John Henry - Part Ten

John Henry

Part Ten

            “Worth?  I didn’t have to do that.” I said.

            “Yeah but... I mean:  Like, you KNOW.”

            “Ah... no... I didn’t do that.  I just found it.”

            “Didn’t do that?”

            “Check it out.”

            “Yeah... but... COME ON; you KNOW.  I know you.”

“I told ’em about it.  I told the one woman that it was good and she’d have to get it appraised.  I think that means you.  Right?”

            “Well... not right yet.  They sent me some photographs.  I mean; I can see it’s good.  But...  Hey:  You know one of them had taken the painting after you saw it.  Did you know that?”

            “No.  Huh.  I’m all done with that.  With them.  I haven’t heard anything about any of this in a while.”

            “Oh.  Well.  When you told them about the painting none of them knew about it; that it was in there.  So... well... I guess ONE of ‘em knew and had, well, let’s say... taken the painting home.   So when the executor found out about it she couldn’t find the painting.  Then the other ones (heirs) got in on it so NOW they all think they found a great one.  I told ‘em to slow down.  I’ll find out I said.”

            “So you haven’t seen the painting?”

            “No, no... they have it.  They’re gonna bring it back up here I guess.  THAT’S where it came from you know; up here.  So... I have photographs.  I showed them to ***** (well known Portland, Me fine arts gallery/auction firm) and ***** (well known Portland area coastal auctioneer/appraiser.  The painting’s DARK so... I can’t SEE it.  Anyway... it’s coming up here.”

            I noted to myself that both of the mentioned ‘showed them’ were ...buddies... of the appraiser and that the two largest Maine painting appraiser/auctioneers were NOT mentioned.  “Well... that’ll be good I guess.” I said endeavoring to slid away from this conversation.

            “Yeah.  Well.  I told ‘em to get that kind of money they (the estate) will have to do some work.”

            “Work?”

            “You know; CLEANING... a new frame.”

            “Oh.  You told ‘em that?”

            “Well... so far.  I gotta SEE IT I told ‘em.  I think they’ve already shown it to someone.  That one woman knows some dealer or something.  In Massachusetts.  I think.  Could have called ***** (prominent outside of Boston auction company) even.  Or sent them photographs.  You know.”

            I do know... and very well know... that this being the SECOND time in the recent minutes of our chat that the appraiser has mentioned ‘photographs’ of the painting being shown around... I know... that this action spells D-I-S-A-S-T-E-R for... regardless of the status, ownership, information and understanding of and about the painting... the painting is... ‘being shown around’.... ‘in the market’.  (Rule to remember:  NEVER take ...or let anyone take... a photograph of ANY painting one ‘finds’ and plans to ‘sell’ until IT; the painting – ‘it’s about the stuff’ - IS FULLY READY to ‘go to market’.  And then ... maybe don’t take any THEN EITHER; for example... a sale by private treaty assuring ‘unexposed’ state of the painting).  (The best part of that for me?  No one has to believe me because... “don’t worry” “they’ll find out”).  “So... WHO has the painting now?” I said.

            “The estate owns it.  I’ve got to appraise it.  But:  That one woman still has it I think.  And... I think she’s sort of in charge of what’s happening to it.”

            “Oh.  OK.”

            “Yeah, well... I THINK she may just make ‘em SELL IT.  You know.  Like the tractor.  So:  I can’t tell what’s going on.  But.  I’m pretty sure she’s showed it to someone and they told her.”

            “Told her?”

            “What to do or something.  I don’t know.  I’ve never seen her but.  Well.  I got the vibes that she has her own plans.”.

            “Oh I see.  Yeah.  I met her but just nothing.  So... seems to me the executor would be the one making the decisions in the end.”

            “Yeah but she’s listening to this woman.  That’s all she’s got.  I mean.  I haven’t even SEEN the painting.”

