Tumbling Blocks (20 page)

I sat back down. Okay, I had the part about him ready. Now I had to get my own talk about outsider art done. I glanced at my watch. It was already ten a.m. I picked up the phone and called Elvia at the bookstore.

“Hey, little mama, ready to do some shopping?” I had to finish this speech, but right now even clothes shopping, something I didn’t particularly enjoy, seemed more appealing.

“What are you trying to avoid?” Elvia asked, knowing me too well.

I groaned dramatically. “I’m trying to write my speech for the exhibit opening this Wednesday night, and everything I write sounds stupid.”

“What’s the problem? You’ve given talks before. What’s so different about this one?”

I sighed, leaned back in my chair. “Nothing. I think I’m just sleep-deprived and worried about Gabe and his mother. I think there’s something going on in her life.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Ray is acting kind of strange.” I told her his cryptic remark last night.

“That does sound like he’s trying to tell you something. Why don’t you just ask him if there’s something wrong?”

“I’ve thought of that, but my big fear is he’ll tell me. Then I’ll have to make the decision about whether I should tell Gabe or let his mother tell him.”

“Gabe hasn’t noticed anything strange?”

I sighed. “I think Gabe is too busy throwing a pity party for himself because someone’s taking his papa’s place.” Then I felt guilty for my snide remark. “Oh, strike that last comment. I know Gabe is going through a tough time trying to get over his cousin’s death. This anger over the change with his mother’s life is just a symptom. I’m going to see Father Mark, see if he can talk to Gabe.”

“Or you could step back,” Elvia said. “Let him deal with it when he is ready.”

“Easy for you to say,” I replied, cranky that she was echoing what Dove suggested. “You don’t have to live right in the middle of this little drama.”

She was wisely silent, obviously realizing that I didn’t actually want advice but someone to listen to my whining.

“Look,” she said. “I’m going to be the best friend I can and tell you we’ll go shopping at one p.m.
after
you’ve finished your speech. You’ll be much happier once you get it done. Just pretend it’s a term paper.”

“That doesn’t help,” I moaned.

“Get to work. Meet me at the store at one.” Then she hung up.

“Nyah, nyah, nyah,” I said to the buzzing dial tone. But she was right. I would be happier if I could mark this off my to-do list. Before I went back to my speech, I called Beebs and Millee to invite them over for supper and tree-trimming.

“That sounds delightful,” Beebs said. “What shall we bring?”

“This time, do not bring a thing. Kathryn wants to do it all.”

“In that case, we’ll just bring our hungry appetites.”

“Always appreciated at a dinner party,” I agreed.

I marked them off my list. Then I called Dove. “Hey, Gramma, what’s cookin’?”

“Apple butter,” she said.

“Yum. Are you busy for dinner? We’re having an impromptu tree trimming supper tonight.”

“Wish I could, but I have an emergency knitting club meeting.”

I laughed. “What kind of emergency could a knitting club have?”

“Christmas stockings for foster kids. We were supposed to have a hundred stockings knitted, and there’s only seventy-three. Emergency knit-in at Thelma’s house tonight.”

“Okay, I’ll let you off the hook.”

“Har, har,” Dove said. “That would be funny if we were crocheting, not knitting.”

“Kathryn’s cooking, but I’ll tell her you have a good excuse.”

“Sorry to miss that. Tell her I’ll see her Wednesday night at your museum shindig.”

“Is Sam there?”

“Nope, he left early this morning. Got to get back to my apples. Over and out.”

“A big ten-four, good buddy.”

I hoped no one ever overheard my conversations with my gramma.

I hung up the phone and contemplated calling around to the possible four or five places Sam might be. No, that would have to take a backseat to finishing my speech. He usually worked two or three afternoons at Blind Harry’s. I’d call there as soon as I finished.

I set aside my list and looked back at my half-written speech. “Oh, just get to it,” I murmured and started writing.

“Outsider art is the latest label given to works of art made by non-mainstream, untrained and, until recently, unexhibited artists. It has been referred to throughout art history as folk art, self-taught art, visionary art, naive art, primitive art, intuitive art and even by the somewhat snooty-sounding term art brut.” I crossed out
snooty-sounding
and inserted
academic.
Snooty-sounding seemed more accurate to me, but I didn’t want to alienate part of my audience . . . at least not with my first paragraph.

