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I never know when, how or who will cross my path when I travel. I just trust that someone will do just that and it always seems to happen. Sometimes, I might wander into the right souvenir shop as I did in Fiji. On other occasions, I may be assigned a translator as happened in Transnistria and Moldova. And, in Brasil, a cowboy came looking for me after he heard me on a radio broadcast. So, I really mean it when I say I never know how it might happen. In Jamaica, I was kind of thrust upon Greg Bailey. Neither of us had a choice in the matter. But, so very fortunately, the friendship was instantaneous.
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Greg is an artist, and if you happen to run in the circles of those who know the art found in the National Art Gallery in Jamaica, you'd know that he's one of the country's up and coming painters. I don't usually run in those kinds of circles, in America or anywhere else. So, I've been so interested to learn a little of his story and find out how he's gotten where he is. Greg has worked hard to establish his name, hone his talent, and get his art seen by the world. And, I really mean the world. In addition to shows in Jamaica, he's exhibited his work in London once and Germany twice. He's come a long way from his rural upbringing in Warsop, Trelawny, in central Jamaica.
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Part of that path would be easy to guess. His Bachelors Degree in Fine Arts with an emphasis in painting was from the Edna Manley College of the Visual and Performing Arts in Kingston. If you study art in Jamaica, or the English-speaking Caribbean, this is your destination. And, along the path, he also tutored young artists, worked among inner city youth with Youth Opportunities Unlimited, and painted his own murals around the country. Fortunately, the number of his murals is nowhere near sixty in twenty-six countries, or I just might not be able to even share my art with him. I kind of mentioned that to Greg. I mean, after all, he has had his art on display in the national gallery. That'll never happen for me. But, he didn't miss a beat and replied, "I wish my art was on display in Africa, Europe, North and South America."
Okay, so you see why I like him.
Most recently, Greg spent two years in Missouri (of all places!) where he received his Masters of Fine Arts at the Sam Fox School of Design and Visual Arts of Washington University in St. Louis. His thesis was published by the Lambert Academic Publishers in Germany. But, his real American education was learning that a patty means a hamburger instead of a Jamaican dish, there are so many kinds of steak, and what to put on a deep-dish pizza.
Okay, so you see why I like him.
Most recently, Greg spent two years in Missouri (of all places!) where he received his Masters of Fine Arts at the Sam Fox School of Design and Visual Arts of Washington University in St. Louis. His thesis was published by the Lambert Academic Publishers in Germany. But, his real American education was learning that a patty means a hamburger instead of a Jamaican dish, there are so many kinds of steak, and what to put on a deep-dish pizza.
So, how was I thrust upon him?
Greg now teaches at the Edna Manley College of the Visual and Performing Arts. And, one of his classes is Mural Design. It sounds like a perfect fit. Doesn't it? A match made in heaven, or at least Jamaica? My trip to Jamaica was sponsored by the U.S. Embassy and Edna Manley. It was kinda destiny, but in order for destiny to function, there can be no art divas in the equation.
Hmmm . . . two artists working together. What are the chances of an art diva showing up on the premises?
Actually, I'd say the odds were pretty high.
But, not this time.
I learned a mere three days before departure that I'd be teaching a couple lessons at Edna Manley. I didn't know until I arrived in Jamaica that the classes would be a part of a mural design course. Greg had about as much warning and information as I did. It would have been wonderful to have had time to "meet" Greg online a few months in advance and plan things out. That's not how it unfolded. And, that's where the forcing took place. I spent very little time with Greg before I walked into his classroom and I took over for three or so hours. It takes a very gracious teacher to be willing to allow something like that to take place in his classroom.
I was impressed.
And, since that lesson, I've spent a lot more time with Greg Bailey. He's not been a right-hand assistant on my murals. It's more than that. He painted, guided his students, assisted with the community, outlined the mural, talked of his culture, shared his food, and let me repeat, helped outline the murals. That saves me an enormous amount of time and I rarely ever find anyone who can do it to my satisfaction.