            And:  I was mentally configuring the lined-up-monkey-whispering-row of ears: I told the lawyer who... understood what I said... sort of... and had his ‘her’ right it down... sort of... so... sort of... what ever that came to was ...sort of... told to the executor ...sort of (?) and she ...’took it from there’... sort of ...and ‘FOUND” the painting ...sort of ...with the other heirs (the two men with folded arms and their seated wives?) ...sort of... ‘coming alive to this (the painting) too... sort of (?).  A lot of ‘sort of’ to ...sort of... sort.  I concluded.  “Nice of you to try and help.  I guess.” I said.

            “What’s that suppose to mean?”

            “Good luck.”

            “What?”

            “Your not gonna see that painting.”

            “How do you know that?”

            “They don’t think your good enough for that painting.”

            “I don’t like you saying that.”

            “Well they don’t think I’m good enough for it either so that means I CAN say that to you.”

            “No: I’m gonna see it.  They’ll bring it up here.”

            “Want-ta make a bet?

            “It’s coming.  I just talked with ‘em.”

            “Like I said; good luck”.

            “Come on; get off.  Just because your out.”

            “Am I out?”

            “Well.  So... HOW MUCH do you think it’s worth THEN?”

            “I don’t have to say anything about that.”

            “Yes you do.  Tell me.”

            “Nope.  The only time I’ll do anything is if that painting’s in front of me in the hand of the actual owner and has a price on it.  Otherwise; forget it.”

            “So tell me.”

            “You have the painting and it’s for sale?”

            “Not yet.”

            “Call me when you get it.

            “Get it?”

            “AND its for sale.”

            “Ok”

            “Not gonna happen.”

            “Will too.”

            “Send me a photograph.”
            “You don’t have one?”

            “NO.  I know better than that.”

            “You didn’t take any?”

            “NO.  That’s not what I was hired to do:  I don’t tell anyone anything until someone pays me.  Then I only tell ‘em what they paid me to tell ‘em.”

            “How do you get off doing THAT.”

            “Because... I know how much the painting’s worth.”

Table of Contents

The Chimney Cupboard

(thechimneycupboard)

Table of Contents

(Periodically revised and improved)

            This blog is about northern New England antiques and rare books.  It is stories, vignettes and profiles of objects and stories of buying and selling these things.  Most of the featured items, the setting and the stories are about traditional and classic New England antiques and rare books from before the Civil War.

Long Stories (Thirty or more posts)

            “Can” B. Worth (thirty-three posts in three parts)

            --- “Can” B. Worth (twelve posts)

            --- “Can” B. Worth Epilogue (twelve posts)

            --- “Can B. Worth” Feeding the Birds (eleven posts)

            Summer Place (forty-eight posts)

            The Crow’s Nest (forty-four posts in four parts)

            --- The Crow’s Nest (ten posts)

            --- The Crow’s Nest Part Two (nine posts)

            --- The Crow’s Nest Part Three (thirteen posts)

            --- The Crow’s Nest Epilogue Blood Farm (twelve posts)

Midsized Stories (Five to thirty posts)

            A Door Knock (nine posts)

            John Henry (in progress)

            The Oldest House (five posts)

Shortest Stories (Two to five posts)

            Gardiner’s Garden Basket (four posts)

            Peach Pie (four posts)

One Post Stories

            Fox Gets Goose

            Getting In... Writing It Down

            Ice House Ephemera

            “Nope”

            Snowbound (“Privacy of Storm” – Emerson)

Damnation Delights in Details (collection title)

(Short stories about my youngest days as an antiques dealer)

            A Family of Scoundrels (two posts)

            Bee Balm (one post)

            Downtown (five posts)

            Maggie’s Store (eight posts)

            The Codman Place (seven posts)

            The Dead Doll (one post)

            The Horse’s Grave (five posts)

            They Vacuum the Alamo (one post)

Poetry – Dead Mother’s Place (collection title)

            Bunch of Letters in a Desk

            Dead Mother’s Place

            His Two Wells

            Photographic History of Junk Dealing

            They Were In the Attic

            They Were Leaning Against the Wall

            To Time His Last Hours

Information About This Blog

            Getting In.... and Writing It Down

            Table of Contents

            Why Does This Blog Look Like It Does?