“Originally, the creation of outsider art tended to be for the purposes of recording memories or made for use, such as quilts made for warmth rather than decoration, or were the revelations or expounding of religious stories and beliefs. Today’s outsider art is broader. Like mainstream art, it often portrays the artist’s very personal feelings about politics, consumer culture, racism, the war between social or economic classes and environmentalism, but the lines between art made to be used—craft and design—and art made to be contemplated—painting, drawing and sculpture—become blurred within the outsider art world. The art establishment and the public have been forced to consider the term
outsider
and what it implies. We might ask, outside compared to what? Is high art or fine art necessarily more
inside
, implying superior? One distinction between outsider and mainstream art has always been the economic, social or intellectual status of the artists themselves. Outsider art has often been thought of as the ‘art born of adversity,’ where the artist’s poverty, illiteracy, incarceration or mental illness becomes as much a part of the ‘outsiderness’ as the art itself.”

“Outsiderness?” I said out loud. “Is that even a word?”

“Sounds good to me,” a voice replied, startling me.

I jerked my head around to stare at the person in the doorway, embarrassed to be caught talking to myself. When I saw it was Nola Maxwell Finch, I was absolutely mortified.

“I’m sorry,” I said, standing up, my cheeks hot as a chili pepper. “I didn’t think anyone was around. I’m—”

She waved her hand at me to sit back down. “Oh, no, the apology should be mine. I shouldn’t have interrupted you. Mr. Boudreaux said I could find you back here.”

“No, it’s fine, really. I’m just working on this Wednesday’s speech. Please, come in and sit down. Is there something I can do for you?”

She stepped into my office, a serene smile on her face. She wore crisply pressed black slacks and a tan turtleneck sweater. I caught a light scent of exotic flowers. She sat down in the visitor’s chair and crossed her legs in a smooth, elegant gesture. “I was hoping to see where Uncle Abe’s painting would be displayed.”

“Absolutely,” I said, sitting back down. “But the painting isn’t actually here right now.” The alarmed look on her face caused me to add quickly, “Don’t worry, it’s at a place safer than Fort Knox. It’s in my husband’s office at work. He’s San Celina’s police chief.”

Her expression became calm again. “I suppose that’s about as well protected as it will ever be.”

I laughed nervously. “Our alarm system was being fixed. I was given the all clear this morning. I’m picking up the painting myself this afternoon. I can, however, show you where it will hang.”

“That would be lovely,” she said.

Sun dappled our faces as we walked under the vine-covered breezeway that led from the co-op buildings. We chatted about the cool, sunny weather we’d been having.

“I have to admit, the Central Coast’s beautiful weather is what convinced me to settle down here,” Nola said, turning her face up to the sun. “It was getting so crowded and smoggy in Las Vegas. Tell me, do you ever have any bad weather here?”

“Not what others across the country would call bad weather. If it rains three or four days in a row, it is the lead story on the local news. And if there’s even a hint of humidity in the summer, people whine as if we lived in the tropics.” I gave a rueful laugh. “I’m almost embarrassed to tell you that. My dad calls the Central Coast bovine heaven.”

“People heaven too, then,” she said.

“Yes, it is hard to beat, weather-wise.” I glanced over at her, curiosity getting the better of me. “Will your uncle be moving here also?”

She didn’t seem ruffled by my question, obviously accustomed to curiosity about her uncle. “I doubt it. He’s happy where he is. His neighbors know him and take care of him. And he’s not that far from me.”

I noticed she never said exactly where he was. “You’re his only family?” I asked, opening the heavy back door to the museum, gesturing at her to go ahead of me.

She nodded and gave a small sigh. “Yes.” Her pale blue eyes looked over my shoulder, as if seeing something behind me, something that troubled her. “He’s getting so frail. I’m not sure how much longer he’ll be able to keep painting.” She looked back at me, staring right into my eyes. “Though this is not for public consumption, I’ll be honest with you, his arthritis is starting to really affect him, especially his hands.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, feeling flattered that she’d confide in me.

