Author: Stephanie Painter

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Opinion The Last Word

Art Glasses, Anyone?

Eric in front of Michelangelo’s Madonna and Child at the Church of Our Lady in Bruges, Belgium (Photo: Stephanie Painter)

In Amsterdam, my husband and I are scanning a bar menu that advertises Pornstar Martinis and trying to stay clear of patrons engaged in a rousing pool game. It’s our first plunge into the famed Red Light District, and after paying our tab, we stroll down the block. At night, the 15th-century Gothic church Oude Kerk glows over sex workers’ windows and rows of padlocked bikes. The contrast is surreal.

“We’re going to the Rijksmuseum tomorrow,” I remind him.

He grins. Amsterdam is a city known for liberal lifestyles as well as artistic masterpieces. Like many of his brother dudes living out college fantasies, Eric can snoop out a strong martini, but art is his real driver, and it’s best to be in an alert and lucid state when exploring paintings by Old Dutch masters Vermeer, Rembrandt, and Frans Hals. An artist who works in abstract style, Eric has studied great Flemish artists’ works prior to our trip and looks forward to exploring paintings and sculptures shown in churches and galleries. His zeal — for art rather than religion — means that he always carries a pair of binoculars when touring a museum.

At the Rijksmuseum in the borough of Amsterdam South, Eric pauses for protracted and hungry examination of Rembrandt’s painting The Night Watch, occasionally shifting his angles and position in the crowd. Meanwhile, I view three other paintings to the best of my nearsighted ability. To my frustration, the stream of visitors forces me farther from the art. Then, Eric presses the set of binoculars on me. “Try them,” he urges.

With curiosity, I loop the cord over my scarf and take a look. This is where the magic begins as rich details suddenly spring into focus. The jewels in bracelets worn on a woman’s wrist in Rembrandt’s The Jewish Bride gleam like characters in their own story, and lace patterns form a beautiful maze in The Merry Family. In other paintings, facial characteristics and loose brush strokes come into closer view. In this heightened scale, one can find elements not easily detected by the bare eye. Five hundred years later, it’s as if you’re standing with the artist in the act of creation, seeing details intended for your appreciation but that can get lost in large works and crowds. 

“How does it look now?” Eric asks, confident of my delight. “Amazing,” I answer in surprise. Binoculars are essential tools at baseball games and golf tournaments, and some in more formal settings raise opera glasses. So why not brush off the dust remaining from the last ball game and scope out some art?

By the time we reach the Van Gogh Museum, I covet the art glasses. While my husband searches out tiny details in Almond Blossom and Sunflowers, I must politely wait my turn. Almond Blossom, one of my favorites, was gifted by the artist to his brother Theo and sister-in-law on the birth of their son. For the next phase of the trip, we ride the train to Ghent, Belgium, where we seek out The Adoration of the Mystic Lamb, the 15th-century polyptych altarpiece completed by Hubert and Jan van Eyck in 1432. Stolen by the Nazis, the piece was recovered by the Monuments Men from an Austrian salt mine in 1945. Today it hangs at Saint Bavo’s Cathedral, and once again, Eric generously passes his binoculars to me. 

The new perspective elevates my experience, and now I see that The Lamb of God’s blood spills into the Holy Grail, something missed before with my poor vision. A former aristocrat, St. Bavo repented of enslaving others and distributed his wealth to the poor. One characteristic that Eric shares with a real saint is devotion. In these masterpieces, there is so much to contemplate, and yet my husband is the only visitor who thinks to use a set of binoculars to appreciate art. This middle-aged guy who routinely wears a navy beret spreads his own kind of gospel, leading family members and friends to look deeply and consider the miracle of artistic conception and execution. 

Next time you visit Dixon Gallery & Gardens or Memphis Brooks Museum of Art, you might find him peering closely — very, very closely — at a canvas. Follow his example, and you might view the next painting — really, all of the paintings to come — in a cool new way. Art glasses, anyone? 

Stephanie Painter is a local freelance writer and author of the children’s picture book Liz Tames a Dragon (and Her Anger).

