Vol. 18, No. 25, December 18, 2006, Pages 1; 12-13
Jonathan McGraw and Eddie Maxwell found each other
recently and an unusual string of events followed. Eddie's
art show's up now and Jonathan thinks his friend is
fulfilling his mission.
by Dan Smith
benefactor, Jonathan McGraw
would have been the event of the art community’s social season. As it stands, it is
one of the more fascinating stories making the rounds these days. It has all the
elements: striking artwork done by a down-and-out old man who has been rescued
from the depths by a young entrepreneur. And there’s the mystical element, the one
that gives it a kick over the top.
Eddie is an 85-year-old Bluefield, W.Va., native who worked for Norfolk & Western for
18 years, then opened hairdressing salons in Northern Virginia (40 employees), all
the while painting odd little pictures, mostly oils, and showing flashes of real talent.
He had a stress-related seizure 17 years ago and then went into depression. Painting
became an outlet and something of an obsession. Eddie believed he was directed by
some unseen force—God, maybe—to paint as he did and he says things started
happening to his paintings, things he had nothing to do with. Visuals showed up—in
one case it was people whose numbers grew over time, in other cases it was skulls or
streaks of light—that he didn’t paint. His work has been shown in the past and it has
sold relatively well.
In recent years, however, Eddie has become obscure, very poor and ignored. He
lives in a small room on Elm Ave. and gets around on one of those wheelchair-like
scooters.
Enter Jonathan McGraw, a 23-year-old Roanoke College graduate with a degree in
business marketing, a new art studio and a heart the size of one of those mountains
Eddie paints. Jonathan, the son of prominent Roanoke lawyers Jonna and Brad
McGraw, started college with the intention of majoring in music (he’s a jazz drummer),
but changed to art, then realized he needed to make money when he graduated, so
he switched to—what else?—business.
About a year ago, Jonathan’s uncle in New York, an art collector of some note, retired
and wanted to shed some of his collection. He asked Jonathan if he’d handle it and
the youngster leapt at the offer, opening a small shop on Franklin Road (the historic
building with the arched entryway containing a large brass sailing ship). Through the
holidays, Jonathan sold so much of his uncle’s work (a good bit of which remains filed
in the back room and it is good stuff) that the business flourished. Other artists
approached him and he was on the way to almost a small success.
During the past year, the name “Eddie Maxwell” came up occasionally, people saying,
“Have you seen Eddie Maxwell’s work? Well, you ought to.” Finally, about three
months ago, Eddie showed up on his scooter, struck up a conversation and asked
Jonathan if he’d like to come by and see some of the paintings stacked in his
apartment. Jonathan said, yeah, sure.
They met at Eddie’s cluttered, dirty apartment—a circumstance foreign to Jonathan’s
privileged upbringing—but the young fellow was struck by Eddie’s enthusiasm and by
his stunning work, full of light, heavily layered and alluring in ways Jonathan didn’t
fully understand. “I bought him some socks,” says Jonathan. “That’s where he is.” A
relationship began almost immediately. The men who are three generations apart
liked each other and shared a vision. “Basically,” says Jonathan, “he has no one. I
guess you could say I’ve adopted him.”
People started dropping by the see
Eddie’s work. Some had seen it before.
Word got around. Jonathan thought
maybe it was time to take Eddie out of
the one-room apartment and give his
work room to breathe and an audience.
He placed a few paintings at an
exhibition and there was considerable
interest. That led to the idea that Eddie
was ready for his own show—running
through Jan. 27 at Jonathan’s studio.
the opening of an exhibition of his paintings
arranged. Jonathan did all that while Eddie continued to paint. At least once,
Jonathan had to say to Eddie that Eddie’d have to let go of a painting he’d been
working on for years—one that looked like a bas relief because it had so many layers
of paint.
The whole enterprise became a “mission,” Jonathan’s word, and one used advisedly.
The pair shares a belief that this relationship was brought about by God and that it is
being directed by God. “We were led to each other,” says Jonathan with a kind of
force that is convincing. “This is his purpose and he can’t fulfill it on his own. It needs
to happen for Eddie. What’s driving him right now is his love for God … love is where
you find completeness.”
Maybe that’s the only way these men can explain some of what’s been going on: the
changing works that Eddie says he didn’t paint; the fact that Eddie, who can barely
write his name because of his frailty, stays up all night and paints, then hardly
remembers it; the fact that these two very, very different people are as close as
grandfather and grandson.
Jonathan has lost his skepticism about some these circumstances. It’s no longer
scary. He just accepts it and works to get Eddie the recognition he probably
deserves for his artwork.
Jonathan may or may not make money with Eddie’s success—if it comes. But that’s
not the point. “It is good enough just to be his friend,” says Jonathan. “I anticipate it’ll
do well because even if you don’t believe all these crazy things are happening, it’s
beautiful work anyway.”
Yes, it is. But the beauty is not confined to the work.
