11,884. RUDIMENTS, pt. 737

RUDIMENTS, pt. 737

(here's how we roll)

So, to take a little side

breather here, I'll relate

a true tale. The year is 

1982. I know a cute little

rich girl from New Canaan

Connecticut; New Canaan

Falls anyway  -  tony enclave

of wealth, exquisite homes,

educated, tasteful people.

All good, no problems. I

won't use names because

she's still around today,

successful and happy, 

running an art gallery 

there, of her very own.

She had one of those 

lineage names  -  three

names, hyphenated, one

of them the same name as

a past President, etc. Blue

blood, higher class, however

it's called, in a country where

that doesn't exist. No class

or caste here. Went visiting

there once, met her brother 

and some friends. They're all 

gung-ho on college sports,

talking it up, basketball or

football, I forget. All I keep

hearing is 'Yukon' this, 

'Yukon' that, rah-rah-rah.

I'm sitting there wondering

why in the world are these guys

guys all worked up about a 

college team from Alaska?

Stupid me. I realize later they

mean U. Conn. The local team,

University of Connecticut. I

never let on about my stupidity,

and got away with it.

-

She's working in an art-design

place, and she takes me there  -  

to see the place, on an off-day,

look at her work, see the other

items, sit around, talk, etc. We

had some food she'd prepared 

there. I was impressed. (I know

what you're waiting for, but, no,

nothing of that nature occurred).

The long day comes to an end.

All good. Oh, I should mention,

too, another lower-class stupidity

on my part. While driving there

on the Connecticut Turnpike,

there's a monstrous dead dog

in my lane, the fast lane. I was

hemmed in, so I decided to stay

steady and go OVER the dog,

figuring the vehicle would be

high enough to pass over it.

Wrong! Suddenly, at 65mph

I'm dragging along a huge 

dead dog, one that I didn't 

hit. Horrible and gruesome.

Not knowing what to do, I

slowed some, so as to get

over to the right and pull off, and

do something. That manuever,

fortunately, I guess, dislodged

the dead dog, which stayed on 

the roadway. I still had no

clue what to do, or what my

undercarriage looked like, but

I just kept rolling along. Once

I got there, and checked, there

really was little evidence of the

episode. I was picturing: 'Oh,

Jane, hello, your friend's here.

He just pulled in, in a car dripping

blood and pulp-matter.' Jane's

NOT the real name.

-

A week or so later she says to me,

'My brother and his wife are going

to Bermuda for 10 days. Would you

like to apartment sit their place,

watch the cat, water the plants?

It was a nice apartment, with

rooftop privileges too, on east

58th, 2nd Ave or whatever it

is over there by the Roosevelt

Island Tramway. Not a doorman

deal, but really nice. A Bentley

dealership on the ground floor,

and a few other fancy car dealers,

Jaguar, Ferrari, etc. I said sure.

She said OK, bring Kathy and

Jay too  -  make a week of it.

So, we did, It all worked out

great. 

-

One day we're going to an

art exhibit, in the east side gallery

areas, I can't recall where. The

artist is Joseph Cornell, who sort

of was famous from the 1930's 

and so for his strange, eccentric,

shadow box type constructions.

Not often exhibited, it was a very

nice show of about 20 pieces. My

son's smallish bicycle, we'd chained

outside, to a meter. Upon exiting the

show, I bend over to unlock the

bike and I notice in the garbage  -  a

fabric bag, with handles, is there.

Banana peels, parts of a sandwich,

a plastic wrapper, etc. And what

sure looks to be like a Cornell Box

around which all this trash had landed.

Without missing a beat, or saying a

word, I finish with the bike, grab the

handle bag, and say 'Let's go. Just

keep walking, into the park.' My

wife was onto this by then too,

having pretty much seen what 

I'd seen. We get into the deeper 

middle of the park, sit on the 

grass, and begin going through 

the bag, separating the trash and 

stuff, and throwing all that into the

nearby can. We're left, definitely,

with a Cornell Box. In the whole 

world, art world and all, there are, 

maybe (I guess at this) 500 tops; 

they're scarce and valued. When

I say 'valued' I mean in Art terms,

like using millions instead of

hundreds. We get back to the

apartment. Closer inspection  - 

the signature, etc. It's a fairly

trashed Cornell Box. We put it

aside, I call my artist friend, Jeff,

up, from w87th. He comes right

over, declaims it authentic too,

asks to hear the story again, and

goes into his deep, strong, 'Holy

fucking shit!' raves. 