(BELOW – incomplete... and being worked on... at this time)

A Rare Maine Book

Tale of the Kennebec

The Lobster Catchers

The Loggers or Six Months in the Forests of Maine

Early Posts

Antiques, Art and Rare Books

            The Saco River Valley (Maine)

Characters

            Baxter

            Ferris Cronkite

            Goody Coffin

            James Hutton

Personal History

            A New England Pictorial Flask

            Mice?  I HATE MICE!

            The Old Antiques Store

John Henry - Part Nine

John Henry

Part Nine

            The ‘zero happened’ of activity and the silence attached to it ended with an ‘out of the blue’ cell phone call from ‘the appraiser’ hired by the estate.  I know him.  He knows me.  We are not buddies.  We are not even ‘professional associates’.  I know this.  He knows this.  His call was indirect and scattered in content and direction.  I was patient with his verbal troop movements.  It became clear that he planned to ‘flank and surround’ me with estate property content ‘happening now’ chatter and then... lance me in the heart about the painting.  I listened to his talk of his toy lead soldier troop movements.

            He ‘had arranged’ the sale (then ‘coming soon’) of the contents of the Maine mansion.  The heirs, through the executor, “are going to have a tag sale and are very pleased”.  It was to be managed (for a single fixed price cost) by a professional ‘team’ who ‘run sales’.  I, making no comment, did note to myself that this ‘team’ and the appraiser were very good friends.  I also reminded myself that I had reported that the contents could ‘go’ as a ‘three day auction’.  To my subtle “No auction?” query the appraiser blanket smothered that option by saying ‘how much the family (heirs) want to buy (“keep”) for themselves.  This “depletes” the contents making an “auction too much”.

To phrase this in its actual meaning:  ‘The heirs want certain things (that they probably assumed they ‘could have’ ‘for free’ but have by now found out –been told by the lawyers through the executor- they actually have to buy-at a fixed ‘value’- and ‘pay that value’ to the estate and/or deducted it from their share ...of the estate-... and:  There is a real lot more stuff in the estate so instead of putting it all out in a rag-tag before the public hammer dropping ‘SOLD’ public price ...war... we will quietly have a quiet ‘estate sale’ “over a long weekend” (Friday, Saturday, Sunday) wherein what the heirs want may be purchased by them “privately” (at steep ‘tagged’ prices) and “the rest”... “sold”... by the sale managers... ‘over the weekend (that actually includes them “letting in ‘good’ (personal contacts) buyers ...as much as a week before AND that “as much as possible will be sold with the rest ‘donated’ (?) so that ...everything... will be gone and the estate empty by ...Sunday afternoon... so the real estate dealer may come on Monday... morning”.  Also, reminds the appraiser, “I have nothing to do with this sale”.  Come Monday morning, after using this estate content sale approach... all of the good stuff (‘it’s about the stuff’) is ...stored in a private warehouse owned by the private parties who ‘purchased’ ‘it’ ‘at the tag sale’.  Of course there is a residual mound of debris - ‘stuff’ - and that was ‘cleaned out too’.  In full... including the payout of the proceeds from the whole ‘tag sale’... sans the ...substantial... ‘single fixed price cost’ to the sale managers... are paid to the estate and that amount... although not that much...  ‘is satisfactory’ for ‘everyone knew the stuff was not that good anyway’; “just old used stuff that no one wants”.  Yes... quite a bit “had to” ‘go to the dump’.  “Too”.

            Since I could understand this and the appraiser knows it, he, after noting my silent response that included me not expressing interest in any of this including ‘going to’ the sale... moved right along in his chatter.

            He went to the “CAMP”.

