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June 27, 2006

The Defining Moment

My friend Danny Gregory, author of The Creative License, recently published a series of essays on his blog (including the one below) from people who have given up their day jobs to follow their dreams.

This is my story:

I’ll never forget that day.

It was the morning after I had pulled an all-nighter creating an advertising campaign for a client. The campaign was a good one. I felt great about it. With a number of Clio awards and dozens of Addy and One Show awards under my belt I felt confident that the client would love the ideas we were presenting.

The cigar-chomping, excessively-sweating client - who I created the campaign for - was reviewing the work. He was looking over the ad campaign with distain.

“Na.” He said. “This is bad. I hate it. Why don’t you just take the logo fill the page with the entire thing? Now that would be branding.”

My heart sank. Then I felt anger. Extreme anger. Not at the client, but at myself. I remembered a promise I had made to myself twenty years before. A promise I had not kept.

It happened when I was in the army in South Africa. I was walking through a field hospital filled with kids from small rural villages who had been brought to a clinic for treatment from the army medical corps. The conditions were abysmal. There were almost six kids per bed, it was nauseatingly hot and there were flies everywhere, especially around the corners of the children’s eyes and mouths.

As I was walked down the center aisle I caught sight of a little boy who was about five years old sitting on the edge of one of the hospital beds. I looked into his huge brown eyes as I walked by and then noticed with shock that he had no legs. Instead I saw dirty bandages wrapped around two stumps. The boy had lost his legs in a landmine accident on the Angolan border.

As I walked by, the little boy put up his hands and said “Sir, can you please hold me.”

I will never forget the haunting look of sadness in his eyes. Huge tears rolled slowly down his cheeks and dropped to the floor, their significance lost in the dust and grime of war.

The Sergeant Major, who was walking alongside me, grabbed my arm and pulled me away from the child.

“Romain,” he grunted. “Leave him alone. Don’t get emotionally involved. We’re here for security, not child-care.”

As the Sergeant Major pulled me away the little boy, in a broken chocked-up whisper, spoke again. His voice tugged at me from behind.

“Sir, please, please can you just hold me?”

Something happened to me that moment that I will never forget. My life changed instantly. It felt like a hand came out of the sky, reached inside me, and flipped a switch that turned on my soul.

I pushed the Sergeant Major’s hand away, turned, walked back and picked up the little boy. I have never been held so tightly in my life. His trembling little body clung to me for all it was worth.

He put his head against my chest and he began to cry. His tears ran down my neck and inside my shirt. I held that little boy with my arms, my heart and my soul and every ounce of compassion in my being. I never wanted to let him go, ever.

At that second I promised myself that I would never waste a second of my valuable life. That I would use my creative talents to change the world for children.

But I didn’t.

I went into advertising because it was safe and the money was good and everyone told me that it was almost impossible to make a living writing and illustrating children’s books.

I believed them.

I got sucked into the advertising vortex. I allowed client after client put my work down, destroy my exciting ideas and turn me into a cynic, who spent every day, using my talents to convince consumers to buy things they didn’t need.

The inner explosion had been building for months. The cigar-chomping client wasn’t the reason I quit that day. He just lit the fuse.

I discussed the situation with my family and decided that I HAD to follow my dream.

I woke up the next day, sat in front of my yellow pad and started my new job as an un-published children’s author and illustrator.

Although getting started was difficult and sometimes frustrating, the sheer passion and joy of doing what I love was there. And it still is. I have been hungry, rejected, under-appreciated and often ignored but I LOVE what I do. I have been writing full time for ten years now and I am one of the happiest people I have ever met.

During my journey, after every book rejection I received, I heard the little boys voice in my head saying, “Sir, please can you just hold me.” And in my heart and soul I did.

And I still do.

I now have 30 books in print with over one million copies in circulation in twelve different languages.

And I’m not done yet because I still hear the little boy’s voice.

Posted by trevor at 09:16 AM | Comments (5)

June 23, 2006

Euphoria

I was a little boy, yet I remember it like it was yesterday. I'll never forget the feeling of euphoria that washed over my body.

I see it so clearly.

My mother handing me a paintbrush loaded with exciting, bright, yellow poster paint.

A blank piece of white poster-board beckoning me with open arms.

The total comfort within my being that had not yet learned the meaning of the word judgment.

The unconditional freedom to express myself without worrying about what an audience might think of my work.

The unencumbered connection from my soul through my hand to the paper.

The joy, pleasure, satisfaction and sheer excitement of that first unrehearsed stroke remains the original seed that started the beautiful, vibrant, fulfilling, forest of color, in which I now live.

Thanks mum.

Posted by trevor at 09:28 AM | Comments (1)

June 18, 2006

Father's Day

I had a wonderful surprise when I walked into my studio this morning.

There she was, my muse, sittting in my chair like she had never been gone.

“Where have you been?” I asked.

“No hello?” she said.

“Oh, hi,” I said.

“Did you miss me?”

“Duh! Have you seen my blog lately?”

“Yeah. It’s been a bit sparse,” she said, sheepishly.

“Where did you go?” I asked.

“To a muse spa and resort.”

“A what?”

