alookaround
the arts of existence — Part 5
I woke about six & went to the beer store lobby for coffee. Powdered cutter. Donation jar. Free beer at check-in, but alms for the morning brew — an artful alignment of amenities. Behind the counter that morning, I recognized another family member — the one with the stubble — from the motel’s online page. The walls of the lobby were lined in hung collections of old room keys with various styles & colors of plastic tags from over the years. On shelves, a selection of vacuum tubes & power line insulators were arranged on footlong two-by-four sections, unclear whether for sale or just on display. The gallery continued with a framed newspaper article about a grandchild of the motel family who published a book of motel poetry. A few editions were stacked below. A grainy color photo captured an older couple — the original motel owners — captioned Founded in 1960. Above the coffee pot, another framed snap dated by three young adults in bell bottoms — possibly the ones I’d seen behind the counter: one of them could’ve been the squirrel woman from the night before. Neither of the other two had facial hair in the photo, but maybe . . . I looked over to the stubbled clerk. He smiled back. This would remain unknown. I dropped a quarter in the coffee jar.
I left at nine for the half-hour detour to take a look around the late author’s hometown, brooding on what traces of an artist survive beyond mere underlying influence. Loose research from the night before mentioned a memorial plaque near a park. I took a right off the highway at a crossroads marked by a hot dog restaurant — not open yet, but mentally noted. After crossing a river, I parked near a Victorian-Italianate named after family wealth on a sign that also read City Hall. On the front porch, there was a meshed security screen door & intercom. I followed a visitor who was buzzed in ahead of me. The person who let us in was friendly with the other visitor, like they knew each other, then asked if they could help me in a way that also said You must in the wrong place. I brought up the plaque that I’d heard was around there — maybe in a park. The buzzer said there was “Women’s Park next door — maybe it's there. There's a tourism building next to the park, too. They might know.” I asked if there was any info on the author there, in the City Hall building. The buzzer said that particular name didn’t ring any bells, then there was a moment of silence, like they were waiting for me to leave, so I did. I passed Women's Park. A few wide-brimmed hats were digging & clipping. Next, another old house — the county Tourism Bureau. No buzzer this time. I just walked in, greeted by a person at a desk with stacks of pamphlets. Across the room, an open door next to a City Planning sign. Inside, a large table with maps & other papers scattered on top was surrounded by a half dozen people sitting & discussing. I told the greeter the authors name. Before responding, a senior topped with spiked pastel tips came out of the meeting room, evidently overhearing my question, & said “The plaque is gone. There was one, but vandals broke it years ago and it wasn't replaced.” I asked if there was anything around town commemorating the author. The pastel planner said I should check with the public library across the street, remembering “I think there’s a special collections room,” adding “They’ll need to see your ID.” I checked for my wallet then crossed the street.
The figure at the library info desk was gaunt with a neutral mien & platinum collar-length mane, almost glowing. I asked about the author. He walked me to a sparsely spaced shelf where local writers were grouped & said there was also a “collections room upstairs” with a folder on the author that I could see “with special permission.” Back at the info desk, he told me about the plaque — that it had been “a nice plaque — expensive — engraved — with an illustration by the author.” He didn't know why it wasn't replaced. “Maybe just because it was expensive.” He said the pieces “are probably in a county storeroom somewhere” — that “maybe someone could make another one and put it in the library like they've done with other famous locals.” Though the librarian had a calm exterior, I began to notice something from inside — simmering, but subdued — an aura of frustration that flickered mentioning there wasn't more regional recognition. He said he’d look up a street named for the author — said he knew the intersection — described it to me & said “It might be a nice photo — I’ll print you a map.” He tapped the keyboard then looked at a printer sitting beside. It was silent. He tapped again & sighed through his nose — an exhaled of-course — then looked behind, toward an office where another printer was clicking. He went in then returned looking at the page & set it on the counter between us, but didn’t seem satisfied with the map, saying “Bad printer. It’ll have to do.” With a pencil, he showed where we were on the map & explained how to get to the eponymous sign. He started drawing a route, then said the map didn't show one of the streets to take a turn at & murmured an “I don't know why the fuck,” that petered out to, “. . . fucking city planning,” mumbled to himself, but not. He circled the destination then pointed to another location on the map, close-by if I wanted to go there, where the author's younger sister was struck & killed by a car after leaving church when she was nine — a transfiguring event the author came back to throughout his writing. The librarian penciled an X & said “Right around the corner.