MangoStar_Studio
It was the shapely hips of the naked woman that first drew Brett's attention to the painting.
She stood there with her backside to him, both elbows slightly bent and one heel slightly raised, looking out of an opening of two blocks thick into a nebulous space of blue and gray.
Among the blue cubes, a tiny bust of Abe Lincoln peered through one of the blocks near the woman's left calf. In two vertical blocks next to Abe, another, smaller drawing of the same woman, this time leaning to look out what appeared to be the same window, brought a blotch of white light to an otherwise dark, dreary mass of blocks which framed the print.
"I kinda like it," Brett said to Kathy, searching for his niece's opinion as they stopped for the second time that evening to look at the print in the shopping mall's art gallery.
"If you say so," Kathy replied. "I just don't get it."
After Brett's wife, Mary, died two years ago and his stroke last year, Kathy, a budding editor for a publisher in town, had become one of Brett's favorite visitors after he moved into his new assistive living apartment.
It was a difficult time for him. He missed cuddling up with Mary on winter nights. He missed walking effortlessly without a walker. He missed speaking without someone misunderstanding him and having to repeat himself, not knowing if others would still not understand him.
But somehow Brett clicked with Kathy. Maybe it was partly because she took no guff from him, and he gave her a chance to unwind after a day of frenzy at the office. They often just strolled through the local mall on Thursday nights. And Brett appreciated a good friend (and an extra pair of arms) to shop with him.
"It's Abe Lincoln," Brett said lamely, unashamed to state the obvious. "See, here he is." He pointed to the small block containing Lincoln's bluish bust, after they went inside the gallery for a closer look.
"But why the nude?" Kathy asked.
Brett couldn't answer. Brett didn't know. But still the dark mystery of the print, so evident even under the white spotlight in the gallery's window, intrigued him. It was his type of painting -- bold, complicated and not easily explainable but maybe purposeful, maybe meaningful. The confusing blocks blended well and offered discovery to those with time and patience to discern their layers of meaning.
"Dali doesn't do it for me," she finally admitted. Brett broke into a smile. As an editor, she often lapsed into the habit of summarizing her thoughts – like blurbs for the back of book covers.
"Great alliteration," Brett teased. "Dali does not do it ..."
"Oh, hush," Kathy interrupted with a playful rebuke.
Standing behind the counter, the gallery's manager overheard Kathy's reply to Brett's string of "Ds" mixed with what probably sounded to her like mumbled vowels.
"Can I help you?" she called to Kathy, ignoring Brett's existence.
Brett decided to ignore the manager, too, and said nothing.
"No thanks," Kathy finally acknowledged pleasantly but coldly, raising her left eyebrow in dismay. "We're just browsing."
Brett slid his walker deeper into the gallery, pretending to browse.
"I like it," he continued softly. "I need something for my bedroom."
"I don't know. It's not that restful," she offered. "I'd want something more pastoral and reassuring."
"No, it'll be great," he countered with a chuckle. "Right above my bed's headboard, so I can see it through the mirror on the opposite wall when I lay in bed. I need Dali in my bedroom."
"A nude above your bed?" Kathy scoffed, lowering her voice as she glanced back at the manager, who was now at the other end of the gallery. "That's gross!"
"No, that's not the point," Brett cajoled. "This has meaning, depth ..."
"You don't even know what it means," Kathy, calling his bluff, said with a smile of disbelief.
"But, that's the challenge," Brett insisted. "I like something that can grow on me."
"A nude can grow old pretty fast, buddy -- especially above your bed," Kathy joshed.
"I don't care about the nude," Brett mumbled, surprised they were still talking about the most obvious feature of the print. "I think we both need to take an art appreciation course."
"If you want to get it, I'll haul it back to your apartment and put it up for you. Just don't tell your neighbors I'm the one leading you down the road to decadence!"
It was an offer Brett couldn't refuse. Shopping with a walker was tedious, slow and tiring for him. But buying something larger than a pad of paper or heavier than a bottle of shampoo (such as a 24-by-36-inch framed print) and carrying it to the car presented a problem for Brett -- in addition to store managers who make quick judgments – and Kathy could solve it.
Brett watched the confused look on the gallery manager's face as he handed her his gold credit card. He signed the sales slip while sitting in his walker and, with as much lucidity as he could muster, said, "Thank you," as he looked into her still-disbelieving eyes.
Kathy carried it to the car, carted it into Brett's assisted living apartment and hung it above his bed. In the gallery, he had tried to envision how the print's colors would complement the earth tones of his bed spread, drapes and carpeting. They did.
And his hunch was right. After Kathy left, Brett plopped down on the bed, and, from pillow height, he could see the print's full reflection off the mirror on the opposite wall above his dresser. But there was something strange about the painting he still didn't understand.
Not until six months later, when Brett had dimmed the lights one night and sat on the foot of his bed, did he see that, above the naked woman's head, was a faint line drawing of Christ on the cross. It was mixed with a splash of orange red and was instantly familiar but startling. The print showed the crucifixion from above -- a new perspective. It was another reason why Brett hadn't seen it before.
The promise of freedom from bondage for us all through the crucifixion. The hope for freedom from slavery for us all through Lincoln's Emancipation Proclamation. The search for freedom for us all through the women's movement. It all came together for Brett in that instant.
And then he saw it -- but not until he had dimmed the glaring lights, ignored the obvious and looked at the abstract fringes of the picture in reverse through his bedroom's mirror. The rim of dark blocks which outlined the painting formed a large bust of Abe Lincoln.
It was the perfect spot for Salvador Dali's Lincoln.
But what really intrigued Brett was the progress (and the subsequent "fall-backs") he had seen since the 1960s in each of the freedom movements Dali highlighted in his Lincoln. He reminded himself that, yes, at times, it's helpful to look at life in reverse.
America's religious landscape, for instance, had grown more diverse during the last 60 years, but, instead of flourishing in that environment, some religious sects in the U.S. had grown more parochial and become intertwined with politics.
People of color remain free today under the 13th Amendment but still struggle with ensuring the basic right to vote – and living a life without anxiety about the next encounter with a white person.
And women of the 21st Century are urged to "know your value" but still struggle with pay equity and sexual harassment issues.
So, 60 years do not constitute an epoch, Brett reminded himself, still on his bed and gazing at the print.
"Think always about the much longer view." The words came back -- words he once told Kathy.
In fact, on Kathy's 18th birthday card, he remembered writing:
"History's long arc is toward positive outcomes, but it's also riddled with short-term disappointments, setbacks and stupid mistakes. A short-term perspective may lead to despair, particularly if you find yourself in one of the arc's temporary downdrafts. Cushion yourself for blowback whenever you can."
Brett's takeaway tip from his story: Expect blowback when you experience progress in social issues.
Here’s to mature-adult living!
Jim Hasse, ABC, GCDF retired, author of “52 Shades of Graying”
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