35. A Portrait of the Artist as a Right Foot – Bianca Bosker
Ultimately, I ended up on my couch with what I discovered to be a terrific companion: My right foot.
A few weeks ago, frustrated by a story-in-progress that seemed to be stalling out, I forced myself to step away from my desk. I checked the fridge several times (excellent cure for writer's block) and checked Instagram several times (terrible cure for writer's block). I vacuumed. Ultimately, I ended up on my couch with what I discovered to be a terrific companion: My right foot. For maybe half an hour, my foot posed, very patiently, while I drew its portrait. I don't tend to spend a lot of time examining those five toes, but when I did—it was like exploring a new neighborhood in a new city, full of surprises and the thrill of discovery. The veins! The bumps! The mysterious hairs, nubs, and nails! An adventure.
Later, while reviewing notes for a book I'm writing, I came across a quote I'd scribbled in a notebook. It was advice from an artist: “In order to arrive somewhere that feels fresh and new,” she’d told me, “you have to break down what feels expected.” I thought back to my foot, which I've seen every day, for decades. But looking isn't the same as examining. And examining isn't the same as conveying. That exercise of translating—in, say, words or images—the essence of what we perceive can deliver us to someplace fresh and new, even without ever leaving the couch. I experienced it, and I hope, now, it's your turn.
– Bianca Bosker
Prompt:
Draw a portrait of your right foot (or, if you prefer, the right foot of anything—a chair, a table, a pet) using whatever medium you'd like. After you finish the portrait, write a description of the foot as though it were a character you're introducing—its physical attributes, but also its personality and demeanor. Who is it? Where has it been? What does it want? What’s it like?
Further reading for inspiration:
Daddy-Long-Legs by Jean Webster
Letters to a Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke
“A Letter to My Nephew” by James Baldwin
Abby Alten Schwartz
Location: Lansdale, Pennsylvania, USA
About: I decided to let my dog, Chase, step in (ha!) and write this entry about his right foot. We had a blast working on this together, inspired by a very embarrassing event that happened to his left hind paw. The photos that accompany his story add to the humor. Enjoy!
Age: 53
My mom (Abby to all of you) has asked me to step in (ha!) and help her with this prompt about a right foot. Her workload has gotten very busy over the last few weeks and while she plans to write an essay in her journal for every prompt, she has had to skip a few days of posting here and there. If you read prompt #34, which was about yours truly, you will understand why she trusts me to write for her. We are psychic twins, after all. That said, I do have my limitations, having no opposable thumbs, so I was unable to draw a portrait of my right foot. Here instead are two photos that illustrate the nonsense I have to deal with on occasion, managing Lefty and Righty—two very different personalities—on my hindquarters. Enjoy. —Chase
Meet Righty. Technically, Hind-Righty, not to be confused with Front-Righty. The front paws always get the most attention, shaking with humans in exchange for a cookie. But really my hind feet are the ones that balance me when I’m dancing on two legs, and they are the ones that launch me off my deck, right over the steps, when that stupid squirrel has the AUDACITY TO ENTER MY YARD!!! Ahem.
Anyway. I can always count on Righty to be the more reasonable of the pair. It makes sense if you think about it. Righty is controlled by the left side of my brain, which is responsible for logical thinking. Lefty is controlled (and I use that word loosely) by the right side of my brain, which is the wild, untamed side responsible for creativity! And art! Because of my link to mom’s brain, which is also right-dominant, this gives the left side of my body an unfortunate amount of power, or as Lefty likes to call it: freedom of expression.
On the day that photo #1 was taken, I was out in my yard finishing up some personal business when my brain signaled my hindquarters to kick up clods of dirt. You humans sometimes call it flushing. Tomato, tomahto. Righty, true to form, demonstrated commendable strength and discipline, only kicking up what was necessary for the task at hand. Lefty, however, was COMPLETELY out of control! That maniac kicked so hard he nearly tore off a toenail. I was so jacked on adrenaline from his shenanigans that I didn’t even notice the pain until I got inside.
Mom noticed the blood right away and when she couldn’t get it to stop, yelled for Dad. They took me to the doctor (thanks a LOT, Lefty!!!) where I had to endure the embarrassment of listening to Mom explain what she thought had happened. Naturally, I got blamed, not Lefty.
The vet tech wrapped Lefty very neatly in a bright green bandage while Righty stood calmly and kept me balanced and still, like a good boy. Ya hear that, front paws? The hindys can earn us a cookie too!
