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I have always loved this picture. To me it is so gripping as to almost be alive. The painting may not be all that sensational to your eye, but the story that forever attached me to it and how it came into my hands is a fascinating and strange tale indeed.
I was living in Boulder Colorado and playing (busking) in the organized live music scene on Pearl Street, the pedestrian mall. Singing a couple of hours a day in the Rocky Mountain sun. Good job! Blessed with a loud voice where no amplification was allowed I was very successful as a street performer and managed a decent income from the tips I gathered there. Sometimes these tips took other forms than cash money; mysterious pills, little trinkets, phone numbers, chunks of hash, stones and crystals were popular etc. One time a fellow walked up to me and handed me a perfect 12-string Yamaha guitar saying “I never play it.” For many years after I did. Probably the most common non-cash tip was a rolled joint. Got them all the time.
One afternoon as I was gathering up the days take from my guitar case I picked up what I thought was yet another joint of weed. But it turned out to be a tightly rolled slip of paper. Thinking it was another anonymous phone number I unrolled it. It was not a phone number. It was a note. It read:
“Don’t ever think your music couldn’t save somebody’s life.”
I kept the odd missive laying around my room for a few days then discarded it without a 2nd thought probably when I was tidying up.
One afternoon, some weeks later I met a young woman there on Pearl Street. I recognized her as she had sat and listened to me on a number of occasions without a word. This day she invited me for coffee. She said her name was Loren Wells. I learned that she had adopted that name because she was an admirer of Orson Wells and Loren Bacall. She was as interesting a person you could ever meet. I got to know her personally. She never told me her real name and I never asked.
Loren had among other things run away at 18 and lived with the Bedouins in the North African desert having read, as a young girl, T H Lawrence’s (Lawrence of Arabia) book The Seven Pillars of Wisdom a highly intellectual, deep and tedious account of his fighting and living alongside Prince Faisal, later King Faisal the 1st, and the Syrian tribes in World War I, hardly the kind of reading material you’d expect of a teenage school-girl.
I came to Loren’s place one afternoon and she was sitting on her sofa engaged intently with a large book on her lap. She didn’t look up as she invited me in and as I walked up to her I saw that she was actually painting tiny watercolor illustrations into the book which was written in exquisite calligraphy. It was her handmade book as it turned out, from cover to cover. The illustrations and handwriting were fantastic; she never made a mistake. She of course composed the text as well. It was only then that I discovered that she was an artist and writer of incredible talent and skill; totally self-taught; a genius of sorts for sure.
In Loren’s tiny apartment exactly opposite the end of her bed was a closet which had no door. One morning I noticed over my toes, inside that closet beneath the hanging shirts what looked like a framed picture leaning against the inside wall, the image facing inwards. Curious, I hopped out of bed and pulled the canvas out and it was the painting pictured at the top of this post. I was riveted to it when Loren awoke and saw what I was about.
“Wow!, that is beautiful. I feel like I could eat one of those peaches.” I said, holding the picture at arm’s length.
“You like that Kevin?”
Yeah I really do.”
You can have it.”
I happily and instantly accepted the gift with effusive thanks and vowed that I would always keep it, as I have. She was pleased. It hung for many years in a central spot in my house, my father’s house and now my daughter Corrina’s house.
Loren told me this story behind the painting. She had married a Mexican man, for money ($500), to legitimize his US citizenship, a common practice in those days. Though they never consummated their marriage which was strictly a business arrangement he asked her to go to Mexico because his mother, probably a strict Catholic, demanded to meet his wife. The adventure appealed to her so she went, spent some time with the family and was welcomed by all into the family. One early morning while strolling through the village market she saw a woman selling peaches; the woman in the painting. So the picture was of an actual person, old Mexican fruit vendor. Loren bought some peaches. She said this woman then grasped her tightly around the wrist and in a very desperate emotional way pleaded with her to stay in Mexico. She did not lighten her grip. Loren didn’t stay, but she was impressed and moved enough to paint the picture purely from memory a few years later.
And she gave it to me.
One day Loren, very suddenly…. out-of-the-blue… asked me.
“Do you remember getting a note in your guitar case that said, ‘Don’t ever think your music couldn’t save somebody’s life.’…?”
“Yes I do.”, I said, realizing instantly that it must have come from her, “But I couldn’t imagine what it meant.”
She said “ I wrote that note and put it in your guitar case. Because that day I was on my way here to kill myself. I walked through the mall and heard your beautiful voice so I stopped and sat down and listened to you for maybe an hour. And I changed my mind and decided to keep living. I had no money and couldn’t think of anything to give you so I wrote that note to at least thank you for saving my life.”
What?! Yikes!!…I didn’t say those words. I thought them. I was speechless.
“Why the fuck would you want to do that?” I finally asked her.
“Depression I guess. I have a lot of that.”
After this lurid revelation she told me the most horrifying story of a childhood, her own, that I have ever heard. I hate to think about it even now.
“My father was an alcoholic psychotic who almost killed me on a number of occasions. When I was 8 years old he broke both my arms.” She went on to describe being thrown down stairs and other harrowing stories of abuse I’d rather not repeat here. I myself was a victim of extreme physical abuse as a child but nothing like Loren Wells. She had been deeply scarred. This damage evidently led her to be self-destructive maybe psychotic like her father. Who knows? People abused by those who say they love them become quite emotionally confused. She told me she had attempted suicide several times before. I didn’t ask for details. The whole thing was really sad, beyond my comprehension and just plain out of my league.
I was living with another woman at the time and Loren and I drifted apart not long after. I often wondered when I looked at the picture on my wall whether she survived her suicidal ways. I kinda doubt it. I don’t like to think so, but she was so accomplished and thorough at everything she did I imagine she eventually worked that one out too. I am happy to never know for sure.
I’ve never been able to describe how it feels to be told I saved someone’s life by singing.
I guess you could say it’s a frightening honor.
