My Name
I am of Macedonian and Greek descent. Therefore, it seems fitting that I have an appropriate Mediterranean name. My father insisted that I would be named after his father, which was the custom. Although dad was well read, he was not sure how to translate the name. What he came up with was Thimie (pronounced Jimmy but with a soft th sound at the beginning). Needless to say, this name has been a constant source of confusion and amusement to the many people who I have met along my journey through life. However, rather than being upset by it, I always felt a sense of pride by the uniqueness.
Although many people know me as Tim (it simplifies things a lot), I now use my given name for signing my artwork and other art related business.
As I see it, my main priorities in life are faith in God, love and care for my family, love for friends, and respect for future friends. After these items, things start to get blurry. Maybe the best description is that I try to keep a compass heading toward honesty. But what is honesty? What is integrity? Oh, I can feel a philosophical wave coming over me now (it’s that Greek blood). I could debate this for hours. Suffice it to say that I’m in a constant struggle to do the best that I can. But this does not stop me from often failing miserably at times.
I have been a firefighter for the majority of my time on earth. It is a job that I have loved. It is the greatest job in the world although now that I am retired I try not to look back. I walk forward into the challenge of painting and drawing to the best of my ability. Being an artist is now my primary focus.
I share a studio with my wife, who is also an artist. We both seem able to work in close proximity and not get on each other’s nerves too much (although a bigger studio would be great!). She is my best friend and best critic.
My Brief History
I was a wild kid and a handful for my parents: hot tempered, stubborn and tough to control. Once around the age of eight I got into a fist-fight with a buddy from the neighborhood. I stomped back home, clothing ripped fuming with anger. Although I can’t recall all the details I do remember that the family was not as sympathetic as it needed to be. This was unacceptable. After all, the world revolved around me. I should have been consoled. My father firmly settled in his chair, newspaper held high before his face, seemed uninterested in my emotionally distraught state. How could he just sit there calmly while my world was in turmoil? Did he not care that I was suffering?
I could take no more; I was boiling over! Grabbing a shoe from the floor I took aim and hurled it toward the television set. Now I had his attention! He lunged for me but with lighting speed I flew out through the back door. Pausing outside I realized that he only pretended to pursue me. So! He didn’t care enough to come after me. My anger surged. I smacked the glass on the storm door with the palm of my hand. Nothing happened. I smacked it again…still nothing. However this action only served to infuriate me more. Uncontrollably I reeled back and giving it all I had I sailed my fist through the glass shattering it into pieces. Now panic set in. What to do? I ran to hide in the bushes in the darkness.
Mom’s voice rang out through the night air calling out to me to come back. Although she was not too far away I felt quite distant. There was an air of desperation in her voice. But I was stubborn and still angry. As she pleaded, her voice conveyed that something was wrong and looking down I realized what that something was. My right lower arm had been slashed open by the breaking glass and blood was pouring from my arm. Well this was a new development. She continued calling and pleading for me to come home. I looked back at my arm and finally realized that continuing to hide might not be the best course of action. Slowly and reluctantly I returned to the scene of the crime. She snatched my arm when I appeared and held the cut closed with great force.
Off to the hospital we drove: dad silently at the wheel and mom holding my bloody arm.
In the emergency room I sat at a table while the doctor attended to the wound. I watched him work without flinching. I watched as he injected anesthetic into the opening with a syringe. I watched as he sewed the stitches, all seven of them. I was still so angry. I felt alienated. The anger allowed me to watch this man work and show no sign of fear or apprehension. What must the doctor have thought of this little boy watching him work with only anger in his eyes?
This was a turning point in my life however. Dad realized how emotional I was and began to take a genuine interest in me. He realized how serious the situation was and that if he did not take action they would lose me. I rejected his affectionate overtures at first but he never let up and eventually I grew to respect and love him.
Dad was the gentlest of people and he loved his family. When others debated about the merits of/or having wealth I would hear him remark “I have my newspaper to read, a hot cup of coffee and my family around me. I am the wealthiest man in the world.”
A few times when answering the telephone he got so choked up he could not speak. It would be a nephew or niece whom he hadn’t heard from in a while. I would have to take the phone to give him a few seconds to recover. Seeing him like that was, at that time, both embarrassing and humorous. However, now I find myself becoming more emotional as the years pass. He was a hard worker and had the strength of a young man even in his advancing years. We talked about philosophy, politics and religion for hours on end. He questioned everything. It was like having Socrates to debate with. I don’t believe that I ever heard my dad yell.
