Woodbridge VT ~ 2018
Art is not what you see, but what you make others see. -Edgar Degas
A large canvas print of James’s “Van Gogh’s Ice” hung in their friends’ new art gallery for weeks, largely unnoticed. At the opening reception a few friends showed up and had a few nice things to say, but mostly they marveled at how much art cost and how they didn’t “get” most of it. “But yours is nice. I like the lines. Looks like a painting!”
Although his visions of artistic grandeur were fading, James at least was satisfied to see that he had a niche of sorts. There were some whimsical folk art pieces, some beautiful, although stereotypical, bucolic Vermont scenes, and some mixed media pieces that demanded a lot of attention and imagination. But nothing quite like his obsession with ice formations, even at a winter-themed gallery show. Since he took the first shot of Van Gogh’s Ice, he branched out into various shapes and sizes of icicles, ice crystals, snowflakes, and even an ice stalagmite in a local cave. His obsession was in full bloom.
“I don’t even know what to call some of these ice formations I’m finding,” James said to Melody as they headed downtown for their evening walk.
“Have you looked for an ice field guide or something?”
“Yeah, I’ve searched around and the closest I can find is Libbrecht’s snowflake books, which are amazing, but a different idea,” he said. “I’d like to know what the heck to call an ice stalagmite.”
“Well maybe it’s up to you then.”
“Maybe so. I’m thinking we’re running out of winter soon though. Maybe I’ll have to make some jaunts up to Canada?”
“Yeah, maybe.” They approached the four corners, the heart of the small downtown area. “Hey, let’s turn here,” Melody said. “Want to check out the gallery today? Maybe your piece sold. I’d at least like to say hi to Amy.”
“Sure. I doubt my one piece has gone anywhere though.”
They entered the small gallery, which was wedged between an empty storefront and a dusty antiques shop. It was vacant except for Amy, who sat at her computer by the register.
“Hi, Amy. How’s it going?” Melody said.
“Pretty quiet overall, but we’re here for the long-haul,” Amy said. “But you guys, you’ll never believe who was just here.”
“Who? The governor? I saw in the paper he had some ribbon cutting in town.” James said.
“No, not that asshole, thankfully. Get this: Kristof Nazer was just here! I can’t believe it.”
“Who’s that?” Melody asked.
“Oh he’s just the chief art critic for the New York Times. No big deal.” Amy rolled her eyes. “Seriously, Melody? Where the hell have you been?”
“Sorry, I don’t keep up with such things. So, what did he say? Did he like the show?”
“I couldn’t tell. I recognized him of course, so I struck up a conversation. He’s an avid skier and he was on his way back to New York and stopped in town for dinner. I guess he saw the gallery from the window of Hamilton’s while he enjoyed his fish tacos or whatever. Of course he’s one of my heroes, but I couldn’t admit that to him. Not exactly a nice guy, but he makes or breaks his share of artists.” Amy said.
“Did he say anything about any of the pieces?” James asked, attempting to be casual about it.
“He didn’t say much, but he stopped at stared at one in particular, and was mumbling to himself quite a bit. And he took the artist’s card on the way out the door.” Amy grinned.
“No, seriously? Really?” James said. Melody grabbed his arm and squeezed hard.
“Seriously. I think he was really into your ‘Van Gogh’s Ice.’ I sure as hell hope your website is updated.”
“Oh no,” James said. “Well, it mostly is I guess. Lots of ice formations, but nothing from the last couple weeks, and I’ve found some awesome stuff lately. Nothing as good as Van Gogh, but still some pretty nice shots.”
“Well I think you’ve got about an hour until he gets to the city, depending on traffic. Get on home and get updating. Maybe he’ll contact you soon. As soon as I saw your piece I knew it was going somewhere. This town is too small for you, I think. I never expected Kristof Nazer to come waltzing in though. Holy shit, this could get big,” Amy said.