So, with all this said, you might get the idea that I like this person. Well, it might be the case if it weren't for one tragic flaw that just drives me crazy. Insane crazy! I simply do not understand how it is physically possible crazy. Greg doesn't sweat. Never. Not a drop. He may actually deny this truth, but I've been watching. I've been eagle-eyeing him for just one little drop. It doesn't happen. He is about as opposite of me as you can get in the tropics.
Fifteen minutes. That's about as long as any hint of freshness might last on one of my clean shirts. I kid you not. I know what drenched looks like, feels like and (sadly) smells like. And, when I walk down the street, complete strangers say, "You got a good sweat on." There is nothing good about it though. There's just a good amount of it and that's not good.
Not so with Greg.
His clothes look as fresh and pressed as they did when he put them on so many hours before. There are no lines of perspiration running down the sides of his face. His hair isn't damp. If you wanted, you could place your hand on his shoulder without sticking to anything. Greg looks like he's stepped out of a modeling runway and I just want to run away. But, if I did try that, I'd sweat even more. Even though that may not be humanly possible.
So, let me say it now. I really hate Greg Bailey. And, he's one of the nicest people I've come across in any of my travels. I hope to hate him for a very long time.So, how was I thrust upon him?
Greg now teaches at the Edna Manley College of the Visual and Performing Arts. And, one of his classes is Mural Design. It sounds like a perfect fit. Doesn't it? A match made in heaven, or at least Jamaica? My trip to Jamaica was sponsored by the U.S. Embassy and Edna Manley. It was kinda destiny, but in order for destiny to function, there can be no art divas in the equation.
Hmmm . . . two artists working together. What are the chances of an art diva showing up on the premises?
Actually, I'd say the odds were pretty high.
But, not this time.
I learned a mere three days before departure that I'd be teaching a couple lessons at Edna Manley. I didn't know until I arrived in Jamaica that the classes would be a part of a mural design course. Greg had about as much warning and information as I did. It would have been wonderful to have had time to "meet" Greg online a few months in advance and plan things out. That's not how it unfolded. And, that's where the forcing took place. I spent very little time with Greg before I walked into his classroom and I took over for three or so hours. It takes a very gracious teacher to be willing to allow something like that to take place in his classroom.
I was impressed.
And, since that lesson, I've spent a lot more time with Greg Bailey. He's not been a right-hand assistant on my murals. It's more than that. He painted, guided his students, assisted with the community, outlined the mural, talked of his culture, shared his food, and let me repeat, helped outline the murals. That saves me an enormous amount of time and I rarely ever find anyone who can do it to my satisfaction.
So, with all this said, you might get the idea that I like this person. Well, it might be the case if it weren't for one tragic flaw that just drives me crazy. Insane crazy! I simply do not understand how it is physically possible crazy. Greg doesn't sweat. Never. Not a drop. He may actually deny this truth, but I've been watching. I've been eagle-eyeing him for just one little drop. It doesn't happen. He is about as opposite of me as you can get in the tropics.
Fifteen minutes. That's about as long as any hint of freshness might last on one of my clean shirts. I kid you not. I know what drenched looks like, feels like and (sadly) smells like. And, when I walk down the street, complete strangers say, "You got a good sweat on." There is nothing good about it though. There's just a good amount of it and that's not good.
Not so with Greg.
His clothes look as fresh and pressed as they did when he put them on so many hours before. There are no lines of perspiration running down the sides of his face. His hair isn't damp. If you wanted, you could place your hand on his shoulder without sticking to anything. Greg looks like he's stepped out of a modeling runway and I just want to run away. But, if I did try that, I'd sweat even more. Even though that may not be humanly possible.
So, let me say it now. I really hate Greg Bailey. And, he's one of the nicest people I've come across in any of my travels. I hope to hate him for a very long time.