Finances were tough so mom went to work. She was a force to be reckoned with; driven to provide for her family she was the ultimate entrepreneur. She eventually acquired a business and the family did quite well. I didn’t see enough of her because she worked but I understood and accepted the reality of it all. Mom loved us greatly and you could feel it. Yiayia (aka grandmother) came from Greece to help raise me and my sister while mom and dad were working. I put this poor woman through hell with my wildness. But she was no slouch. She grew up in a mountain village in Greece and bore thirteen children. She was tough as nails and although she could have cleaned my clock she remained patient and nurturing in the face of my defiance.
Fast forward several decades. I was standing in the kitchen when my sister and one of her co-workers stopped in for something. Sis introduced us and then left us alone for a minute to attend to her business. As Bogart might say “she was a classy dame with large dark eyes and blond hair. I knew she was high maintenance by the way she carried herself. She wasn’t gonna be easy but beautiful dames never are.”
Chris and I were alone in the kitchen and all I could think about was giving her a big smack right on her beautiful face. But Sis came back and a moment later they were both gone. There I stood alone with a void on my heart.
Later I told Sis that I wanted to see Chris again and go out with her. “Forget her”, she told me. “She just got married”. And that was, as they say, THAT. I practically never saw her after that. I learned that she lived less than a block from my house but she might just as well have lived on the moon. Since it was impossible to be with her under the circumstances, I continued on with my life often thinking of the beautiful girl I saw that day in the kitchen.
Fast forward another eight years. I go with a buddy to grab some lunch at a local restaurant. As we walk in whom do I see but Chris? She’s at a table with a coworker. I walked over and we exchanged pleasantries. Then we said our goodbyes. Not long afterward I ran into her again, and then again. This was strange; I don’t see this gal for eight years and now I can’t go anywhere without running into her. For about six months our paths continued to cross.
I later learned that for those last six months she was going through a divorce. It was as though a force was pushing us together. Neither she nor I intended for this to happen, but it seemed to be happening whether we liked it or not.
My sister is the proverbial mother hen. It is her duty to insure that all her friends and family are provided for and as Chris finalized her divorce, Sis stepped up to the plate and insisted that she not be alone and mope. Chris on the other hand wanted to be alone and mope but Sis is a monumental force when she decides that she is going to help someone.
Sis organized a group of about ten friends (I included) to all go to the movies together. With a large group it was reasoned that Chris would not feel to be the focus of attention and be somewhat insulated from the unpleasantness which was bombarding her. Faced with the prospect of unrelenting help she caved in and accompanied our little group of friends to the show.
Later our entourage filed into the theater. We were a small herd of sheep milling around and moving through the building. The herd bought drinks and munchies and proceeded to the seating area. Single file we moved into a row and were seated. The herd was now transformed from a somewhat circular shape into a long thin line shoulder to shoulder. I scanned our oddly shaped group and was disturbed by what I noticed. I was sitting on the left end of the line and Chris had the last seat on the right. This simply would not do! I exited my seat, walked around and took the seat next to her. I was glad she didn’t stay home and mope.
We dated for two years and for those years something strange would constantly happen. We were visited by rainbows. All the time we kept seeing rainbows. I hadn’t seen this many in my entire life and now we were inundated. And this wasn’t all. We were still running into each other: at the store, on the street, at restaurants. Two people who were invisible for eight years were now constantly being directed into each other. We both believe that there are no coincidences. We believe that God wanted us to be together. We believe that He sent those rainbows as a sign of his meaning. Well that was again as they say THAT!! We got married and never regretted a day.
Fast forward several more years. We have a friend who comes over once a week and shares dinner and the evening. He was a watercolorist and would bring with him his latest works and some artist videos. Chris lamented that she would love to do art but that she had no talent and could not draw. I challenged her. I told her that she could draw. I stated that if she read “Drawing On The Right Side of The Brain “ by Betty Edwards and did the exercises in the book that she too could ascend to the position of Artist. Of course she believed I was full of hops. I was well meaning but could not grasp the hopelessness of her drawing ability. But in order to demonstrate just how wrong I was she accepted the challenge and began the book and the exercises.
Miracle of miracles; she could draw. This marked another turning point in our lives. She became captivated by art; she lived and breathed it! We took classes and workshops together. We built a studio on our house so we could paint. We joined associations. We are both convinced that we will be in art for life.