            “Yes it IS VERY FAR ‘up there’ isn’t it”.  “TOO BAD” about that for ‘how is anyone going to get there?” (to any sort of contents sale...there).  And... ‘there really isn’t that much in there anyway that’s “worth it”.  THAT was a fine appraisal term of that property’s contents and the appraiser repeatedly used the phrase “not worth it” as a blanket to smother the glowing ember of the CAMP’s 19^th century Maine farm ‘wonderful’ contents.  I... just sat there and listened to him prove to me using a squad or two of his toy lead soldiers to ‘show me’ ... “how” he’d “worked it out”.

            The ‘worked it out’ was that the whole contents... (sans “the family’s” personal and very minor “interest” that was really only about the agreement they shared of ‘selling the tractor’ ...evidently to a very persistent local suitor... “HEY WHAT DO YOU think of that TRACTOR ANYWAY?” the appraiser asked me)...  would be “bid in” “up there”.  This is understood to mean that the estate will take cash-on-the-barrelhead bids for the ‘whole contents’ from regional and local parties and ...sell it to the highest bidder... and... and:

            I asked after the ‘who’ ‘was bidding’ in such a way that ‘could I bid?’ was very vaguely suggested to which... he turned the light off on that saying .... “the executor will take the bids”... “you’ve already been in there FOR THEM (the estate) so PROBABLY CANNOT bid.  I can’t bid either.  There’s enough local interest anyway but... ‘it’s not worth it’ because” ...and his toy lead soldiers on my flanks came into sight... if I bid... so as to ‘out bid’ the ‘local interest’ I would find... upon arrival at the CAMP to ‘clean out’ my estate contents purchase... that much of the ‘wonderful’ contents that I SAW when I was up there ...was ‘no longer there’ ...in the Sherman’s-March-to-the-Sea sense.  So, therefore, there is no need for me to ‘bid’ for a ‘it’s not worth it”.

            “OHHHH.... we’ll GET IT... CLEANED OUT...; lot of work.  Lot of JUNK.  BUT:  We’ll get it CLEAN OUT for you.  Don’t WORRY.” would be the buyer’s summery of their ‘purchase contract’.  I ...was ‘out’.  I understood this.  And I understood very well that if I ‘did something’ and did ‘get the contents’... very little of that contents would still be there when I ‘showed up’.  THAT message was a very important part of the appraiser’s ‘indirect and scattered in content and direction’ reason for calling me.

            I don’t like it but I know ‘how this stuff happens’.  I could... wait quietly and keep my eye roving over the ‘up country’ ‘weekly’ auctions until I detected that ‘it’ (the CAMP contents) was ‘starting to be sold’ and ‘go after’ anything I wanted that way but... it’s probably “not worth it”.

            I, after my vague allusion to I bidding on the contents, had remained quiet... to the end of the ‘fair warning’ so... the appraiser moved some of his toy soldier out of sight again and brought up another flanking line from a new direction; the Albany property.  “YOU... went there.   There’s NOTHING there.  Right?”

            “Not that I saw.” I said.

            “I’m just working from photographs.  I don’t see anything worth driving over there for.  That’s what I’m telling them.  I gave it a low number (appraised the whole contents low) and told ‘em to take care of it themselves; have a yard sale.  Of course that doesn’t include the painting.  WHAT do YOU think THAT’S WORTH?”

John Henry - Part Eight

John Henry

Part Eight

            Accountability... in the antiquarian world... is of little bother... because...  ‘it’s about the stuff’.  Accountability... of an antiquarian... to an ‘employer’ is... ‘Like what are you talking about?’.

            It’s about the stuff; the antiquarian world is ABOUT THE STUFF.  Antiquarians, in their pure expression, ‘don’t care’ about anything else because ...there is NOT anything else ‘in the world’ except THE STUFF.

