painting detail by Bill Barrell
I knew Bill for a long time. I first met him back in early 2007, when my husband and I first moved to Easton with our newborn daughter. I quickly befriended my neighbor, Liza, who was also a new mother with a baby girl, and we spent many lovely days wandering around Easton with our babies in their strollers.
Me and Liza at a local farm with our babies in 2007. (These babies are now 15 and 16 years old.)
The first time we stopped by Liza’s parents’ house downtown, with our babies in tow, I was immediately impressed by its beauty. The home was spacious and bright, with high ceilings and white walls drenched in sunlight which flooded in through the many large windows. Marilyn and Bill were so courteous and welcoming. Bill made us tea in a large teapot, which, along with his charming accent, made me feel like I was in England.
painting by Bill Barrell
I was amazed by the huge paintings hanging on the walls of their house. I learned that Bill was a painter, and he had a long and successful painting career behind him. During one visit, Bill showed me his studio down in the basement. I was just blown away by the power and quantity of the paintings. I also felt wistful, even sad. Something in me longed to paint too, but that desire seemed completely unachievable to me at the time.
But Bill encouraged me.
“Just do it,” he said.
Bill’s studio, open to visitors during the memorial.
painting by Bill Barrell (Liza, pregnant)
I had another baby, and I was quickly overwhelmed by the responsibilities of motherhood. It seemed even less possible than ever to paint now. But Liza told me it was possible. She recounted wonderful stories of her own childhood, and what it was like growing up with an artist dad in Jersey City. It sounded dreamy, magical, and best of all, achievable. But still, I couldn’t figure out how Bill had managed it.
painting by Bill Barrell
“Are you painting?” Bill would ask every time we brought our kids over for a visit. Liza had another baby by then as well. We were both so busy taking care of little ones.
“No,” I would say as I changed a diaper. “It’s too difficult. I don’t have time. Money is tight…”
Bill merely shrugged. “You can get very cheap paint at Home Depot,” he told me. “Ask them for the mistakes. They’re always mixing mistake colors, and they sell them cheap!” He waved his hands, to show how easy it was. Not only easy, but necessary, even obligatory.
Bill just assumed that of course one would paint. An artist just paints, that’s all there is to it. Logistics would have to figure themselves out.
painting by Bill Barrell
“But you were lucky,” I told him one day, as Bill poured me and Liza a second cup of tea.
“Luck had nothing to do with it,” Bill said, sipping his tea. “It was hard work.” He said it with a smile and a sense of satisfaction, the way a skilled laborer might talk after building a solid stone wall. Hard work, but satisfying.
Bill’s paintings and art books
Years passed, and my kids grew older and went to school. Eventually I did figure out how to be an artist. It was hard work, but I knew I was in good company. Bill continued to give me a lot of encouragement when I posted my paintings on Facebook.
“Very beautifully composed,” he wrote in a comment once. “And colors are a knockout. Keep ‘em coming!” I copied down everything he told me in my sketchbook, to read and re-read during my dark bouts of self-doubt and despair.
When I had struggles, I would reach out to him. He offered to write me a letter of recommendation for the Pollock Krasner award, a grant which he himself had won twice. I didn’t get the grant, but he kept encouraging me anyway.
“Well nothing ventured, nothing gained,” he said, when I didn’t get the grant. “Keep trying, every year.”
Bill’s art supplies
Bill also supported me by buying a few paintings from me in recent years, which helped tremendously. He continued to advise and promote me during the last years of his life. He listened to me when I told him of my struggles. He helped me have confidence in myself and my own path as an artist. He showed me how to not care too much about other peoples’ opinions and judgements.
Painting, and being authentic to oneself, was of primary importance. I’ve never met a man so confident of his vocation and abilities. He radiated confidence.
painting by Bill Barrell
“I understand, Lauren,” he wrote to me in one of his last messages. “I have been painting for over sixty years. I was a late bloomer at 25. Been through thick and thin. So I recognize where you are coming from…You are a good artist. I like the way you explore different approaches. Your drawings are graceful.” I wrote his words down in sketchbook, hungry for encouragement.
For some reason, I sort of assumed that Bill would always be in my life, a mentor, a guiding star, an example of hard work and confidence in the artists’ path. When he died, I was stunned. It just didn’t feel real.
paintings by BIll Barrell
A few weeks ago I was painting in my studio. Suddenly, I fervently wished that I could show Bill what I was working on. It was something big, something new. I knew he would be excited about it. He would really get it! But then it hit me…
I could never show Bill what I was working on, not then, not ever again. That’s when I finally cried, there in my studio with blue paint on my jeans and on my face.
I miss having someone in the world who believed in me so much. I miss him as a mentor and as a person, but I’m grateful that I had the chance to know him. It was a real gift. I feel close to him when I am painting in the studio, whenever I’m really on a roll, painting enthusiastically without any fear or hesitation. In those moments, it’s like Bill is right there, too.
“Keep trucking,” he says, smiling. “Keep ‘em coming!”
oil paints, left behind…