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True story, although my memory may have a couple of details confused.
A Gym Full of Art
I’ve never liked sitting still or being confined for too long. When I lived in the big city I spent hours walking the streets each week, going to and from work and other destinations, seeing the sights, trying to think, or sometimes perhaps trying not to. I walked in all kinds of weather. Like a mailman, I let neither rain, nor snow, nor sleet stop me. If it was cold I bundled up; if it was wet I put on my bulky, not very stylish boots and opened my big umbrella.
One rainy fall Friday evening I was feeling down. The dreary weather did not help; there were other reasons as well. I had to get outside for awhile. So I gathered up boots and umbrella and stepped out into the wet.
The rain fell steadily at somewhat less than an all-out downpour. Water dripped from every set of eaves and gurgled down every drain pipe. The tree trunks were damp and black. The gutters between street and sidewalk ran like little rivers. The section of street down which I walked had few residences and no businesses that operated outside of normal hours. The glare of the streetlights did not reveal another soul. The temperature was cool. I felt even colder.
I passed by the columned façade of the large and impressive private school that sat some blocks from where I lived. Ordinarily the windows were all dark at this time of evening. This evening was different. This time I could see plenty of lights on one end of the building. I glimpsed cars in the nearby parking garage.
In recent days I had noticed signs advertising some kind of art show at the school. I had supposed that it was a well-publicized student art exhibit and paid the signs little attention. Since the school placed no particular emphasis on art, I figured the show would consist of ordinary juvenile efforts. Now, as I stood outside in the cold and the rain, those lights held an irresistible lure. I decided to go in and see what was happening.
Signs led me upstairs to the building’s old indoor gym. What I saw as I entered it startled me. The gym had been divided into aisles using partitions and tables. Up and down these aisles and along the walls hung hundreds of paintings. They were not the work of school children. These were professional-quality works. What I had come across was a unique fundraiser, a full-fledged art show for the benefit of the school.
There were dozens of people moving along the aisles. I did not know any of them, and did not really meet any that evening. My eyes were on the art. There was a variety of styles, media, and subject matter. Some artists displayed street scenes from Memphis and New Orleans and other cities in the United States and overseas. There were still lifes. One artist had paintings of family and church gatherings in a lovely and slightly primitive style.
There were landscapes—my personal favorites. One particularly big and impressive oil landscape depicted a view of a handsome estate in France. I found myself drawn back to it several times as I browsed. I must have spent several minutes altogether staring at it, wishing that I could somehow buy it, or at least create an exact and indelible image of it in my mind to take with me. I could not buy it, of course. This was an original work by a professional artist. The laborer is worthy of his hire, and only people wealthier than I can afford to pay a really good artist what he or she is worth.
The exhibit did not consist entirely of paintings. There were also ceramics, works in colored glass, and a bit of sculpture. One artist had produced upholstered chairs on which were painted copies of well-known works by various artists. In particular I can recall one with a Modigliani portrait.
I don’t remember how long I stayed. It was long enough to forget the cold and soggy evening outside. I forgot some of my problems too for a little while. The works on display were not avant garde efforts. They did not seek to challenge or provoke or shock. They were beautiful and enjoyable to see. I appreciated that. The world has no shortage of ugly things to look at. There is little point in creative minds spending their time creating new forms of ugliness.
When I had browsed enough, I stepped out back into the rain, my spirits lifted. The next day I visited again and caught more glimpses of the art on display. I noticed some things I had missed and looked again at what I had enjoyed already.
The art show turned out to be an annual event. For the next several years that I lived in the city I made sure to visit the show when it came through. I looked forward to it. There was always something well worth seeing. Since I could not afford to buy anything, my presence did not do the school’s fundraising efforts any good. I’m glad they let me in anyway.
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The kingdom of heaven is like a merchant seeking fine pearls who, when he found an especially costly one, sold everything he had to buy it.
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