Page 5 - Demo

was in third grade when I came home from school and found an envelope addressed to me and my twin sister, Lee. It was sitting there, waiting, on an upholstered side chair in the living room. This was unprecedented. The two of us had never gotten mail before, except for a few insipid issues of Jack and Jill magazine. One of us opened it and found a birthday card%u2014but not just any birthday card. This one had been hand-drawn by the top artist at the Detroit Free Press.On the front of the many-folded card was the head and front legs of a black dachshund. As the card was opened, it kept unfolding so the dog%u2019s body continued to extend until the very last fold%u2014which depicted the back legs and tail. Apparently, the artist was told of our own dog, Fritzi, a miniature dachshund. I soon forgot what it said%u2014beyond %u201cHappy Birthday%u201d%u2014as well as the creator%u2019s name. But, I%u2019ve always remembered those extraordinarily confident ink and pencil lines that conveyed his very own original idea onto paper. I also treasured the unexpected fun and humor of it all. I was absolutely captivated by that card. Fun and humor were nearly nonexistent in my home. So, this moment of pure joy imprinted itself on me. Because of that simple, small, handmade creation, I knew that, somehow, my life would revolve around art. I knew that art offered an alternative possibility to the harsh, unrelenting, negative rigidity of my dysfunctional family life.As I grew older, there were a handful of other art-related influences that were just as profound. Such as the few family visits to the home of Kay and Howard in neighboring Detroit. Their house sat in the integrated, once grand, but now increasingly faded, residential area known as Indian Village. Paying someone a visit might be common in many families but, in ours, going to someone%u2019s house was as rare and remarkable as receiving that birthday card in the mail. In fact, it was this very same middle-aged couple that had mailed that wonderful card. Kay was the Food Editor for the Detroit Free Press. She was a truly talented writer, but she thoroughly disliked cooking. Not only that, she didn%u2019t enjoy eating either. But, her vast readership probably never suspected it. She knew our birthday card%u2019s artist quite well, and his lyrical drawings sometimes accompanied her columns. He also illustrated a cookbook she assembled of recipes from her columns. Kay%u2019s husband, Howard, had been a renowned guitarist with several famous big bands, but his musical career had ended with the passing of that era. So, he had recently accepted a salesman%u2019s job at the Frank C. Teal Electric Co. The Detroit firm was a wholesale distributor of electric motors, lighting, and other equipment to the Big-Three auto plants and their suppliers. By then, my father had worked at Teal as a salesman for several years.These two gentle, arty, free thinking, open-minded, pretention-free, unprejudiced Bohemians were the polar opposite of my parents. If my mother and father had met anyone other than Kay and Howard with any of these character traits, they would have found them appalling. What the two couples did have in common was a love of cocktails. My father taught Howard about industrial electrical goods and how to sell them. He was also the handyman who repaired and built things Howard couldn%u2019t do for himself. In return, my parents got two noncompeting, non-threatening friends who gave them the opportunity to rub shoulders with local TV, radio, music, and newspaper celebrities. From the outside, Howard and Kay%u2019s house was not particularly memorable. It was a large blocky, 2-story home, on a very small lot, perhaps built around 1920, in a nondescript style. But inside, it was very special. Hanging over the living room sofa was a mesmerizing oil painting of a black trumpet player. I found the pose striking, and the reds, browns and other dramatic hues deep and rich. In some ways, it was reminiscent of Picasso%u2019s The Old Guitarist%u2014which I learned about many years later in an art-history course%u2014but this was more earthylooking, with far more intense colors. They said they%u2019d just recently purchased the beautifully framed painting from a local gallery. It was the first time I%u2019d heard of buying art at a gallery. Actually, it was one of first real oil paintings I%u2019d ever seen and, for sure, it was the only one that left a lasting impression with me.Below, and to each side of the compelling trumpeter, hand-made ceramic lamps sat on matching end tables. Each featured striking gray horses, done in a Stone Age, cave-art style, prancing across a bold turquoise background. The shape of the clay bases, imaginative design, exquisite drawing, and glazing, compelled me to stare at them. Even more intriguing was a wooden display case in the hallway that held a myriad of unique and wonderful little treasures from around the world. I could have examined them for hours. My favorite was a tiny, primitive, grass-andstraw witch doctor, which was likely African or Haitian. It was unlike anything I could have ever dreamt of, and I adored it. There was a strange, powerful presence to it, even though it was small, and crafted from common and fragile materials. There were other art treasures, here and there, that were equally enthralling. Unfortunately, I wasn%u2019t able to examine them in detail, because my sister and I were always shuttled upstairs to watch TV in the dullest room in the house%u2014a