The story should have ended there. But no, Lefty couldn’t just behave himself for a few days and lie low until he healed. Not three days later, we came inside from a quick trip to the yard when I heard my sister say, “Mom, look at Chase’s bandage!” HYSTERICS ensued, with the two of them laughing so hard they were gasping for breath, tears streaming down their faces.
The indignity. I tried to push the memory from my mind, but words like Grinch, elf shoe, and Ohmygodlookathisfoothahahahaha! flash back like a bad dream.
I’ve forgiven Lefty. After all, he and Righty are a team and when we all work together, no bed is too high, no staircase too steep, and no stupid squirrel too fast.
Anonymous
Barbara Fazio-McGrory
Location: New York City
About: I never kept a diary & always wanted to journal. I am a psychotherapist who encourages my patients to do so. It’s my turn to “practice what I preach.”
Age: 66
Laurel Middelaer
Location: White Rock, BC (Vancouver BC, Canada)
About: My uncle passed away that day, and the prompt allowed me to access to celebrate and grieve
Age: 54
My Right Foot- My Right Hand
Right foot forward, it brushes across the threshold of my Uncle’s garage. Jet black hair slicked back, under the hood of a car.
‘Hey Wa’ the raspy voice greets me, with a swig of Coke and a drag on an unfiltered Export A.
Right foot nudging the ball from the divot as I choose to use the ‘foot wedge’, a necessary club coined by my Uncle John, as we golfed so many glorious links together.
Right foot down, pedal to the medal in my Uncle John’s new Cadillac, speeding 145 km an hour for the first time in my life, on the straight #1 highway in Saskatchewan, on our journey across Canada together.
Right foot inserted in ski boot, winding behind Uncle John on the slopes of Lake Louise, deep powder in trees, as he carved the path ahead of me, purposely bumping the snow laden trees with his pole for a snow shower for his niece behind him.
Right foot tapping with glee as we discussed the ridiculous song ‘Rag Mop’ – then in serendipity, it played on the car radio, on a dark summer night, on a lonely road in North Dakoda. We both sang our hearts out, Irish eyes dancing, savouring the delicious irony of the hands of the universe.
Right foot forward, right arm linked in his left, as we walked down the aisle.
Best Uncle, best choice to give me to my husband.
In my most troubled time of my relationship, my feet were squarely readjusted by a chat with Uncle John.
Both feet planted on BC soil, two children in tow, UJ came to visit. My daughter Alexa was smitten by ‘Uncle John with the White Hair’; she laughed with glee as he flew her around like an airplane, tickling her toes.
Right foot stamping down in anger: ‘Why Uncle John, Why did someone kill my sweet child Alexa?” His Irish eyes dimmed, and he held his broken Laurel
Right foot fastened, chained to home, pandemic restriction. Uncle John in ICU dying. Phone held by nurse, I shared my heart and I sobbed the words, “What will I do without you?” He phoned my mom from ICU- ‘Laurel’s broken’
I am.
Right foot still, right hand on chest, pencil laid down… the light flickers. I get the call.
Fare thee well, dear Uncle John. I now have a champion beyond. I am at peace, grounded for having you in my life.
Susan Ecker
Location: Pomona, NY
About: I have been journaling for the past 4 years and the Isolation Journal prompts are a great inspiration for me.
Age: 65
Okay. I’m a little peeved that you sent such a terrible artist to do my portrait. I’ve heard her quip “I can’t draw a straight line with a ruler.” And this is who you send to draw me? Have you seen the picture? I look like a blob. There’s no nuance; not character. The blue vein, which I am so distressed to see has grown more prominent over the years, is a simple line. Where’s the contour and shadow? This straight line does nothing to express the stress on me from standing on the weak ankle. How do you think that protruding blue line got there to begin with? It was all that running around making breakfast, lunch and dinner for the past forty-three years. I’m not complaining. I enjoyed the journey. But it shouldn’t look so one dimensional.
And today is the worst possible day to draw me. I have no polish on my toes and I look a fright. Because of the Coronavirus, the nail salons are closed. Not that I can’t make myself up to look beautiful. It’s just that I’m trying to keep life simple. No extravagance. And polish is unnecessary. Unless someone attempts to draw me. Making my portrait without make-up? Not cool.
So, I am firing the artist you sent. Worthless with a pencil. Except to write words. Now, there’s an idea. She can write my story any day.