”

“Sure, I guess.”  He handed the card back to her.

She gave him an uncomfortable hug.  “Oh, Viktor, this is gonna be great.  You’ll see.  I am going to make you rich and famous.”

 

 

She arrived at his door at exactly noon, just as she had promised.  When she knocked on the door, it swung open.  The apartment was completely empty again, just like at Baldy's, except for the leather portfolio case she had given him for high school graduation.

She knelt on the floor in front of the case and started to cry as she read the note taped to the outside of the case.

She opened the case to find hundreds of original watercolor paintings.  She gasped at the beauty of his work as she sat on the floor, looking at each and every one through her tears. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

DuaneArt 2009

 

Francisco Goya

William Gainsborough

Joseph Mallord William Turner

Winslow Homer

Theodore Butler

Paul Klee

 Seattle Art Museum

New York Times Arts Section

Cherry Street Coffee Shop

Savant Syndrome