Categories
Opinion The Last Word

Twist on American Gothic

Cousin Dax on horseback (Photo: Courtesy Stephanie Painter)

While my grandparents owned several pitchforks, they were light-years from the frowning pair depicted in Grant Wood’s painting American Gothic. Rather, my grandparents beamed while running their horse farm because they enjoyed the work. I’m certain that the artist’s gloomy couple would have considered their outsized interest in racehorses frivolous and impractical. Grandpa never bred a big winner but persisted because he admired racehorses’ power and found pleasure in the statistical challenges of improving breeding lines. At the farm, there was a pulse of manic energy, and jockeys and grooms lived outside the 9-to-5 world.

Yes, my grandparents were an unorthodox pair, and they swept us into their lifestyles. Provided few warnings about the effect of gravity, my cousins and I rode horses believing that none of us would ever take a terrible fall. “If worst comes to worst — and I don’t think it will — relax and float down like a butterfly,” my grandmother advised. A pleasant euphemism for a fall but much easier to actualize when one has a good pair of wings. Convinced of our spectacular bloodlines, she even cleared a spot in the driver’s seat for anyone willing to step up, first placing her bet on Dax and directing him to drive us to the local barbecue joint. Driving wasn’t so different from steering bumper cars at the county fair, she reasoned, confident that the 8-year-old was up to the task. “I’m hungry, and it’s time to get some ribs!” she cried, brandishing a 10-spot bill. “Now climb in,” she ordered, settling my sister Andrea and cousin Mary Liz in the backseat.

The game was on, and after a short tutorial, she dropped the keys to the Volkswagen in Dax’s pudgy fingers. When the car at last skidded into the parking lot, I stared in awe at the South’s youngest chauffeur. At 10, I had a few years over Dax, but recent setbacks had convinced me that I was not legend material, and the evidence was solid. When I fell from a horse, the crash hurt like hell. Plus, my piggy bank was in grave trouble because I picked the wrong horses on every $5 bet that the adults placed for me at Oaklawn Track.

During this season of bruises and squandered allowance, a beloved dog went missing, uniting the bold and the wannabes in a mission. After finding Pepper, we dangled sun-toasted legs over the porch and philosophized about finding a treasure we feared lost, pausing in our profundities to blow bubbles crafted of Bazooka gum. Real, significant loss came the next year when my uncle accepted a job in Baltimore, and my aunt packed up, leaving behind Dax and Mary Elizabeth’s kid-size riding boots. I sulked in the back stall, dreading the separation to come.

Later, my sister and I grew close to another pair of cousins (on my mother’s side of the family) residing three hours south on the Arkansas slice of Texarkana. There, Kevin and Matt showed off their new Boy Scout merit badges in camping and woodworking, and the reigning expletive was “Hell’s bells!” expressing my aunt’s failure to bake the perfect side dish for the holidays. Taking notes, I compared patterns of conformity and unconventionality and the many options for ways to live, and at home, I had only to look at my mother and father to see radically different positions.

My cousins eventually went off into the world, and my sister and I left home as well. Predictably, a physician and a corporate vice-president emerged from the conventional side of my family. A brave entrepreneur — that’s Dax — took risks that paid off, and Mary Liz has been a powerful force. Defying the strictures of her husband’s paraplegic condition, she asked doctors to help them have children. Mary Liz’s passion for life and will to bring children into existence would receive hearty approval from both of our grandparents. In truth, they weren’t promoting horses to us, but rather the value of picking up the damn barbecue and enjoying the feast.

Why Memphis? It’s a perfect place to plant my hybrid self where I can hang out with colorful folks while pursuing goals that will never yield the high of winning a race but that do keep the bills paid. No legend myself, I’m exposed to shining stars in this city — artists, musicians, quirky characters. Crossing the Hernando de Soto Bridge, a view of Arkansas opens to the west and the Downtown skyline stands in the east. Here, it’s possible to stay close both geographically and emotionally to childhood experiences. As the Peabody’s staff serves high tea, musicians in clubs are preparing for revelry. Since there is something for all of my cousins to savor here, I hope to entice them to visit for a long weekend soon.

Stephanie Painter is a local freelance writer. She has written for Memphis Magazine, Germantown Magazine, Memphis Parent, Chapter 16, Number: Inc., and Episcopal Café. She is the author of the children’s picture book Liz Tames A Dragon.

