"You Traced It"

“You traced it.” The words acted like a vise, even though at age six I really didn’t know what a vise was. I could feel my whole body tense up as my young mind raced through the events surrounding my supposed victorious creative achievement… I had drawn the picture of a jet plane and boy was I proud. I knew the man sitting in the plush living room chair hadn’t moved for over an hour or more. That was his thing… reading the Manchester Union Leader newspaper it seemed until there was no more ink on paper to be absorbed.  My dad was like that. He seemed to know everything but what a young boy growing up in his and his fathers shadow needed to gain a sense of accomplishment, of pride, of just satisfaction in a job well done. I almost wanted to blurt out “I didn’t trace it! I drew it myself!”

Past admonitions about truth telling combined with what seemed an eternity of Catholic guilt brought on by “fear of the almighty” made me steel my young tongue and bleakly I said “How did you know?” It seemed to me that if you weren’t there next to me to see me place the semi-transparent piece of paper over the several month old copy to Popular Mechanics that you couldn’t know that I had patiently and determinably drawn around the barely visible outline of the futuristic artists rendition of something our Nation was to receive in the very near future. My elation was fast sinking into defeat. I didn’t know then that young first born sons of Irish Catholic families had a history of trying to attain any kind of praise from the head of the household. My particular adversary was the first born son of Manchester’s venerable, decorated Inspector of Police… Martin Edward Sullivan, Sr., the very man I had been named after and forever had to carry the moniker of “the third” at the end of my own name.

Enough of the past, on to the moment at hand… a moment that would shape my life in many ways, to the satisfaction of countless thousands of clients and their customers.

In his own Irish bravado, my dad took a piece of paper next to him, he always seemed to be writing down notes of some kind, and proceeded to show me “his” artistic expertise. He had been in the Marine Corps in World War II and had learned how to perfectly draw a DC3 cargo plane profile. I gathered that all servicemen at that time had to identify friend and foe in the sky above and this was part of the ritual, knowing what each type of aircraft looked like at a distance. A good skill especially if you were manning an anti-aircraft gun like my dad was in charge of. His pictorial of the profile of the DC3 looked real to me and was slightly impressive to my still stung ego.

Somewhere, deep inside my little body, a determination began. I didn’t know what it was. I didn’t know what made it start but years later analyzed the beginning of that spirit of defiance, or was it competition? To this day, I believe it was just a simple childish “I’ll show you!” response. Where those responses come from is still up to the DNA experts of today to decide if they can ever get that deep into the rhythms of mother natures’ clock. 

I remember my signature of that time in my life. It was tall and condensed, not fluid and artistic. My beginning artwork was the same. My crude attempts at silhouettes of people were tall and squished looking, not like real life. That small flame of either resentment at not being being taken seriously or “I’ll show you!” attitude make me a drawing fool. I went through pencils and paper like they had to be consumed or they would never be available again.

At the age of seven, I had a collection of work that was now starting to really look good. At least that’s what my biggest supporter and fan constantly told me at breakfast and later at dinner as Mom passed out meals to our ever-expanding family. Remember, we we’re Irish Catholic and new children sprang forth on a regular basis. It must have been in the Holy Water in Church. All my Catholic friends had the same problem. No sooner had you settled into a calm and regular sort of life then there would be another mouth to feed. It seemed that being a spoiled child was not to be in any of our futures. I always seemed to be able to get a little more attention from Mom. Of course it was always prefaced by…”You’re the oldest and you need to set an example….”. 

I carved out a small niche in the rhyme of things in the family by being happy by myself. I could spend hours drawing away, which by itself was developing a skill of observation that none of the other (eventually seven) children had going for them at the time.

My world was broadening. Someone told me that people actually could get paid for artwork. I started to look at everything. Shapes, colors, words, magazines, newspapers and signs. I was developing into, as my Grandmother would say, “Billy the boy artist”. Even my father was now heard bragging about his “oldest boy’s skills as an aspiring artist”. Of course I didn’t know what aspiring was but I knew by the sound of his voice that he was “finally” proud of what I was doing, even if he couldn’t tell me to my face. I suppose it would have voided his membership in the “ hardass parents club” if he had. He did come around when I was thirty-eight and leaving the country to live in Papua New Guinea as an art director, and actually tell me he was proud of me since I was a boy drawing pictures on the front porch of our old house. Better late than… never.