“ He pushed the map towards me & said he could call upstairs to have the librarian of the collections room have the folder ready. He told me — as to prepare me upfront for what I was about to hear during his conversation — “I’m going to build you up a little,” to “make it sound important.” When the phone picked up he said, “I have a gentleman at my desk who has traveled a very long way on a research pilgrimage . . .” He hung up & told me the upstairs librarian “. . . is a fan of the writing — this will make her happy.” He mentioned a festival held in honor of the author a few times in the late 80’s, but was discontinued — “It was too much. People just got tired.” He pointed to a door across the room that would lead me to a staircase, then came out from behind the desk to walk me over. Near the door, he stopped at a mural by an area artist — a painted amalgam of local luminaries: sports, politics or other notables — maybe twenty or so. Together, we scanned it silently for the author. Neither of us could find a likeness. He pointed to where the mural ended & said “Maybe they could add him on the side or something.” He pointed to the stairway, then turned towards his post. Upstairs, I was greeted by the collections librarian & shown to a table where a red paper folder with the author’s name was already set out in front of a chair at a long table. She opened it to pull out a program from one of the festivals for the author, saying, “I have a copy of this one at home.” She left me with the folder & sat at a microfilm scanner next to chatty denim culottes at another microfilm scanner who scrolled while talking about her dog constantly barking. The librarian responded about her own dog, how calm it is & never leaves her side. In the folder, there were Xeroxes about the author: birth certificate, parents obituaries, a newspaper article with their high school teacher, the author’s obit, folded-up posters & a program from the final, second festival in their name. Last, a flyer from the county art gallery where, decades ago, there was an exhibition of illustrations the author had made towards the end of his life. The culottes had moved on to the topic of general animal behavior when I closed the folder. The collections librarian told me that the librarian from downstairs called her to pass on that the county gallery opened at noon — that they might have some of the author's pieces in their permanent collection. She had an air of natural kindness about her. I wondered if she & the platinum librarian were friends — if they ever met together outside of the library — if they talked in personal ways, discussed sideline passions. Imagining one sitting peacefully with a dog at her feet & the other quietly seething alone at a kitchen table, I wished a neutralizing connection of some kind for the two — or maybe not . . .
It was 10:30. The gallery didn’t open until noon. Still too early to get a hot dog, I decided to follow the librarian’s map & meander to the penciled circle. The small street, lined with nearly identical small houses from the twenties, was about three blocks long total then dead-ended. I drove along slowly & then back to the main intersection to take a picture of the street sign. Heading loosely toward the gallery, I pulled over at a random Salvation Army along the way to kill time & found a velvet clown painting. $15. It was a close call, circling back to it a few times in deliberation, but I somehow left without it — tentative from anticipation. I parked in the downtown square with a half hour still left to kill & looked at the map — seven-plus hours to the next stop. I wondered if I should just leave & come back to the gallery another day & maybe drop by & say Hi to the librarians. I decided to just wait on the sidewalk in front the gallery. A window display showed an arrangement of pottery-making items, set up kinda messy like someone was in the throws of pottering. A painted pane advertised classes. Past the glass door entrance, the lights were off. Outside, on a sidewalk planter, gray sweats with hair pinned back tight sat with a plastic bag mostly covering a sort of baking tray of something. Seeing me, she said “They're not open yet.” I asked if there was a permanent show of the author at the gallery. She said she didn't know about that — that she comes for the free pottery class. She patted the plastic bag with a blurred thumb web tat & said she loves it — “a new thing” she discovered recently. I stood back to look at the upper-story windows & wondered if maybe that's where the permanent collection would be. The woman said “I wish they would put benches out here,” got up & looked into the doorway, then sat back down on the planter. Noon. A multi-scarfed curation in muslin glided up from around a corner, turned to the gallery door & punched in a security code under a flashing red light. Once inside, the door locked behind. From the sidewalk, I saw that inside lights were being turned on, a section at a time. The planter potter said “That red light is still flashing. She'd better deactivate the alarm or the cops’ll come,” then stood up with the plastic bag tray & headed towards the door as it was being opened. She walked in & said without stopping, “He's looking for a collection or something,” then sped up like she was late. I explained that I’d heard about a collection of the author's artwork that they might have. She spoke with an inflection that somehow matched the scarves & said the illustrations were in storage, in the basement — that perhaps if I called & talked to the gallery director, that maybe I could arrange to see some of them. She gave me a postcard with the gallery website. I had a daydream of inviting the librarians.
12:15 in the parking lot of the hot dog restaurant — many people parking & walking in & out. I entered & studied the menu sign hanging above the cashiers waiting to take orders. There were many dog options & french fry variations. I looked around at everyone who seemed to know the routine. The cashier smiled & said “It's okay. Take your time,” & suggested the local favorite with sauce & cheese. I went to wash my hands before eating behind the wheel. When I returned, the lunch crowd was pulsing in orderly patterns. The cashier walked out of the throng holding out my bag, smiled & said “I was looking for you.”
"Throws of pottering" - nice.
Just love this series...