            Accountability...for the stuff...; ABOUT THE STUFF... is a different matter.  BEYOND the duties of job (being an antiquarian)... it (‘about the stuff’) is the purist expression of ‘accountability’ for an antiquarian.  ‘About the stuff’ to an antiquarian... THEY BANK IT... in both senses; a ‘take it to the bank’ AND ...rake its (‘about the stuff’) embers together into a compact nestle of monstrous radiant heat before thee.  And they... present BOTH, when queried, WITH PRIDE and the mindful ...monstrous radiant heat... that ‘they are right’.  THAT becomes traditional type accountability that ...an employer... may BANK (in both senses) while the antiquarian is TOO caught up in their ‘purist expression’ to notice or care.  They are ‘cloud nine’ in the middle of the ‘just the facts please’ ‘stuff-less’ “yuck” that is the ‘outside world’.

            I was seated in the stuffy office.  With the paralegal.  And her yellow legal pad.  Her cup of coffee.  Her pass-off glance at me.  Her new shoes.  Her ‘in an hour I can go to lunch’.  Her cell phone on.  Her... waiting silently as I was (“with me”) for the lawyer to “step in” (her words).  Two worlds collide?

            Stepping in... he stepped.  No coffee.  No jacket.  Shuffled shirt and tie (BB-OCBD and crisp BB ‘all silk’) looking like he just left a floor trade of Pacific Rim currency at a global connected inter-office brokerage work station that was just keeping ahead of ‘sunset’ ‘in Europe’.  He... cared... ‘about the stuff’?

            “Just the facts please.”

            I did that; the five word mantra of this estate’s third property content’s description; “Upper Middleclass Baby Boom Child Rearing” with a “Nothing to worry about or bother with.” landing at the end.

            “Good.” He said ...and looked at his watch.

            “Except”.

            He looked up.

            “I found a good painting”

            He looked at me

            “in there.” I said.

            Up comes the ‘bulleted list’ (Part Six).  The woman was writing something on her legal pad.  I told the story of ‘finding’ the painting.

            Then I said “At first I was sure I discovered the painting but now I am sure one of the heirs has been aware of the painting for a while”.

            That’s what I was hired to do; find the painting and report the discovery.

            Skipping to nearly the end of the bullet list, the lawyer said “How much is it worth?”

            I go to the very end of the bullet list and say “There are variables; actual problems, that effect realizing the full worth of the painting.”

            “What IS the full WORTH of the painting?”

            “It depends on managing the variables”

            “What are they?

            Returning to the bullet list I step down it backwards; “The value of the painting as art... but also the heritage of the painting and the history of the painting”.

             “Determine its worth?”

            “Effect realizing the full worth”.

            “That is?”

            “Quite a spread if done right.”
            “Done right?”

            “All the ducks in a row:  Great art, great heritage, great history.  The painting is in fantastic original condition.”

            “So its worth more?”

            “To the market.  Original frame too.  That’s real good.”

            See what’s happening here?  I ...ME.. am... well... slipping away INTO the antiquarian’s ‘purist expression’ ‘about the stuff’... so as I become a verbalized gush of enthusiasm about the painting I... ‘loose him’ (the lawyer and ‘worth’).

            The woman is writing this down?  She is.

            “SO what IS IT WORTH?”

            “Ah, well... right now... with what you know?  Like.  How about twenty-five K.”

            “What do I know?”

            “Nothing.  That’s a variable.”

            “Variable?”

            “The more you know that HIGHER that number could go.”

            “Worth more?”

            “Right; properly done”

            “Done?”

            “Sold... MARKETED;  properly presented to the market.”

            “Oh.... you can do that?”

            “Me?  I do that?  No:  It’s not my painting.”

            “Oh.  Right.  THEY do it.”

            “Right...”

            “Right WHAT?”

            “Well... they don’t know what I know.”

            “What do you know?”

            “About the (art) value of the painting.  They can find that out.”

            “The value?  It’s worth?”

            “No; VALUE.  The better it’s VALUE as art the more its WORTH.”

            “Oh.  Right... right.  That means?”

            “It’s heritage.  In the family.  And the history.  OF the painting.