“A muse spa. It’s a retreat for muses,” she replied.

“Now I’ve heard everything,” I said.

“No you haven’t,” she said. “You won’t believe who was also at the spa.”

“Who?”

“Jac. Your late dad.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes. He was teaching a watercolor class.”

“Awww. He loved teaching.”

“Loves, teaching.”

“I know. I'm so glad he's still at it. Did you speak to him?” I asked.

“Sure.”

“Well, what did he say?”

“We chatted about the art you and he once did together.”

“I'll never forget that," I said. " Just thinking about it inspires me.”

“Duh,” said my muse, rather sweetly. “That's why I'm here. And that's why I brought it up. Remember what a muse does honey? I’m here to inspire you. To remind you of how much you enjoy the simple watercolors that your father taught you how to do. To remind you to paint what you love, not what you think people will like.”

After my muse left, I remembered that today is father's day.

I miss my dad today.

He was a wonderful artist. He was always inspired by a beautiful summer day like today.

Today he would have been busily painting the new green leaves against the azure sky.

Today he would have smiled at his work, leaned back, taken a sip of Earl Gray tea and called me over.

“We should have a show together?” he’d say, putting his arm around my waist. “Now wouldn’t that be great? A father and son exhibition.”

I think he said that every time he completed a painting.

I was young and way too interested in chasing girls to get enough material together for a show.

My dad gave away every painting he did, so he never had enough material for a show.

My father reached many of his dreams, except for his biggest. To show his work. He was a wonderful artist. Way better than I will ever be. But Jac Romain was exceptionally humble. And never wanted people to think he was bragging or blowing his own horn, so he never felt comfortable asking a gallery to host an exhibition of his art.

My dad died way too young. After some months my mother asked me to clean out his studio because she couldn’t face doing it. During my search I found a number of drawings my dad had not yet painted.

I brought them back to America with me.

Some time later while cleaning out my own studio, I came across my dad’s unfinished paintings. Without hesitation, I pulled out my watercolors and turned his pencil drawings into paintings. I signed them Jac and Trevor Romain. It was a wonderful way to be with my dad, even though he was gone.

Six months later I had a show at a gallery in Austin and I included my own paintings, some of my dad’s completed paintings and the pieces we did together. Finally, we both had our first exhibition…together. I called the show ‘Yours, Mine and Ours’.

I am so glad I was able to make my dad’s dream come true. Doing it really filled my soul with warmth and my heart with pride.

It's father's day.

I miss my dad today.

Posted by trevor at 11:52 AM | Comments (5)

June 15, 2006

Down To Earth

I will be visitng Salt Lake City next week to be a guest on the television show "Good Things Utah." This reminds me of the time I was on the "Fox and Friends" show last year in New York City.

The interview was exciting and I felt like I was the king of the world. I was pumped. I mean, how often does one get to be on national television? I was picked up by a driver to come to the studio. I was pampered by a make-up artist. Hoo ha! I felt oh so important. (I forgot to mention that I was on the show for four whole minutes at six in the morning which made it five in the morning in Texas which made it three in the morning in California, which meant that maybe seventeen people actually even saw the show.)

Nevertheless I left the studios all important and ready to greet the throngs in New York City. I walked out of the building as the sun was rising. It had rained and steam rose lazily from the subway grates. The streets were empty except for a few garbage trucks and some yellow taxi cabs. There were no people around except for three homeless guys (who might not have been homeless but they looked like it) who were standing and watching the big screen television on the building behind me. The television was showing the program I had just been on. (There was no sound, just images.)

One of the men got up and shuffled quickly over to me. “Can I have your autograph?,” he said.

“Sure,” I said, signing the scrap of paper he gave me. Proud to give my first ever autograph in New York.

“Thank you,” he said.

“My pleasure,” I replied.

“By the way,” he said. “Who are you?”

Ah, the universe has such a wonderful way of humbling those who sometimes get a little too big for their boots.

Posted by trevor at 09:15 AM | Comments (2)

June 12, 2006

Posted by trevor at 06:54 AM | Comments (2)

June 07, 2006

Doodle Therapy

There are many ways to reduce stress and deal with anxiety. Different people find different ways cope with the strain of modern day living.

While keeping a young girl company during her end of life journey a number of years ago, I discovered something that really helps me. I call it Doodle Therapy.

Audrey was a great little six year old with cancer. We spent a lot of time during her treatment writing in our journals. I would sit with her at the hospital to relieve her mother while she went home to get a change of clothing or to buy Audrey a 'real' hamburger. (Anything to get Audrey to eat at the time.)

We found that stream of consciousness doodling it our journals made us both feel really good. The only other thing I can liken the experience to is the feeling I get from the release of endorphins when I exercise really hard. Audrey and I would sit for long stretches of time making squiggles and periodically looking up and smiling at each other.

I was present her bedside when Audrey died and the first thing I did after saying goodbye to her was to stop in at the sweet little chapel at Brackenridge hospital where I wrote a goodbye note to her. It really helped me to express the feelings I was experiencing at that moment.

I did the same when I felt so angry about my father's death. It was amazing how soothing it was to release my anger onto the page with heavy scribbles and an array of questionable words.

