Lend me your ears

from Idols

Through falling snow, and past The Eternal Presence, we walked up the steps of Abbotsford, the Roxbury puddingstone-built mansion housing the National Center of Afro-American Artists, and found within the open doors, the lights out.

The caretaker, a bearded man with tall knit hat over a Rasta hairdo, seemed taken by surprise, and perhaps a little miffed at our being there. An ancient Nubian tomb, some rooms with assorted pictures, including at large oil by Robert Freeman, whom we'd known years ago, and a show of collages by Renee Westbrook entitled 'Idols in the Mirror: Postcards from the Scene of the Crime,' on the theme of colonial exploitation.

But, having made the circuit and strolling into the lobby, I fell into conversation with you, caretaker, member of  the museum's umbrella organization, and artist in your own right. Rather I fell into listening as you told me about the place the projects, the history of The Eternal Presence, the huge Olmec-inspired bust erupting out of the grounds, the neighborhood and its freedom from natural disasters, 'reform' as a diguise for revolution, the essential creativity of people as expressed in kids, and his daughter in particular, and on and on.

'The Eternal Presence'

I turned this way as if to go, that way to fetch my wife but you wouldn't let me go. Your eye grew brighter and your voice more excited, your hands more expressive on the counter behind which you sat. It was interesting to learn that John Wilson the sculptor of the Presence worked on it for 20 years until his daughter brought home a friend whose face was what he wanted to depict. Patience is the lesson, alert waiting.

And my daughter, you said, when young had painted a picture of a woman identical to one made by her cousin, and they'd worked independently, and 'Let me show you,' as you took me through a door downstairs to where some framed artwork hung on the walls. 'This is my stuff,' you said, 'but that is the picture my daughter made,' a large headed red haired figure.


Then you let me out the basement door and said, pointing to a large head made of welded strips next to the side of jthe building, 'That's mine also.'  Even outside in the snow, the rust red work was striking.

How we need listeners. You had a lot to say, and the stream of it was stronger and more authoritative as time past. How long had it been in you waiting expression? Nobody likes being cornered by a talker, but don't I have things to say I haven't yet found audience for?  Haven't I sometimes apologized to some stunned listeners for being so enthusiastically voluble?  Where was I going that I couldn't arrive a few minutes later and give you the difference?

Lend me your ears, is all we ask. At the end, I was happy to give you mine.