A Second Showing: (Five) Masters of the Feast
I have a memory of myself, 6 almost 7 years old, in the first grade. I was at my dad’s house because it was either Wednesday or Thursday and I was looking for a worksheet from school. The floor of my bedroom was a sea of barbie dolls, stuffed animals, school supplies and clothes. I had sat in the middle of the mess, carving out a small spot so that I could fit myself, sitting on my knees. My goal was not to rid my room of its mess, it had never bothered me, but to find that piece of paper that’s value was gained by what was on its back, which was my greatest drawing to date. It had elephants with their trunks raised, there were large jungle cats prowling diagonals across the page and lines climbing up and down connecting the edges of the drawing like I had never done before. I sat staring at it for a long time when I finished it at my desk. I was trying to understand why it pleased me so much, but it was only when it was lost and I was searching through the swarming waves of my very young life that it became clear what was so remarkable about that particular just-to-pass-the-time-doodle, it was the only doodle to stretch to every edge, to fill the entire page. I remember I kept picturing the full page in my head as I waded through the piles of school work, turning each over three times just to be completely sure that my drawing wasn’t there. The word I didn’t know then, but know now to call what I made, was “composition”. What I had drawn was a composed image, telling a story within the bounds of its edges. I had stumbled upon my knack for drawing waiting for Mrs. Rosecrans to open the chapter book she was reading aloud to us, which meant the class was welcome to cozy themselves on the rug, at the front of the room, where the story would come to life in my mind’s eye clearer than any movie I had seen yet. I never found the drawing though, it was most likely forgotten on the backside of whatever worksheet it was and thrown away. But those memories have never left me and I can still see the drawing vaguely in my mind, however the thrill of it lives on as boldly as it flashed through me that day 18 years ago. And I do believe that was the last of my having a messy room.
What I make has always meant a great deal to me as it represented the sovereignty that I had in this world and continues to do so. When I showed these five drawings four months ago it was the very first time my work had been publicly displayed. I had no idea how to come up with a price for them, I hadn’t realized they were so much a part of me until someone wanted to buy Chef Avec Tomates. Truthfully, I hadn’t pictured anyone being interested in purchasing one of my drawings from the show, I had only gotten as far as imagining people looking at my drawings which was a tonic potent enough. As the opening night proceeded the work received so much praise I was flushed with a nightlong blush and humbled beyond anything I could’ve imagined, but I still couldn’t put a price on my drawings.
When I was picking up my work at Mergers, the acting gallery, my patron (the sister and brother behind Mergers) offered me the idea of having another showing where prints could be for sale. And so bloomed, as the seed was finally watered, the raison d’être of my drawings. If I were to make prints of my work then there would be more to go around, all those feasting eyes satiated by the finest duplication this side of the Mississippi, which I mean in the truest sense of those words. (Image Quest located on south 44th street in Kansas City, KS). And as the law of begetting goes, more draws plenty and so I had a way to raise money for a beloved wildlife rehabilitation center I discovered a month after my show when a fledgling bird had taken its first brave leap from its nest only to find itself on my concrete porch with its head cracked open. I spent the entire morning driving the baby bird around trying to find a place where it could get the help it needed and finally after two hours and a final ten minutes waiting for a train to pass, myself and the fledgling bird found ourselves outside of Eudora, Kansas at Operation Wildlife.
A warmly man sat behind the front desk consulting a woman holding a medium sized box with holes cut in the top. He was telling her where she could take the injured rabbit who had been caught under the tires of her neighbor’s car. All the while I held the fledgling in a cocoon of my pink hand towel making sure it was still alive. I’m not sure if the bird survived, but the man seemed buoyant about its prospects as he brought the baby bird into his palm. I promised him and the other man that appeared from the back room that was full of squawks and the warm smell of feathers that I would be back. And I determined to myself that I would not be empty handed.
The baby bird guided me down the last little bit of understanding, that my drawings can be of service not only to the eye and mind, but to the voiceless. That baby bird, like that first drawing of mine, was cast off to the unlucky side of entropy, but instead of 7 years old, I found myself to be a woman of 25 who would do nothing before this stricken animal was safe, because she was more than capable, more than willing. As I drove the hour home I was filled with a keen pleasure born out of the relief that I did all that I could. And it tickled me beyond that the creature aided, that had driven me clear out to rural Kansas, had been no larger than my palm. I remember thinking to myself, “this is what life is,” caring for those that need caring for. Which was a familiar thought, one that I had reading Simone de Beauvoir, when I would cook dinner for my friends, and when I would draw these “chefs of mine”.
The character of The Chef was born from a hungry belly. I was sat with my back to the east so that I could see the entire spread of the restaurant's outdoor benches and tables, and the lawn with the climbable sculptures all the children eventually found themselves atop of. My family and I were quiet, for we were all tired from a day at the beach, zapped from those prolonged hours between the sun and sand. To distract myself I brought out my pencil and scraps of paper from the basket I had ordained as my purse in the spirit of Jane Birkin. I looked to the patrons of the restaurant, but found them too enviable with their plates of pasta and steak, so I turned my attention to a space that I could not see, but knew was there, just beyond the wall to my left. I imagined the kitchen brimming with the energy of busy chefs back and forth from sauce pan to oven, then off to grab a clean spoon. I drew one of those chefs with a fork lifted to his mouth, ready to test what he had created, my belly rumbled. Dinner was finally delivered, the steam lifted to our faces and we devoured it with the utmost pleasure. I regarded the chef I had drawn now with my belly full and felt a new tenderness towards this character, one of gratitude, for the chef is, of course, that “master” of mouth and belly.
Though “Master” has, to write plainly, a terrible essence to it, yet its use as a measure of talent or ability is quite prevalent (i.e. masterclass.com). Mastery suggests a top, but to impose a hierarchy on humanity’s capacity as makers and creators is absurd at best. And at its worst it's reductive, for it suggests that there is a final point of capability, whereas the truth carries that we are boundless in our capabilities, that there is no end to the improvement of one’s craft. In other words: there is always more to discover. That which motivates us to get better and better is not to mount the tallest pedestal, but to take that pleasure, aforementioned, the pleasure of caring for that which or whom needs caring.
The title “Masters of the Feast” came to mind before I had picked out the pieces when I was first planning the June show, all I knew was that the work would be featuring the chefs I had been drawing since that summer dinner. That and to trust my intuition, so I chose five drawings of five different kinds of chefs, all acting The Chef in a different way. One is an elephant cutting with the help of its trunk, another is a chef sat hillside with a bottle of wine, a cigarette and a fishing pole, the next is the Sous Chef du Mois (Sous Chef of the Month) sat dignified in front of the torn sign declaring his triumph, then a simply drawn chef simply cutting tomatoes, while the last drawing represents the kitchen in full and the chefs in plenty. Their grouping begins to nullify the idea of “the master” and the Chef’s character is revealed to be made out of that same fabric as our own. To say: The Chef is motivated by that desire to bring pleasure to their diners, like we are motivated to pick out the perfect birthday present, or be our most helpful when the baby cousin visits. It is not mastery that motivates, it is a desire to bring pleasure which is just another way of caring for those that need caring.
The ability to take pleasure is a right given to us by our mothers, so naturally we make pleasure for others, for what’s a meal without company?
Link to show portfolio: https://francispagehunt.com/portfolios/masters-of-the-feast-june-67-2025
