by Linda Nusbaum
I met Bill Clark about 12 years ago. I knew he lived in my West Hollywood neighborhood. I saw him running on the street almost every morning. He was older than me, and he was quite the runner.
So when I decided to run my first marathon at 42 years old and discovered I needed to put in several training runs during the week, I asked Bill if he would run with me. I figured his routine of getting up at 5:30 am and out the door running by 6 am would work well into my life.
He was open to the idea of having me as his running mate, and so our friendship began. Our early morning runs, our conversations about everything and his growing connection to my dog Simon the dachshund.
Bill grew up with a dachshund when he was little. As a grownup he had a soft spot in his heart for the breed. Every time Bill would come over to visit, I knew he was really coming over to play with the dog. As soon as he entered he would get down on his stomach and crawl along the floor, playing tug-of-war with a toy in his mouth and Simon’s. Bill would growl, Simon would growl and, from the sound, you couldn’t tell who was the human and who was the dog. I would watch and know that both of them loved it as much as I did.
Bill had retired from lots of jobs, the military, a long stint as an engineer and many more unusual and varied occupations during his 60 years. He was an actor, and when he wasn’t acting, he spent his time writing. He wrote poems, plays and novels. He wrote everything. He also drew. He had boxes and boxes in his work studio filled with sketchbooks. And he painted, capturing still life, people and anything abstract. He used watercolors, pencils, oil paints and a few mediums I don’t even know about. The walls of his home were covered with his art, all of his pieces elaborately framed and arranged. I always felt small inside his grand museum.
For one of my birthdays he gave me some of his art. He placed a huge folder in front of me. It contained about 100 watercolor pictures. He said choose four. It was hard. There were so many beauties. I selected my four. I called them “my Bills.”
He was always doing something creative, either writing, drawing, or researching a character for his next play. To know him was to understand creative energy. It never stopped. I also felt his disappointment as he struggled to get his work out to the public. It seemed a constant roller coaster with his career: the excitement and creative output, then the disappointment and the crash before the next round of excitement, creative output and the disappointment.
I chalked it up to being an artist, the life of an artist.
Several years ago after I moved to Long Beach, Bill moved back to his beloved South and built his dream home on the gulf of Mississippi. He loved his new home. He had it arranged perfectly to accommodate his artist lifestyle. It sat in the midst of trees and nature. There was natural light and lots of room for him to work.
Three years ago Katrina blasted through his neighborhood, and his home was washed away. All that remained was his driveway. Bill was physically fine, but emotionally shaken. I don’t think he missed his house as much as he mourned the loss of all his art.
He lived in a temporary house for a while until he could build a new home. He reached out to his friends who had pieces of his artwork. I sent him slides of one of his series. A relative had another favorite picture. A friend had a copy of a play that was getting some interest.
Three years later, I talk with him on the telephone. He tells me about all the artwork he has created, his recent art show and the pieces he has been commissioned to paint for people. He talks about the three manuscripts in the copy-write process. He speaks about the series of poems he is rewriting from his memory.
I am so pleased to hear of my friend’s efforts. My heart beams with his happiness. I hear him happy. Gone is the heaviness of disappointment that used to accompany his joy. I hear only the goodness.
He feels different and I ask him, “Are you changed after the storm?”
“Yes,” he replies. “I am changed. Heck, Linda, I’m 72 years old, and I realize I won’t be around that much longer, and there’s a whole lot I want to get done. I don’t have a lot of time to waste, so I have got to keep going.”
And then, as if summing up his thoughts, he adds, “And every day, well, every day is a blessing.”
I listen to my friend and I hear his beautiful words. I had not heard them before. He is speaking his truth.
I ask him to send me his poems. I tell him I have been writing too and promise to reciprocate.
I get off the phone and go upstairs and look at one of my Bills. It is my favorite. There’s a tree in the foreground and some brush. There’s a lake and fog and in the distance you can make out the figure of someone standing in a little boat. It’s perfect. I look close and notice the signature and the date— 1984.
It’s a piece of work from a different time and I am reminded of how many art pieces were lost, and yet how many more he is creating right now. And I am awed by the power of this man’s spirit. It’s a mixture of his art and life with all its uncertainties and how they have crashed into each other and transformed this amazing man, my friend Bill.