Categories
Opinion The Last Word

Wrong Turn: How I Took a Drive on the Dark Side

CREDIT: Zoran Milisavljevic | Dreamstime.com

Some yearn for the 15 minutes of fame that artist Andy Warhol believed everyone will have the chance to experience. Several years ago, I encountered celebrity’s dark side. Trust me, I’d give every minute of my time in the limelight back.

My flirt with center stage started with routine errands on an autumn afternoon. While driving west on Poplar Pike, I noticed a line of orange-and-white cones looming on the roadway. At every construction split, a decision must be made: one side marks a safe path while the other should at all costs be avoided. As I turned the steering wheel, I never suspected the blunder I was about to make.

Zoran Milisavljevic | Dreamstime.com

Giving new meaning to the phrase “stuck in traffic”

Seconds later, my vehicle mysteriously slowed. Baffled, I stepped on the gas. Nothing happened. I tried again, still with no result. A passing driver in a blue sedan rolled down his window, openly gawking. Other drivers pointed, smirked, and snickered. All were snapping pictures with their phones. What was so remarkable about a nondescript minivan plastered with school PTA stickers?

I anxiously peered out the van window and detected a freshly poured substance rising up my wheels to the axle, soon to dry as concrete. Pulling my ballcap over my eyes, I slid down into my seat. My fight-or-flight instinct kicked in, and flight wasn’t an option, so I had to marshal my resources. Grabbing my purse, I retrieved my AAA membership card; my mother-in-law had given us a membership for Christmas, so surely help would soon be on the way. But an AAA employee explained that tow services weren’t covered. She was clear about it. I had to upgrade the plan or allow my minivan to fossilize in wet cement. I dug out my credit card. “Wait there,” she said. Like I had a choice.

My next duty was to alert my loved ones of my plight. Thirty minutes later, my husband Eric arrived at the scene and stalked over. “Have you lost your mind?” he shouted, repeating the question for maximum effect. “You have to get out of there before that stuff hardens!” I considered my scheduled meeting — there was still time to make the appointment — and suggested that we switch cars. With a laugh, Eric quickly returned to his own car and began to drive off. But not before taking a slew of pictures for “show and tell” during the holidays.

So I waited in a lonely, transparent bubble while merrymakers delighted in my sad circumstances. None of the bullies were brave enough to venture close and rap on my window — the fear of paralysis in cement kept them in their places. Hoping for encouragement, I phoned my sister Andrea, but she only inquired about my location. Like my husband, she thirsted for photographic documentation. Seeing straight through her, I hung up. Finally, I notified my professional circle of my altered schedule. “I’ve been grounded,” I explained, withholding details.

Naturally, the tow truck was late, and my 15 minutes of fame was lengthened by hours. My rescuer spoke little, conserving his energy. With a loud groan, he hauled out dozens of tools, chains, and a ramp. Honestly, I don’t recall all the steps involved in my release but do remember rolling down a makeshift ramp angled over the cement pit. I wiped a tear as I reached dry land. “Get to a car wash as fast as you can and rinse under the van before it dries!” he commanded.

I sped to the nearest carwash only to find it out of order. In desperation, I headed for another and offered up a hodgepodge of coins. Nothing happened. At the third carwash, I cried “Eureka!” at the sight of gushing water. Once the van was clean, I blended in with traffic, but it was too soon to rejoice. At home, Eric crawled under the van and began removing chunks of cement.

Deciding that he would be occupied for several hours, I poured a glass of wine and made one last call. Surely my neighbor Donna would offer supportive words and redeem a grueling day. “I’ve driven on the wrong side of construction zones,” she said. “It can happen to anyone.” Thankfully, I had returned to my warm and caring community.

Then I thought about the cold responses of all those who drove past without offering aid. For days, I checked the newspaper for headlines like “Silly Woman Barrels into Wet Cement Zone.” When no record of my folly appeared, I figured the whole ordeal was behind me.

But there was nowhere to hide at Thanksgiving. After dessert, Eric shared photographs of my misery and shame. And it appears there will always be those who are curious about my six hours of fame. I still hear about it. And thanks to those photographs, future generations of my family will be able to gawk at my ill-fated drive to the dark side of construction cones.

Stephanie Painter is a local freelance writer who enjoys covering community issues, travel — and her goofy misadventures.