-

Eventually we get it home with 

us, at the end of the stay. I make

a few cursory repairs to it, with

care. And it sits on our mantle,

yes, for the next 16 years. About

1997, feeling my oats, and feeling

that time enough had passed, I

place a small 100-dollar box-ad

in the NYTimes Art Section. It

was a dare, and anything could

have happened. One gallery guy,

in San Francisco calls me. We talk,

and arrangements are made for

me to meet his agent and an expert

and buyer and appraiser. He asks

a million questions. In the art

world the most important thing is 

'Provenance'  -  for any piece

of artwork : who has owned it, 

where's it been shown, where is it

kept, documentation, exhibit

and loan history, sales and resales,

all that. He wanted to know (in

person now, I met them all at

some art-apartment place in the

e 80's). How had I come by this

art-piece by Cornell? I lamely

said that when my grandmother

had died it 'came to me as one

of her possessions.' Oh, really?

'Yes.' Cornell lived his entire life

on Utopia Parkway, in Queens.

Same age group as my grandmother,

who basically was Bayonne in 

adult life, and Asbury Park as 

a kid. (My mother's mother, this

is). 'Perhaps she would have

known Joseph Cornell? He'd

given it to her?'  -  normal question,

but I said I had no clue, just that

for the last 20 years it had been

nowhere but on my mantle. OK.

Then the Cornell expert pipes up.

Apparently everything I had done

to this broken-up box was wrong,

and detracted from it. I'd replaced

the glass front  -  wrong sort of

glass, not old, today's thin, shinier

glass. My touch-ups of white paint

were all wrong, mis-hued, errant.

It was missing some moldings,

the sand used inside the wine

goblet in it was terrible sand;

normal beach sand, not right

at all. It just went on. This guy

knew what years Cornell used

what moldings (he'd buy scrap

molding from demolition sites),

and so what periods they matched.

He knew the tints and colors of

the varied style-changes and eras.
He knew the little nails Cornell
used. He saw the stains and dirt.

My box, he said, while quite

authentic, and with the correct

signature on the rear tape panel,

had been essentially tortured and

mangled. Only a ghost of the

original. However, they'd offer

to buy it from me, no further

questions, and do  -  eventually  -

perhaps, a full restoration, for

future exhibiting  -  if it could be

found to fit in his oeuvre. How 

much, by the way, was I looking 

to get for this ('worthless piece of

undocumented crap with a bullshit

story attached')? They had not

said that, but they may as well

have. Realizing I may have cooked

my own goose, and with the San

Francisco collector guy too, on the

video-conference screen (rare, I

thought, for 1997; pretty fancy),

and that I'd started from zero, on

a possibly troublesome, stolen,

or otherwise marked object, I then

blurted out, 'well, ah, twenty-thousand?'

They all moved aside, went to the

video screen, had their little confab,

while the expert begins talking to

me, or keeping me busy so as not

to hear them, whatever. He said

he was startled when I first walked

in (as crazy-looking, hairy, intense,

as I was) and then said that he also

was a seer and a visionary and that

(don't laugh; this is all true) when

he saw me he immediately realized

that I was a reincarnation of Mad King

Ludwig of Bavaria. And that he saw

me, on horseback, leading very many

men over a field of battle, charging

onward, with many followers and
faithful. (I had to look this Ludwig

guy up later). I said 'Yeah, well, yeah,

OK.....blah, blah.' By this time, even

MY palms were sweaty; I'm sitting

here next to a nut? They came back.

'We can give ten thousand dollars, 

right now, or nothing at all.' God's

honest truth. I said, OK, on the

condition that when and if this is

ever restored and exhibited, my 

wife can see it and be given an

exhibit schedule of its movement.

(Sort of like a reverse Provenance

by my own insistence. I was so

clever). They said sure, sure.

To this day, I remain haunted  -

was this all random numbers

in their game? If I had said

80,000, would they have 

simply offered half, at 40?

Guess I'll never know.

-

I thought of demanding cash, but

took instead their business check,

some business cards, their arty

brochure, and took my leave. I've

never heard from them again.