In honor of National Poetry Month
Black marks on a page,
Outline of her face,
Dark eyes and a smile,
Hair cut to style,
A slender neck,
A dress ankle length,
Her hands upon her lap
Holding a school boy’s cap,
And a rosary too,
Its beads tapping her shoe.
With one last streak,
The portrait’s complete
Of her younger then
In the remember whens.
“I’m thinking that guy needs help,” Elvis said to Cutie Pie as he viewed Picasso’s “Reclining Nude”.
C P frowned when she heard that. “Help? He’s Picasso.”
“So. Big whoopee.”
“You just don’t get great art. Your idea of great art are those velvet paintings you buy at the side of the road.”
“Yeah,” Elvis came back. “What’s wrong with that?”
“This is great art.”
“It’s supposed to be a naked woman. I don’t get it. It looks like a bunch of vegetables to me.”
“Maybe Picasso was saying that women are vegetables. What kind of vegetable do you think I am?”
“Oh,” Elvis was sure of his answer to this one, “you’re an onion.”
“What makes you say that?”
“You taste good. And you make me cry alot.”
C P was surprised. “Cry a lot? I didn’t know you were so sensitive.”
“Out of frustration trying to figure you out.”
C P laughed. She laughed hard. Then, “You don’t try to figure a woman out.”
“Oh, yeah. How else am I going to get along with you?”
C P sighed. What was she going to do with him? She shook her head and walked away from the vegetables on the canvas and over to a Salvador Dali.
C P said. ‘Maybe you can figure this one out. It’s got male brain written all over it.”
So much of a writer’s job is paying attention. A photograph on Melissa Noble’s Blog recently reminded me of this. She posted a photograph called Great Gandmother’s Hands. Those hands were absolutely beautiful hands. Hands that had worn life with grace.
The photograph called to my mind the dignity that we often miss in our fellow human beings. And the details of another’s life. Details that are important. Florida writer Robert Newton Peck, in his book Fiction Is Folks: How to Create Unforgettable Characters, says that you can tell a lot about a character from his hands.
It’s in the details that our characters come alive. You can tell whether a character is a worker bee or someone who does no physical work at all. A guitarist will have callouses on his fingers. What does the reader learn about a pianist with short stubby fingers or long graceful ones? Are the hands of a character manicured or are the fingernails chewed off crookedly? Chewed from worry? Is there dirt underneath the fingernails?
When I was reading Adam Begley’s biography of John Updike, he mentioned that John Updike never wore a wedding ring during his first marriage to Mary. During his second marriage to Martha, he wore a wedding ring. This told me so much, not about the writer, but about the man.
One of the things I love about the photographs of Ansel Adams and the paintings of Andrew Wyeth is how much dignity they bring to their subjects.
My Uncle Howard was a butcher. He was larger than life. He could fill a room just by walking into it. One time I asked him, “What happened to your pinkie?”
He threw his head back and laughed that big laugh of his. “I lost it years ago when I was slicing sausage. You can’t imagine the blood that poured out of that hand, enough to start a swimming pool. Anyway I got that hand all patched up. Decided I would honor that pinkie with a name. So I called it bologna.” At that, he winked at me.
“Where’s that pinkie now?” I asked.
“It’s in heaven, waiting for me. Guess I had better be good or I am going to have to spend eternity with one less pinkie, huh?”
In the Posh Gallery, New York City, a man in his mid-thirties studied a piece on the wall. One of the Wall Street nouveau-riche, he looked to diversify his portfolio into art. The gallery owner approached and stood beside him.
“A very good piece, don’t you think?” the owner commented. “A. Non-Y-Mous is one of our most popular artists.”
“Just what is it?” Nouveau-riche shared a confused look with Mr. Gallery.
“Oh, it is his latest.”
“But what is that thing. I mean, do you call it a thingamajig.”
“Actually it’s called ‘A Whatchamacallit’.” Gallery was proud to represent one of the up-and-comers of the current art scene. “It’s only one million dollars.”
“You mean you actually expect someone to pay a million bucks for that?”
“Oh, it was one hundred grand three days ago. The artist’s name is rising that fast. Much faster than Andy Warhol in his prime.”
The tailored suit was impressed but not impressed enough to bite the offer handed him. “Well, it looks like a piece of shit to me.”
“No, sir. ‘Piece of Shit’ was A.Non-Y-Mous’ previous work. It sold for two million at auction.”
Nouveau shook his head. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “And I thought Wall Street was one big scam.”
Gallery ignored the scam comment.”I can almost guarantee it will be up to four million by the end of the year.”
The Wall Streeter frowned. “This-this whatchamacallit looks like something I saw down the street.”
“That is why it is such an important work. It captures the essence of contemporary society. It has such panache. Yet it doesn’t force itself upon you with its dash of élan. Don’t you think?”
“I’m not so sure. When I think of art, I think Rembrandt, Van Gogh, Cezanne, Picasso.”
The owner waved away the thought. “Oh, sir, they are so passé. So démodé. So vieux jeu. No, this artist is so, how shall we say it. So current. One of the advanced cohort of a coming revolution in art.”
“You say one million?” The man was beginning to bite the bait.
“Yes, sir. And I can assure you the piece will impress your colleagues. They will see that you are an up-and-coming collector. You are participating in something unique.”
“I am not so sure my wife will like it. Her snooty Ivy League friends are hard to impress.”
Gallery patiently instructed, “Oh, they will be very impressed. They will see you for the man of taste you are. And the benefit of this piece? It will fit in with any décor. Just look at the colors.”
“You think so?” Mr. Potential Customer took a deep breath. “I would like to get in with that Fifth Avenue crowd she travels with.”
“Then this is just the thing. It is small enough to fit into the elevator of your apartment building but large enough to impress.”
The Wall Streeter decided. “Well, I suppose if one must, one must. I will take it. Can you have it delivered?”
“Yes, sir. Would tomorrow afternoon be good?”
“It will.” The buyer paid for the piece. “It’s for my wife’s birthday, you know.”
“She is indeed a fortunate woman to have such a discriminating husband.”
“Well, I don’t know about that.”
“Believe me, she will love the piece. The wives always do.”
“I hope you are right.”
The Wall Streeter walked out of the gallery, shaking his head and muttering, “Still looks like a piece of shit to me.”
The owner uncrossed his fingers and said under his breath, “P. T. was right. There is one born every minute.” Then he started to hum, “Another one bites the dust.”
Recently I was in a local museum, walking from painting to painting. There was a couple ahead of me admiring the paintings.
“I will tell you, Carla. The woman does not look happy,” the man said.
“But, George, that’s cause she’s dead,” Carla said, then pinched her friend.
“Ouch! Why did you do that?”
Carla laughed. “Checking to see if you’re alive.”
“I’m alive? Of course, I’m alive,” George objected.
“You wouldn’t be happy if you were dead either.”
He stuck his tongue out at her, then said, “Then I wouldn’t have to put up with you.”
Carla puckered her lips. “Give us a kiss.” Her lips came close to George. He tried to move away. “C’mon. Give us a kiss, then I can bite that tongue off.”
He backed away from her. “You’d do that.”
“Course I would cause you’re such a downer.”
They took one final look at the Roman matriarch, then moved on.
Uncle Bardie's Stories & Such 