“So I guess he didn’t buy it? I don’t see a green dot on the tag at least.” Melody said.
“No, but if I were you I’d, uh, adjust the price right now and order some more prints while you’re at it. If he does a writeup I can guarantee a whole shitload of New York ski bunnies will come swooping in looking for a piece of the action. I might keep the gallery open later too.”
“Well, we’ll see. It’d be nice if I heard from him, but I have my doubts.” James said.
“We’ll see indeed. Just remember us when you’re rich and famous, OK?”
“Yeah right. No worries there. I’m just one eye with a camera.”
~~~
James didn’t hear anything from New York. He did notice that the traffic on his website spiked quite a bit for a few days, but then returned to its minimal trickle. Just in case, he checked the Spam folder of his email, and double-checked that his contact information was correct on his website. After a few weeks had passed he gave a fatalistic shrug of the shoulders and decided to move on. He made a mental note to email Amy about dropping the price back down on his print. Then he realized the show was ending soon anyway, and he began to think about which wall in the house he’d hang Van Gogh’s Ice on.
While they were settling into bed, James said, “Melody, do you think we could put my print in the living room where the Grandma Moses print is? I’m getting a little tired of that one, and mine would clash too much with the walls in the dining room.”
“Oh you know how much I love Grandma Moses. But yeah, we could find a new spot for her I’m sure. Maybe she could go in the dining room? Are you disappointed yours didn’t sell?”
“Yeah I guess so, although I always wanted to hang a print of it at home anyway. So much for that New York Times excitement. Maybe its better to not get your hopes up in the first place.”
“I don’t know about that,” Melody said. “You have a beautiful eye and a singular ability to find beauty in this messed up world. If a New York Times art critic can’t see that, then that’s their problem. I’m proud of you no matter what.”
“Thanks babe. You’re the best.” They fell asleep pressed together, and as he faded, James relished the feeling of not quite knowing where his skin ended and hers began.
~~~
The next morning was Saturday, the one day of the week James could sleep in. He lifted his head a bit to find the clock: 8:08. But this morning the green digital digits looked fuzzy in the dim light. James rubbed his eye, removing the morning eye crust and looked again. 8:08, or was it 8:09 now? Too hard to tell. He blinked and rubbed again. Same result. He got up, opened the curtains and looked out to the chicken coop. He could make out his sleek, plump birds pacing about, but nothing was clear. He couldn’t tell Popcorn from Petunia.
All his life he’d seen with just one eye, but that vision was always very, very clear, until this morning. A panic began to rise in his throat. “Hey Melody, you around?” he called to the next room. Then he remembered she had yoga class that morning. “Shit, this isn’t good.”
His mind ran through various possibilities. Maybe age was finally catching up, all at once. Maybe scar tissue from childhood surgeries knocked loose. Maybe a migraine was coming on. And of course the doomsday scenario loomed large: maybe, finally, he was going blind. As he reached for his phone to call his eye doctor, it buzzed to life. He could make out the incoming number, although that was too fuzzy for his liking too.
“That’s weird, a New Jersey number. Must be phone spam.” Although tempted to let the call die in voicemail, he picked it up. “Hello, this is James.”
“James. This is Kristof Nazer, New York Times. How are you?”
“I’m fine,” he lied. “How are you Mr. Nazer?” He got up and started pacing the room.
“Please, call me Kristof. I am well, thank you. I’m sorry to disturb you on a Saturday morning, but, I was recently reviewing my notes from my travels and remembered coming across your photograph entitled ‘Van Gogh’s Ice’ at The Clarity Gallery in Woodbridge, Vermont. An intriguing piece.”
“Oh yes, thank you. I feel lucky to have been able to capture it.”
“Indeed, but I assure you far more than luck was involved. And I see on your website you’ve been creating quite a portfolio of such images. I must say you have a unique eye. I look forward to seeing more of your work.”
“Thank you so much, Kristof,” James said.