She brushed at imaginary lint on her sweater. “Well, he is getting up there in years. I think it is starting to show in his work, and I can’t help but wonder if I should subtly let it be known that he is having physical problems so that when the tone of his work changes, people don’t start gossiping. Also, we’ve had one case of a forgery, so if his signature changes slightly, I don’t want people to wonder.”

“A forgery? That’s terrible.”

She nodded. “Yes, but with many of his paintings going for almost thirty thousand dollars now, it was to be expected. People have the idea that it would be easy to forge a primitive painter like Uncle Abe. The one who was caught trying to sell one to a gallery in Santa Fe did a fairly good job mimicking my uncle’s style, but he didn’t do his homework. This particular gallery had a buyer who was very familiar with my uncle’s painting and saw a subtle variance in the signature that tipped him off.”

“Wow, lucky break for your uncle.”

She folded her arms across her chest. “Yes, it was. Besides that, we have to worry about the art critics who can make or break even outsider artists these days. In that way the outsider art world has become just as political as the mainstream art world. Certain critics are biased. Collectors, unfortunately, listen.”

I contemplated her statement before answering. She had a point. Art critics could be brutal, especially once you’d become one of their darlings. Some critics seemed to take an inordinate amount of pleasure and energy tearing down the artists they themselves had taken years to champion and build up. “If it helps, there is the
L.A. Times
reporter coming to the exhibit opening this Wednesday.”

I wouldn’t tell her what she should or shouldn’t do, but if she wanted the world to know about Abe Adam Finch’s physical problem, which might affect his work, an article in the
L.A. Times
was a pretty big platform.

She nodded, patting at her light red hair, though it didn’t have a strand out of place. “That’s something to consider.”

When we reached the main gallery, I showed her where we’d be displaying her uncle’s painting.

“Our security system is top-notch,” I said. “And I can guarantee that any alarm that is set off here gets top priority with the police department.”

“I imagine it would,” she said, smiling. “It looks like a wonderful space. My uncle would be pleased and honored, I’m sure.”

After assuring her it was we who were honored, I walked her out to the front of the museum to show her where his cards and prints were displayed for sale in our gift shop.

“They are also featured in the window of our new museum gift shop downtown.”

“Yes, I saw it. Your window designer did a beautiful job.”

“One of our new quilt artists works for Gottschalk’s as a display designer. My friend Elvia owns Blind Harry’s Bookstore down the street and always wins the holiday window display contests, but I think we might start giving her a run for the money.”

Nola gave a cheerful laugh. “A little competition is good for the soul. Well, maybe not for the soul, but good for commerce.”

“Which is good for all of us.”

She nodded in agreement.

After she left, I continued work on my talk, finally finishing a first draft. I quickly typed it up on my laptop computer and printed it out to take home. I’d edit it one more time tonight after the tree-trimming party was over and everyone had gone to bed. I added some references to other famous outsider artists who critics had compared to Abe Adam Finch, such as memory painter Clementine Hunter, who depicted daily life such as picking cotton and river baptisms in the area of Melrose Plantation in Natchitoches, Louisiana, and Nellie Mae Rowe, whose colorful visionary drawings and paintings often had a surreal quality to them because she painted the faces of humans and animals unusual colors, red or blue or “whatever looked right” to her. She also made a few quilts in the style of her paintings and created some sculptures using the unusual medium of chewing gum that she painted. She created for “God’s pleasure,” she was often quoted. “Call Him up,” she was quoted. “He’ll hear you.”

In personality, Abe Adam Finch was a lot like Joseph Elmer Yoakum, whose pastel drawings portrayed landscapes of places he’d visited or claimed to have visited. Mystery permeated Mr. Yoakum’s work, something that he felt made his work more valuable. Though Abe Adam Finch was open with his past history but shy about meeting the public now, Mr. Yoakum was just the opposite. Before he died in 1972, he knew and influenced many now well-known artists who met him in the 1960s and 1970s while they were studying at the Art Institute of Chicago. But Mr. Yoakum liked to keep his past a mystery, claiming once that he was a black man, then another time, a full-blooded Navajo born on the reservation at Window Rock.