Just yesterday I found peace and comfort in my journal as I doodled while thinking about Tatum, a young friend who died recently.

For some reason, letting your hand find its own way on paper is very relaxing and satisfying.

My young art student Ashlyn has found the same to be true. Ashlyn has had many operations to repair his cleft palate. He is dyslexic (like I am) and sometimes arrives here at the studio rather wound up and upset about how he is often treated by other kids at school. (It's actually quite sad how cruel kids can be.)

It's amazing how Ashlyn's stress and bottled-up emotions drain from his body when we sit and doodle together while discussing the meaning of life.

You don't have to be an artist to get the benefits of doodling though. Just find a blank piece of paper and let your emotions flow through your pen.

Scribbles, words, stick figures, patterns, dots, squares, circles. It does not matter what form the doodle takes. You can even use markers, crayons or paints to color the doodles after you have done them. I'm sure you remember how wonderful and pleasant it was to color in when you were a child.

Well, it still can be.

Posted by trevor at 01:26 PM | Comments (2)

June 04, 2006

Now Is The Time (Reprise)

Recently while spring-cleaning a closet in my studio, I found a new, un-opened, set of lovely Windsor & Newton watercolor paints. A very expensive pair of Sable hair brushes. A set of Dr. Martin’s inks. A set of Rotring pens and a nice thick block of Arches Hot Pressed paper.

What a great surprise! Just to think that some of the materials I’ve been coveting in the latest Jerry’s Artarama catalogue were actually hidden under my very nose in my studio.

Then I found a note tucked in with the supplies and my blood went cold.

The note was to my father who died six years ago. The note and the art materials were for my dad who could not get good art supplies in South Africa. My dad never asked for much, but I knew he wanted this package so badly. For some reason I never got round to mailing it to him.

I am so sorry.

"Now is the time to give me roses, not to keep them for my grave to
come. Give them to me while my heart beats, give them today while my
heart yearns for jubilee. Now is the time..."

Mzwakhe Mbuli

Posted by trevor at 07:15 AM | Comments (2)

June 01, 2006

Bon Voyage

Today my sweet friend Tatum passed away from childhood cancer. She was sixteen.

Tatum and I spent many hours on the telephone over the last six months talking about life and death and Brad Pitt.

Right now I hope she is having a nice cup of tea and a comforting chat with her Maker. (Tatum and I both love hot tea with milk and honey.)

I am honored that she felt comfortable enough to call me like she did the first time we spoke.

"Hi," she said. "I read on your blog about how you have helped kids with cancer."

"I don't know if I helped," I said. "I drove 'em nuts that's for sure."

"I have cancer and nobody wants to talk about death in my family," she said. "And I want to talk about it."

"I'm all ears," I said. "But I must warn you. I hate death. And when I die I'm going to kick death's arse."

Tatum laughed so hard.

I could hear the anger and fear draining out of her body as she laughed.

That was the beginning of many a great conversation we had about the meaning of life, the meaning of death and Brad Pitt.

I am so glad Tatum was able to talk about her fears and concerns (and Brad Pitt) before she died. It helped her to look at life in a different light. I am so happy that she began her final journey with a clear, uncluttered mind that brimmed with hope and excitement.

Tatum was one of the best laughing buddies I have ever had. She even laughed at my dumbest jokes. I will continue laughing and writing jokes in her honor.

God bless you dear Tatum. Please tell my dad I said hi, as well as my grandfather Ted and Tylor. (If Tylor is still single, he'd be nice guy to date by the way. I think you did speak to him on the phone once.)

Oh, if you come across that guy - Jimmy Hoffa - we spoke about a few weeks ago, please tell him to let someone know where his body is so that the FBI will stop tearing down people's barns to look for him.

I will miss our telephone conversations so very much.

Bon Voyage, Tatum.

Ek sien jou daar bo. (I'll see you up there.)

Posted by trevor at 05:54 PM | Comments (3)

Coming Of Age

I was twelve years old and eager to prove that I was a man.

We moved silently through the bush stopping every now and then to listen.

I was nervous.

Very nervous.

I had never killed an animal before.

The waiting was agony.

Every crackle in the bush sent waves of adrenaline through my body.

Then we saw it.

The most beautiful antelope I had ever laid eyes on.

The men and boys in my group encouraged me with urgent whispers.

"That's it."

"What a beauty."

"Right between the eyes, Trev."

"Take it down, brother."

The animal sensed something in the air and turned to look at us.

I had a clear shot. Right between the eyes.

I raised the rifle. Placed the cross hairs right between the creatures beautiful eyes.

Not only did I slowly squeeze the trigger, I also squeezed my whole body, which resulted in an instant whoosh of gas from my exhaust vent.

The group was so surprised by the retort from my jeans that they burst into laughter.

The joviality spooked the antelope who darted off into the bush.

Thank God.

The gaseous exchange saved me from killing a stunningly beautiful animal just to prove that I was a man.

If killing things is supposed to make you a real man, then I am not a real man, because that was the first and last time I ever went hunting.

Apparently God does have a sense of humor.

Posted by trevor at 02:40 PM | Comments (1)