            “Effects the...; how much it’s worth?

            “A lot.”

            “A lot?”

            “On this one; this painting.”

            “How much is a lot?”

            “Well... how about a hundred K.”

            “A hundred K?  One hundred thousand.”

            “Maybe more.  Depends.”

            “More?  Depends?” he says and looks at the woman writing.  “Who knows about this?”

            “This?  The painting or its art value?”

            “Worth... Its art value?”

            “I think the heir thinks she knows its got the twenty K plus value.  She doesn’t get it at all past that.”

            “Past that?”

            “The depends; the history... proper preparation for the market.  She doesn’t know about any of that.  I think she plans to take the painting out of there.”

            “Out of there?  She can’t do that.”

            “Want to make a bet?”

            “Well... WHO knows about this?”

            “Me... you... and then her... sort of.  I know it best.  You I just told.”

            The lawyer looks at me.

            “Face it; you don’t know about this.  Even if I tell you twice.”

            “I don’t?”

            “It’s an art thing.”

            “You and your art things.”

            “It’s about the painting:  This is about the STUFF.  It’s not about me.”

            And I was done.

            And left the office.

            And did not hear from the lawyer about this (the estates, the properties and the painting)... ‘ever again’.

            I sent my bill... and was paid... promptly... with that bill including photocopies of the expense receipts... with those including the one for the club sandwich and....

            And....

            ‘Zero’ happened.

            But I knew ...that... was not... ‘what was happening’ to ...the estates, the properties and... the painting.

John Henry - Part Seven

John Henry

Part Seven

            To never see “ever again” the PEOPLE of this estate... is OK by me.  ‘Characters of the estate’ I would like to say but I never became engaged enough to have them ...become characters... to I.  SEE the painting again becomes the... footpath... ‘to I’:  I SEE the painting again... along a footpath that... wanders from three halos noted and NOW ‘are glow’ on that footpath.  These halos noted are ‘my mistake’, the ‘AND’ questions... developing from the discernment... by I... following the ‘mistake’... that Sara/Sue ‘knows’ about the painting.  These ‘AND’S’ are then linked to the third halo of ...let I call them... the bulleted listing of MY position ...to-on-about... (?)... ‘the painting’.

            In order to properly get rid of my mistake... I did not drive away from Albany and ‘go back’ to Vermont.  No... and although only a skimpy hour or so had passed ...since... I ate the club sandwich... I drove back into Albany to... go to Van’s Vietnamese restaurant on Central Avenue and... of core purpose to I... I drove there by driving DOWN Clinton Avenue... to North Lake Avenue and then maneuvering into a parking lot between the two avenues and ‘next to’ Van’s.

            I went to the restaurant.

I ordered a shrimp bun (Bun Tom Nuong).

I ate that while bemusing myself ...to myself... about my mistake ...so thereby erasing that mistake.

Paying, tipping, toileting and then departing... ALL THE TIME ‘taking in’ and ‘appreciating’ the setting and it’s sights... that actually have little to do with the restaurant but ...HAVE A GREAT DEAL TO DO WITH washing my whole self of a WASP estate’s painting... found in an old high school girl’s bedroom.

How and why can this be washing?

The Clinton Avenue of Albany is NOT a well to do upper middle class WASP residential enclave.  That Avenue peels-off-left from Central Ave. and ...in old... abandoned... urban sprawl...; deteriorated and desperate... nineteenth century - Civil War and earlier... GLORY it goes ‘down to the river’ with ‘untouched’ garret after garret after cellar after three or four residential floors after back yard ‘pens’ and ‘privies’ and ...:  It is an antiquarian’s paradise of ‘abandoned’ ‘old’ ‘estates’ traveling straight to the river for miles.  THAT’S HOW, why and WHAT I... seek to... like a bar of soap in the shower’s soap hole... WASH WASP AWAY.  The restaurant is the... in the center of it... dining novelty; the bun is a good bun.  I always go there.  It is a singular source for Vietnamese dining... in a 100 mile radius of the region (?).  BUT:  It is Clinton Avenue that is the ‘antiques show’.  Oh... I do know well... and can tell tales of... the ‘things’ that I have found ‘along there’.  Such a straight line of old abandoned garrets I-the-antiques-dealer simply cannot ‘see’ elsewhere.  And the best features?  No one is ‘ever there’ and... nobody cares.

