Where I grew up, exposure to art was something like exposure to chicken pox, you did it early and got it out of the way so as not to develop a serious case later on.
My maternal grandmother tried, but mine was a hockey, horseracing and chicken wing childhood. In my rural high school "art" was silk screening James Taylor posters (Winter, spring, summer or fall... now is the time to hang him on your wall) and my small Catholic college displayed Bob Lanier's basketball shoes with equal reverence to their Rembrandt in the school library.
Thus, the frames on the walls of our home contain memories of different places and things which have mattered to us. Our choices are all about content because we (my husband had a parallel "arts education" in the Midwest) don't know any better.
Visiting major galleries with my friend Anne earlier this month was a revelation. At the Met, National Gallery and Albright-Knox, I didn't simply see the paintings and sculpture I had memorized for various school exams as a child, but could finally feel why the work is important.
I'd stay a few rooms ahead of Anne, embarassed by my lack of scholarship, but enthralled by color, brush strokes and telling detail. Early in the trip, Anne had her first dream in English. Later in the trip, I had a dream filled with amazing canvases.
Seeing the very best showed me clearly that the work of Anne's husband, Christophe, had so much more in common with these works than the endless marsh scenes and egrets common in local galleries.
I promised myself that once my book is sold, I would buy one of Christophe's paintings as the most wonderful tangible gift our someday grandchildren could share with their children.
Last night was meant to be a belated Father's Day Dinner for Charlie (who was playing golf back North on Sunday) and Christophe (whose children are returning from France today). But Charlie's plane was late, the steak was overmarinated, and the kitchen was a disaster zone. The broiled tomatoes were burning when Anne arrived first with the salad. Christophe followed directly from his studio with a package wrapped in newsprint under his arm.
I was perplexed when he handed it to me and astounded as I peeled back the paper -- framed in rich, rough dark wood was a stunning triptych study of a single white flower.
For a moment, I forgot how to breathe.
The occasion was simple friendship, the gift amazing.
In a community of multi-million dollar homes and faces you see in Forbes and Time, our home is now the richest.



Copyright 2004 Judi Griggs