The first time I read John Steinbeck, I had yet to leave my hometown, but I had certainly learned to travel by book. Each word took me to a new place. A new adventure. Short of filling out the paperwork for my passport, it began my life of other — other places, other people, other experiences. 

I suppose that’s why I’ve always trusted readers. You have to have an openness, a vulnerability, a curiosity for the other. Not a fear. Because at some point, the roles, with any luck at all, will be reversed. 

I was that other when I moved to France. For country, language, family — it was all new. And I must admit, at first, I thought maybe I had to be like them. Wouldn’t they love me if I were more like them? If I blended onto the page. Foolish, I know. As if I even could. And it seems so clear now, as I joyfully stumble among them, full on me, not hiding the paint on my hands, nor the heart on my sleeve. And I do feel loved, not in spite of me, but because of me. 

Charles is a reader. When packing for sleepovers at our house, his suitcase has always been filled with books, even before I think he could read. Through the years, I have come to know the shape of his hands wrapped around the spine of a book. 

I bought Steinbeck’s book, Travels with Charley, while in his hometown of Monterey, California. I had thought of giving it to our Charles, but the French do not nickname. Then I saw him on our sofa. Shoe-less, without time or care, so relaxed into pillow and book, and I thought here, here he was not French, nor American, nor even Charles. He was wandering. Traveling. And he had the freedom to even be Charley. This is what I wanted to paint. The feeling I hope he carries forever. Here, on our sofa, he could be anyone, anywhere, and he would be loved.