RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,285
(the original Breck Girl)
One of my many Small World Mornings,
I met the original 1967 Breck Girl : The
young, then, model, blond and beautiful,
who used to be on magazines everywhere.
It was all accidental. There was an immediate
attraction, both ways. I'd seen her around,
even knew where she lived, from passing it
just about daily. On Chestnut, next to Pine.
We got to know one another a little bit. Don't
go jumping to conclusions, it all stayed proper,
though it certainly didn't have to. She had her
own little groups, morning coffee-klatch types,
so we often mingled. While I knew her, as well,
she went through losing a large dog, which she
had walked every morning, and how this all
started. She said it died in a very short period
after cancer was detected. She mourned, and
then replaced it with a happy, little, tiny by
comparison, lapdog. Meh; but I was happy
for her. She had lots of money, lived with an
also fetching female roommate in the house.
It was a very stately looking, small, colonial
and historic house at the Nassau St. end of
Chestnut. She liked the porch, and was often
sitting out there. We talked often, she liked
my art - which was hanging ( or so 16
pieces), all properly framed and designated
(though not 'curated') and which hung on
the bookstore walls as the store's 'decor,'
4I guess you could say. She'd stroll through
and look at them, and once promised me a
local show, a hanging, in town, of which,
of course, nothing ever came. Though I
did get a lucky break, which I later
regretted. More on that in a minute, but
here to the woman I'm speaking of. I'm
not using a name, though I know it, nor
am I following up on her present and near
past. Suffice it to say, she was wonderful
then and, I'm sure, and I hope, she still is.
She had career money, from the 1960's,
and must have made a bunch.
-
My paintings were hanging all over Labyrinth;
which gesture I really appreciated and was
thankful for. They were very nice to me for
allowing that. I'd never thought about selling,
nor even pricing them. One day three visitors
to Princeton came strolling in. A professional
sort of guy, and his wife, from Beijing, China.
The third person was the guy's sister, from
some oil company in Dallas, Texas. I got
buzzed on the phone, downstairs, and was
asked to come upstairs, to meet these people
who were interested in my paintings. The
two from China spoke not a word of English,
but the sister from Dallas spoke English and
Chinese, perfectly, and acted as translator and
moderator. They were very serious about my
work, and wanted to buy 12 of them, there
and then, off the walls. I walked them around,
and we got to the downstairs area once more,
and we sat down to further this idea. I was
confused, and had some trepidation. The guy
was a bit bizarre - he thought the paintings
were superlative, and was even weird enough
to ask me why he did not know my name,
from in the 'art world' of famed names.
This as a guy who couldn't speak a word
of English (if that was true). He was pushy.
He was adamant. He and his wife asked me
to come up with a price, one big price, there
and then, and add shipping costs to the total,
to Dallas. (He wanted me to pack everything
up and ship it to his sisters address at the oil
company, UPS, insured and documented).
-
Of course, I was flabbergasted. I asked for two
hours, to figure out the packing and the shipping,
and the price I wanted. They said OK, they'd
come back, fully prepared to deal. The other
bookstore people with whom I worked were as
flabbergasted as I was, offering congratulations
and encouragement. That was just as weird.
I felt that the entire, ridiculous spotlight had
been pointed to me, because of some weird
Chinese guy and his sister and wife who had
blown in. I was able to do all the packing and
shipping myself, and with the UPS computer
able to fairly guesstimate weights and shipping.
Gruesomely, I came up with a number for the
entire deal. To me, it was a large number, in
two parts. Paintings. And packing and shipping.
The other thing, believe this, was the pain I
was feeling in having to part with these. They'd
all always been dear to me, I saw them every
day, and I treasured them. Reluctantly, I decided
to do it. When they came back, I gingerly gave
them the price, and I asked for at least two weeks
before processing the packing and shipping, as
I knew I'd need time. It was to be tedious.
My dollar figures seemed bizarre to me, even
in just saying them. The Chinese goons accepted!
The Dallas sister wrote me a check, on some
oil company. (As soon as they left I went down
the street and deposited it at the bank. I wasn't
going to do a thing until I knew it cleared).
-
I related this tale to a Princeton friend the next
morning, and he said, 'Even if you only sold
two, just think, you've already sold more than
van Gogh did in his entire life.' (I didn't know
if that was true or not, but I didn't quibble).
The check cleared. I did all the packing and
shipping. And then. And then. Regrets.
-
Someone told me that I'd made a big mistake;
that there were entire villages in China, villages
of artists who spend all their time copying and
reproducing foreign paintings, crediting no one
or no thing, and that big stores, worldwide, buy
these after cheaply printed reproductions are
made and framed, as house-furnishings. He said
not to be surprised if someday I see my work
being sold in a painting-decor bin at Walmart
probably for $18.95 each. Talk about the air
going out of my bubble. I wanted to die. To
date, and many years later now, I've not yet
seen my own work for sale anywhere. This
guy made me feel like I was selling my own
babies for some gruesome loss in a baby-mill.
I even though about, a la van Gogh, cutting
off my ear. The money - don't get me wrong -
was a stunning bonus, and out of the blue,
but I felt, again, suckered. I've since sold
maybe 15 more paintings and drawings,
and now I don't even think twice on it.
-
One time, driving in, I saw a deer get hit on
some secondary road off of Rt. One. It was
pretty gruesome, and it didn't die, which
made it worse. A cop, on morning patrol,
pulled over, and I watched as he took his
pistol out and shot the poor deer in the
head. I saw a few accidents, gas station
altercations (during one of those gas-crisis
and high price shortage situations), and
enough aggressive-driving assholes to
piss me off for a lifetime. I often brought
my dog, when driving, to work with me;
going early, as I did., we'd always stop
along the Rt. 27 way, at the canal, or the
lake. Sam my dog, loved all that stuff, and
water too. She'd always, even in the cold,
take advantage, and all day, in the store, she
was real good and stayed around curled up
or sleeping near to me. Everyone loved her.
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