The Hemingway Portrait
I went up to Winston-Salem last Saturday to an antiques show. The show is out at the Dixie Classic Fairgrounds, in a building that seems to serve as an ice-skating rink, and another sort of convention hall building. There aren't all that many dealers, but usually I find a few things. Of course, I was mostly looking for photographs, but I'll buy something else if I like it and the price is right. The fairground is right near where my mother is living now, so I could (metaphorically) kill two birds with one stone. Always nice, that.
So I bought a few photographs. I hate to say that I have lost the avidity that used to attend my hunts for photographs. I've seen so many that perhaps it takes a bit more to get me going. Anyway, I bought a few things. You'll see some of them. Nothing all that special. Maybe a few amusements for some of my girls. A laugh or two. Nothing that has me turning flip-flops.
Walking in the second building, in the middle row of aisles (there were only three rows in each building), I saw this dealer who had some paintings laid out. I think the Hemingway was the first thing I saw. It was right out in the open, on the floor, leaning against some other paintings. Somebody could have kicked it, and damaged it, quite easily. I didn't hesitate. "How much do you want for Hemingway?" I said. I mean, that's the first thing you notice about the painting. There is no question who it is---it is an exceedingly fine representation of the man. You don't look at it and say "Well, maybe it's Hemingway, but it might be Faulkner. Or John O'Hara or somebody." No, boom, Hemingway. There is a confidence of presentation in the portrait. "I know Hemingway," the artist seems to say. "This is Hemingway."
"Oh, maybe 450," I think the dealer said. "Maybe 400 dollars." I didn't react. I didn't look at the guy. I didn't say anything. He had long hair tied at the back with a rubber band. It would have been hippie hair, but now it had turned silver, solid silver. An ex-hippie who now listens to classical music, maybe. I liked the guy. He didn't even pause. I had never said a word. "I'll take 300 dollars," he said.
I hadn't even bothered to pick the painting up. You know, or you don't know. I hate that dangling crapola. "I'll buy it at that price," I said. I might have picked it up and looked a little more closely at that point. It has a bit of damage, to the left of the top of the head, at the base of that stub of mountain sticking up. I think that was there, but I don't remember seeing it. It's not very noticeable. I mean, you can almost see it as more of the mountain. A fissure.
I told the dealer that I needed to pay for the painting the next day, because I had to get my check book.
I walked around, thinking about having to come back the next day (I had left my checkbook in Concord).
Finally I realized I could just go to the nearest Bank of America and get the money out of my account. I went and saw my mother, got on a computer and figured out where the B of A was, got the money, drove back to the show, and paid for the painting. Oh, I forgot to mention that I walked right in to the show without paying. The woman who was supposed to be checking to see if you had your ticket was looking the other way, and I just walked right past her. I wasn't even sure I was supposed to pay. When I left to go out, she gave me a handstamp to verify that I had paid, so I could get back in. I believe that that was God talking to me, saying, "Today is the day you must buy this painting. This is your sign, this little bit of whipped cream."
I suppose I should add that I carried the painting around in the building for a while after that. That was really not too bright. I'd imagine I was bragging, showing-off. I wanted people to see it. I wanted them to be thinking, "Why didn't I buy that? It was lying right out there the whole time. I could have had it, and now he's got it.": You could see people trying to look, trying to see what painting I had bought. There weren't a lot of paintings selling. They probably were thinking I had paid a lot of money for it.
All right, well, eventually I left. I took the painting over and showed it to my mother, and brought it home. Here it is.
The Hemingway Portrait
I went up to Winston-Salem last Saturday to an antiques show. The show is out at the Dixie Classic Fairgrounds, in a building that seems to serve as an ice-skating rink, and another sort of convention hall building. There aren't all that many dealers, but usually I find a few things. Of course, I was mostly looking for photographs, but I'll buy something else if I like it and the price is right. The fairground is right near where my mother is living now, so I could (metaphorically) kill two birds with one stone. Always nice, that.
So I bought a few photographs. I hate to say that I have lost the avidity that used to attend my hunts for photographs. I've seen so many that perhaps it takes a bit more to get me going. Anyway, I bought a few things. You'll see some of them. Nothing all that special. Maybe a few amusements for some of my girls. A laugh or two. Nothing that has me turning flip-flops.
Walking in the second building, in the middle row of aisles (there were only three rows in each building), I saw this dealer who had some paintings laid out. I think the Hemingway was the first thing I saw. It was right out in the open, on the floor, leaning against some other paintings. Somebody could have kicked it, and damaged it, quite easily. I didn't hesitate. "How much do you want for Hemingway?" I said. I mean, that's the first thing you notice about the painting. There is no question who it is---it is an exceedingly fine representation of the man. You don't look at it and say "Well, maybe it's Hemingway, but it might be Faulkner. Or John O'Hara or somebody." No, boom, Hemingway. There is a confidence of presentation in the portrait. "I know Hemingway," the artist seems to say. "This is Hemingway."
"Oh, maybe 450," I think the dealer said. "Maybe 400 dollars." I didn't react. I didn't look at the guy. I didn't say anything. He had long hair tied at the back with a rubber band. It would have been hippie hair, but now it had turned silver, solid silver. An ex-hippie who now listens to classical music, maybe. I liked the guy. He didn't even pause. I had never said a word. "I'll take 300 dollars," he said.
I hadn't even bothered to pick the painting up. You know, or you don't know. I hate that dangling crapola. "I'll buy it at that price," I said. I might have picked it up and looked a little more closely at that point. It has a bit of damage, to the left of the top of the head, at the base of that stub of mountain sticking up. I think that was there, but I don't remember seeing it. It's not very noticeable. I mean, you can almost see it as more of the mountain. A fissure.
I told the dealer that I needed to pay for the painting the next day, because I had to get my check book.
I walked around, thinking about having to come back the next day (I had left my checkbook in Concord).
Finally I realized I could just go to the nearest Bank of America and get the money out of my account. I went and saw my mother, got on a computer and figured out where the B of A was, got the money, drove back to the show, and paid for the painting. Oh, I forgot to mention that I walked right in to the show without paying. The woman who was supposed to be checking to see if you had your ticket was looking the other way, and I just walked right past her. I wasn't even sure I was supposed to pay. When I left to go out, she gave me a handstamp to verify that I had paid, so I could get back in. I believe that that was God talking to me, saying, "Today is the day you must buy this painting. This is your sign, this little bit of whipped cream."
I suppose I should add that I carried the painting around in the building for a while after that. That was really not too bright. I'd imagine I was bragging, showing-off. I wanted people to see it. I wanted them to be thinking, "Why didn't I buy that? It was lying right out there the whole time. I could have had it, and now he's got it.": You could see people trying to look, trying to see what painting I had bought. There weren't a lot of paintings selling. They probably were thinking I had paid a lot of money for it.
All right, well, eventually I left. I took the painting over and showed it to my mother, and brought it home. Here it is.