All those moments of potential character building back then missed because of an upbringing that had as a basis, the John Wayne syndrome of not showing any emotion. What that did foster was a self-reliance factor that eventually didn’t need dear old dad’s acceptance. I would do what I thought I needed to do no matter what. And he used that very thing… the fact that I had turned out pretty much all right… to prove that he hadn’t done the wrong thing by bringing me up his way. It’s amazing what human justification can balance in life.



I entered my first art show at seven, almost eight years of age. That was to be my next defining moment. My mother, who was a professional legal secretary for one of our local judges in town, was always up on what was happening and how I should fit into the scheme of things. The art show was a two-day event which was rained out on Saturday and then transferred to the State Armory on Sunday, where we “Artists” could present our work undercover. I re-hung my little drawings on the wooden displays and stood off to one side to watch the people look at my work as they slowly walked from display to display.

I really didn’t know what to do but hang around until I was picked up later. I was too shy to start a conversation but could answer questions if asked. I was startled when a gentleman older than my father but younger than my grandfather asked me if the pictures on the rack were mine. I stumbled out that they were. He then asked me how much they were. I couldn’t seem to fathom that someone wanted (maybe) to buy some of them. He told me to think about it and he would return in a little while. My mind raced… what do I do? Then the gods of art stepped in and presented me with the perfect answer… ask my Mom who had just walked up to check on me. Beaming, she told me to think about it and with a little prompting, we seemed to agree on prices for the now valuable little renderings. I think the most expensive piece was seventy-five cents with others ranging to and from twenty-five cents each.



Armed now with pricing conviction and bursting with pride, I told the gentlemen what my little gems were worth, not really expecting him to actually buy any. I was just prideful that he had considered the potential. With his hand on his chin, in a very studious pose, he spent at least two or three minutes looking over my lot of drawings. He told me that he had chosen six of my collection and wanted to know what the total was. He took out a small piece of paper and a pencil, gave them to me and told me to add up the prices. I was shocked to come up with a total of two dollars and seventy-five cents for his selection. That was more money than I had ever had in my hand ever! He went and made change and gave me my money with one last comment. “You know, now that you have sold your artwork, you are a professional artist”.

Those words were branded into my little seven, almost eight-year-old brain like I was a steer on a cattle ranch. “Keep your drawings up on display and I’ll come back when the show’s almost over and get them. Other people want to see them until then.” 

I told my mother about the sales, grinning from ear to ear with a little trepidation that I wouldn’t be allowed to keep the money. She beamed and said I could keep it all, just don't spend it on candy... so I spent some of my first earnings (5 cents) on my own personal "grown-up" cup of coffee. Of course the coffee was more cream and sugar than coffee but it made me feel so great about myself that I could purchase it with "my own money" that I think it was a moment in time that changed me from a seven year old to an adult right there on the spot. One day, one occasion, one interaction with a stranger and my life was now set on the path to artistdom... (I know that's not a word, but I felt it was then).



Since that day, I have created thousands of advertisements, thousands of photographs, maybe a thousand pieces of hand created art, even designed women's shoes for almost three years and designed nearly six hundred signs during my ten years as a sign designer. Add to that my ability to accept a challenge... like creating a voter education program for the Government of Papua New Guinea... and you can see that creativity has been a cornerstone in my life... something I have enjoyed and expanded whenever I've had the opportunity.

A life of art, a life with challenge, a life with many thousands of successful jobs completed.... all because one man wanted to buy a young boy's drawings. His reason, as he stated to me... "You are going to be famous some day and I want to have some of your first work."  Just goes to show how something as simple as what he did that day, can change a life and in turn, the lives of the people I worked for and with, from that time on.