            From the ‘bottom’ of Clinton (where ‘urban renewal’ HAS ‘been done’), I wandered north on the west side of the (Hudson) river to Schuylerville.  The ‘no one is there’ (from the antiquarian vantage) continues up the river on this, the New York side too.  I was WASP washed and mistake free by the time I ‘headed east’ across the Schuylerville bridge.

            The actual mistake was a vanity that probably amounted to nothing.  Simply, when I said ‘John Henry’ I was being TOO ‘informed’ and TOO ‘of knowing’ as an utterance about the painting.  I should have... in Sarah/Sue’s presence, been more ‘what?’ ‘huh?’; a play dumb.  BUT the subconscious epiphany of it being a true ‘John Henry’ was an internal ‘too much’ for me and I ...was TOO indicative of my ‘I know’ by saying ‘John Henry’.  NOT THAT THIS was ever consciously picked up on by Sarah/Sue but ...unconsciously... it WAS for she did... from HER vantage... forth come about the painting in a manner salted and peppered slightly with HER feeling (undeclared) that I ‘know’.  THAT is my mistake; giving out THAT ‘information’.  In the end, while eating the bun, I ‘it didn’t matter’.  THAT’S because she already (from her perspective) was WAY AHEAD of me ‘on’ the painting.  She, for example, ‘knows’ ‘how much it’s worth’.

            That’s where the ‘ANDS’ come in.

            I snuffed the mistake well:  “It’s a nice little painting.” I say.  She then lead me on the footpath through the ‘ANDS’.  My clam shell remained closed tight.  She supplied the ‘What do I do’:  I ‘got out of there’.

            Once out... I held safely the ‘what is this painting’ and ‘how did it get there (to the CAMP).  She didn’t have to tell me... and... she could not (can not)  tell me... because SHE... doesn’t know ‘these’.  I do.  Those ‘ANDS’, odd as they be, gave me special insight into this painting

            It is funny how things-of-self take odd turns.  Here, I have special insight into this painting because of ...going swimming when I was very young.  In Maine, in the foothills of the White Mountains and these mountain’s continuance across Maine, are found a recluse of streams that ‘come down from the mountains’.  They are small and remote; in wilderness locations.  Their waters are ice cold, ice clear and ice pure.  The ideal for swimming are small, remote, ‘unknown’ ‘pools’ of this water usually found right below a ‘falls’ (and I mean a rather small ‘falls’; more of a rippling drop over ‘some rocks’)... that due to the spring flood torrents... has ‘carved out’ a ‘pool’ that is ‘big enough’ and ‘deep enough’ (six feet) to ‘swim in’.  From ‘the earliest that I can remember’ to NOW I ‘have been swimming in them’.  I know where they are and ...go there... to swim.  This life long action has been matured as I age because:

            I have never been able to ‘find’ an ‘anywhere else’ that ‘has swimming like this’; ice cold, ice clear, ice pure... IN the remote and private ‘down the mountain’ setting (‘nothing else up there’).  That includes me ‘trying’ places in... places... like “WYOMING”.  With this Maine mountain ‘pool’ swimming under my belt as ‘known’, I, due to the lack of ‘others like it’ have actually ‘studied’ it.  This means I having a perpetual rumination about ‘it’ AND a noting of ANY source of reference to IT.

