I wish I could recall more of the stories I brought back
from road trips years ago. Recently
someone did remind me of this story.
The last several years of my career I was at a show in Bay
Harbor, Michigan, near Charlevoix and Petoskey, on Lake Michigan. Summer homes, summer play land. Old cottages, restored Victorians, new
mansions. So many walls to decorate.
Ann came to this show with me a couple of years. She always wanted to take the ferry across
from Wisconsin, but practicality won out and she flew into Cleveland. I recall I did drop her at the Gerald Ford
International airport in Grand Rapids to send her home.
The exhibitors were set up back to back down the main street
of the town, from the beginning of town to the docks on the bay. A long, long show. I was the first booth at the beginning of
town, right in front of a restaurant with beautiful breakfasts!
I never arrived to set up this show before seven of a
beautiful June Friday evening; it was one of my longer drives. Every year I was there the same artist was in
booth number two. She was an artist. Her watercolors were large, translucent,
flowers, reminiscent of Georgia O’Keefe.
She was a tiny slip of an oriental girl, accompanied by a handsome young
American. He dressed in crisp khaki and open throated Brooks Brothers. She
dressed like an artist.
Their relationship was unknown. Ann and I called him The Agent. He set up the
booth, hung the work. The artist sat all
day in her director’s chair, in front of the restaurant. Wealthy summer residents who looked at her
work were escorted from picture to picture by The Agent, and eventually would
be escorted to the artist for an introduction.
It was too pretentious for a summer outdoor art show where all the
artists knew each other. These two made
no effort. The artist would return
pleasantries with anyone who stopped by her chair—until The Agent cut between.
The last year Ann and I were there, the artist and The Agent
had not set up when we arrived or by the time we left in the evening. Early Saturday morning their canopy and
display were up when we arrived, the art hung.
There was an attempt to hang art outside, in the space between our
booths, but there was very little room.
The Agent accosted me as soon as Ann and I appeared. “I wanted you to set up your booth closer to
the other line!” he said at once. “I
want you to move it.”
No professional booth can be moved on demand. The display is integral to the canopy; the
weight is enormous, it takes several hours to set up. It ain’t going to happen. And, I was set up perfectly within my
marks. And, I do not read minds, or I
might have accommodated him the previous evening. “Oh, Ann, I believe The Agent might want to
use part of my booth space for his display; let’s set up farther into the
intersection.” Right.
The Agent was surly and rude toward us for the entire day
Saturday. He even kicked my tool box and
broke the latch. The artist just sat in
her director’s chair and was the artist.
The next morning, at breakfast with a bunch of us, the
artist’s work came up. A lot of art was
represented at this show and other artists agreed her work was exceptional, she
would be important some day. Of course
The Agent came under discussion, too, and his place in the artist’s life was speculated. “What’s his name?” someone said to me. “Dick,”
I responded at once. Ann is so polite
she spit none of her food on her plate.
The show was very busy on Sunday, too. Neither Ann nor I left the booth except for a
restroom, and then it was four o’clock, we packed up and left. I saw artists from that show at other shows,
and the experience with the artist and The Agent was strange enough to be
discussed. The consensus was she needed
to be rid of him, Dick held her back. I agreed
with that. I never said I didn’t know
his name.
Mt. Gretna Outdoor Art Show
.jpg)
.jpg)