“I’m calling to let you know I’ve passed your information on to my good friend Brian Schwartz. He owns the Schwartz Gallery in Boston. I’m sure you’re familiar.”
“Yes, of course,” James lied. His mind raced. Could it be the same Brian Schwartz from the Huxley Center?
“He’s opening a large-scale show at the gallery, revolving around the themes of climate change and perspective, called Underwater, featuring emerging artists. The show is opening next month, but one of our artists just backed out,” Kristof said.
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” James said. He smiled, already guessing where this conversation was headed.
“Indeed,” Kristof continued. “Brian asked me to recommend a replacement, and while pondering my recent travels, I thought of your work, since it highlights the delicate nature of our current climate conditions. If you’re willing, he would like to display 10 of your pieces at the show. I’m planning on being at the opening and writing a piece for the Times about the show, and I would appreciate the opportunity to interview you as well. Normally I would speak with an artist’s agent, but I saw no mention of one on your website or card. I imagine you may hear from one of Mr. Schwartz’s representatives soon. Would that be acceptable?”
“Oh yes, of course, that sounds wonderful. Thank you, Mr. Nazer. I’m truly honored to be considered for such a show.”
“I’m glad to hear it, James. I’ll relay your enthusiasm to Mr. Schwartz, who will undoubtedly be pleased. We are under a tight timeline, so if you are in agreement, I recommend you prepare your prints as soon as possible. We’ll be in touch soon. Have a pleasant day.”
“You too, thanks.” As the call ended James looked out the window at the chickens again. They still looked blurry, and they were getting restless too.
“I’m coming, girls, hold on. But holy crap, what a morning. Melody is going to freak out. And wait til Amy hears about this.”
~~~
James got dressed and went downstairs, and Willy trailed after him, spinning in circles and licking James’s toes. “OK, Willy, let’s go outside and feed the girls.” He grabbed the container of table scraps off the counter, went outside, filled a bucket with chicken feed and walked to the coop in the back of the yard. Willy tore around the yard, alternating peeing on and sniffing everything.
The chickens paced furiously, squawking and jostling for position. “Good morning, girls!” James tossed the bucket of yesterday’s cucumber peels, bread crusts, and leftover cereal into the run and the skinnier birds ran to the spot. The two chickens clearly at the top of the pecking order (the “bowling balls” as the kids said) took their time scoping out the best stuff and then hen-pecked whoever had what they wanted. “Easy, Midnight. Let that poor girl have her share. Did you guys sleep OK? I thought I heard you making some noise early this morning.”
There was an occasional fox in the neighborhood, but he apparently wasn’t desperate enough to try to break into the coop. He’d circle it a few times, eyeing his potential prey, but then moved on, but not after no small amount of loud clucking and fuss. The fisher cats in the area were legendarily vicious, but they kept to the more wooded areas of town. James squatted down to take a look at the birds, which he often called “pets with benefits.” A dollar a day worth of feed for about 6 eggs wasn’t exactly a bargain, but he did enjoy his critters. He looked the top bird in the eye, who cocked her head to look back at him. “You’re a little blurry this morning. Are you taking care of the flock, Pepsi? Sorry I had to get rid of the rooster, but Buddy was way too mean and way too loud.” Pepsi answered his question with some jumbled clucking, and looked into the empty scrap bucket.
“Sorry, all gone, but there will be more tomorrow.” He reflected on his bumper sticker: “My chickens are smarter than your honor student.” Sure, sometimes they may seem stupid, but really they had a genius of their own. The birds at the ends of the roosting pole at night literally slept with one eye open, resting half their brains at a time. And they could see ultraviolet colors, picking out bugs in the grass we’d never see. “I wonder what it would be like to see like you do?” Pepsi turned her head again. “Well right now I’d settle for seeing clearly with just this one eye. I need to call Dr. Goodrich. Hopefully its no big deal.”
Pepsi clucked in agreement.