            ONE of the reference sources is ...American 19^th century PAINTING and PAINTINGS of the ‘pools’.  This is because the ‘pools’ are, from my swimming and study, known to me to be unique AND... AND... AND... ‘difficult to capture’ in photographs and PAINT.  Camera ‘shots’ are insanely ‘fall short’ of ‘capturing’ the natural charms.  A painting... for most efforts... gets bogged down in failing to capture the obsessive natural details that nature enshrines these pools with.  FEW if any artists succeeds in ‘capturing’.  Asher B. Durand’s own obsessive painting skills point toward the inner-eye portrayal I seek.  But he didn’t actually paint ‘there’ (the ‘pools’).  Through study and admiration I sought and seek painters and their paintings.  And I ‘found one’; a painter who did ‘try’ and ‘paint’ the ‘pools’.

            This was John J. Enneking.  He ‘painted’ the ‘pools’ and, in my studied opinion, did a pretty good job of capturing the ‘pools’ ‘like I swim in’.  The reason he painted ‘these’ is because ‘he was up here’ (in Maine).  He ‘had a summer place’ ‘up here’.  So would have actually seen the pools, gone swimming in the pools (?) and ‘tried to paint them’.  He had a studio in Boston.  John Henry Twachtman had a studio in the same building.  He visited Enneking at his summer place in Maine.

            Enneking ‘painted’ ‘on the lake’ above his summer place.  Too.  The lake is where the CAMP is.  IF one went to the lake in 1876 to 1880... one ‘could not miss’ the farm turned “CAMP” ‘on the lake’.  Twachtman visited Enneking in Maine ‘up there’ too.  He painted ‘up there’ too.  The railroad station had stage service going right past Enneking’s summer place to ‘the lake’.  That’s how ‘it’ (the painting) ‘got up there’:  Twachtman, visiting Enneking, went to the lake, TO THE CAMP, probably stayed there and... painted the little painting ...of the camp’s back yard... in the back yard.  He then had it framed inexpensively in the village at the head of the lake... and gifted it to the owners of the “CAMP” where he been staying... as a sort of hospitality payment (Twachtman was ‘always a little short’).  They; the NEW OWNERS (from Albany, NY?)  of the farm turned ‘CAMP’ were socially compatible with Enneking and Twachtman.  They all; artists and summer people would have ...had a swell time... on the lake... in the summer... at the “CAMP”.  The painting would have hung in the CAMP ever after with no one paying any attention to it for... at least one hundred years.

            I know this because I go swimming there.  I know the ‘pools’.  I know the paintings of ‘pools’.  I know the painters who were ‘up there’.  I know the lake, the paintings of the lake and the painters who were ‘on the lake’.  I know the history of the “CAMP”.  I know the CAMP as it is today.  I know the subdivision of the CAMP property.  I know about the robberies.  I know the painting was ‘moved’ (‘removed’?) from the CAMP.  I know that the painting depicts a nocturnal moon lighted view of the rear of the CAMP just beside the  second well in the back yard and is a view from right beside the shed attached to the barn that is ‘where you come out of the woods’ (now a dirt road going to the other camps ‘along the shore’).  I reviewed all this while I ate my bun at Van’s.  That’s why I said “John Henry”.  It was a mistake.  It didn’t matter I concluded.  Then I went home.  I called the lawyer’s roost and made an appointment to ...have, again:

            “A woman at the roost wrote all that down.” (Part One).  That’s where the bulleted list comes in; the what am I ‘hired to do’...

             About this painting.

            I saved the receipt for my bun at Van’s.

His Two Wells

His Two Wells

“The old well
Sits full of water

Where I can see it.

The new well

Is up from it

And I can see it too.

Although that well

Is full of water too

That well’s water

Is not as old

As the water in

The old well.

That well was there

When my great-great-great-

Great-great-great-great

Grandfather moved here

From Dover, New Hampshire

To live with his grandparents.

His great-grandson’s son

Dug the new well

After the Revolutionary War.

The water in that well

Is not as old as the water

In the old well.

This is in addition to

That well’s water

TASTING not as old too

My great-great-great

Great-grandmother

Always said

They say.”