At St. Paul's as a boy I adored the elderly art teacher Mr. Abbe, who had taught there since 1950. I was one of his last students; he died shortly after. I despaired of painting the New England fall colors in oil pastel, grackles rising from a field as students approached. These pastels taught me something: that color without form and shadows was insufficient for me, at least. On this path days later, I heard that John Lennon had been shot.
I find that I filled notebooks with political cartooning of the kind I later did in college. Mr. Abbe had taught a famous cartoonist, Garry Trudeau, although my youthful opinions in the notebooks were more Al Capp than "Doonesbury." I did not spare Reagan, however:
World War Two scenes were a favorite in these notebooks, copying something or another I had looked at during long winter twilights in the school library overlooking the lake. The one below is, at least, a little looser than my usual tight, teenagery style. The St. Paul's library where I spent so many hours now collects my books in its alumni author series.