The Art of Secrets
Page 13
But the ruined artwork isn’t even why I need your help. That’s not the board’s concern. As you know, even without those paintings, the auction raised just over fifty thousand dollars. According to the terms of the contract, the school received ten percent. The day of the event, I was issued a check in the amount of five thousand dollars, give or take, for me to use as I see fit.
My board wants to know why I accepted the check. In their view, it looks bad. One board member called me and she said, “Oh Regina, that’s not very much money. Why don’t you just let the Khans have that money?” Another one said, “Let’s give it back, Regina. Five thousand dollars won’t mean much to the school, and it will mean so much more to the Khans.”
Here’s a lesson you can take with you through life: People become most generous when given the opportunity to spend other people’s money.
The Khans walked away with forty thousand dollars. Not a small amount, in my humble opinion.
True, five thousand dollars does seem tiny compared to the annual budget of a big school like ours. However, terms are terms. That money belongs to the school. What kind of precedent would it set if I began giving away money to our students and their families? Where would it end?
Excuse me, which Oriental rug? Back at my office? As it happens, we acquired that carpet last year when a generous donation came from an alum, with the clear requirement that the donation be spent on “campus improvements.” So be it. I spent some of it on the carpet, yes, but we also planted the box garden and restored the gorgeous terrazzo border around the cafeteria floor.
People criticize me for spending money on improvements like these. “Superficial things,” they say dismissively. It shows how little they know about the importance of beauty in society.
Crime drops when flowers get planted in parks. Did you know that? Statistical fact. Here in Chicago, remember, when Mayor Daley made beautification a priority, the crime rate finally began to drop. And by adding more trees and repairing the park fountains and spending a fortune on those foot-high, decorative iron fences everwhere, the city kept getting safer. That’s a fact.
The same is true in schools. Trust me, when we simply improve the looks of things, it reduces discipline issues and leads to a sense of pride. You don’t have to be an educator to know that personal pride leads to personal success.
So you see, we can change lives—and improve the world—one beautiful carpet at a time.
Besides, I have plans for the five thousand dollars. I’ll tell you my secret. There’s a neglected grotto in the garden, adjacent to the Shack—crap, I owe myself a quarter—adjacent to Tarlan’s Track, which would be perfect for a wedding ceremony. I have been dreaming about having an outdoor wedding venue on the property for years. Our campus is ideally located, an oasis of green near the congested downtown. Think of the revenue! Weddings every weekend in the summer, one blushing bride after the next. Receptions on the lawn under elegant tents. Tables and chairs, also available for rent.
After one summer, the venue will pay for itself. The rest will be money in the bank for the school.
No, not for an art collection. Let’s start with a new roof!
My point is, I have the vision. That’s what makes me a leader. I’m looking ahead and I plan to stick around for a long while. Board members, incidentally, are the ones who come and go. They only last about four years, same as the students.
Anyway, what I’d really like is for you to write something about my new project. After the holidays, of course. Obviously we don’t want to leave this story as it is, sitting like a horrible pile of ashes on the floor of my gymnasium. The senseless destruction of artwork is not the story. How could it be? The story is the beauty that may appear as a result. Beauty and ongoing value to the school. That’s the far more important takeaway here, wouldn’t you say?
Ready for another drink?
To art!
Meanwhile, in a musty-smelling basement rec room across town,
Steve Davinski, senior,
plays pool with his brother Don, age 11, and tells it like it is.
For me, Dawg, the hardest thing in the world is letting a girl down when things aren’t working out.
It goes against my nature to make girls sad. I’m the guy who makes things better, right? It’s like I’ve got this list of job duties at school: “game winner,” “problem solver,” “leader,” “hero.” And sometimes, unfortunately, that list includes “heartbreaker.”
This girl and I only went out for a couple of months. Kept things real friendly, to say the least. We had some fun together, and it was super cool to be around someone like Saba. Different from the girls I normally date. Exotic. She has this weird combination of innocence and spice. Sort of like sweet-and-sour chicken, you know? Totally awesome, but . . . whatever.
When the auction came, I needed to pull the plug. The timing was wrong. Really, all along that was the problem: timing. Saba had her whole “family drama” thing going on, and I had basketball and student government and my college applications to finish. We both got busy. It happens, right?
College applications, I mean, that’s what put me over the edge. Since October, I’ve been getting major heat from Mom and Dad, the college counselors, my coaches—just about everyone, really—to get those suckers turned in early. But every time I sit down to write the application essays, my brain freezes. I can’t think what to write. It’s like I don’t have any relevant stories to tell. All I know about is playing sports and being popular, and those things don’t count for squat when it comes to getting into college.
So today I stopped Saba in the hall between periods. I told her that things were looking really busy over the holidays, and I was super bummed, but I wouldn’t be able to hang out again, just the two of us, for a while. I promised her we’d stay friends—which is basically all we ever were, okay?
She didn’t say a word. She just looked at me as if I’d puked on her shoes or something.
Don’t get me wrong. Like I said, I know the timing is bad. No question, she’s had a rough year. First the theft, and the auction, and now this? But from my experience with girls, I’ve learned it’s best to end things as fast as possible. Like ripping off a Band-Aid. The way I see it, I’m doing her a favor. If she can’t see that now, she will later, when she thinks back on the killer times we had together. I was a stand-up guy, and she’ll remember that.
I do feel guilty. Dawg, I feel like crap. But the thing is, I’m at a place where I need to focus on my future, the way everybody tells me. Now’s the time to put me first for once. Time to seize the opportunities I’ve made for myself. Give me some credit—I’ve worked like hell for four years. When the game begins, you have to stop talking to the cheerleaders and get your ass onto the court. That’s how the game gets played, am I right?
The following day, FRIDAY, DECEMBER 21, a half-day before the winter break,
Saba Khan, sophomore,
texts the following five messages to Steve Davinski, senior.
7:58 a.m.
So hey . . . yesterday u surprised me. I was 2 shocked 2 respond. We can figure this out! Let’s talk.
11:32 a.m.
WTF? I can’t believe u just turned + walked the other way when you saw me! Is that how a man acts? Txt so we can talk! U owe me that, at least.
3:51 p.m.
OK ur busy. I get this is crunch time. Maybe we can chill over break + talk? I really need to see u. I will even bring breakfast?
7:10 p.m.
Seriously, what is up? Why don’t u txt back? This is SO stupid. I feel awful.
10:22 p.m.
This is just to say, I hear u loud and clear. The silence tells me all I need to know abt us and abt u. + that is helpful. Hope u get everything u deserve.
Hard lessons on Highsmith curriculum
YOU’VE heard me brag about the basketball team at the Highsmith School, my alma mater, for more years than we need to calculate, thank you very much. But no sports talk today, folks.
Students at Highsmith learned a painfully cold lesson this month: Even when a community works together with good intentions toward a worthy goal, opposition may be encountered.
As multiple sources have reported, Highsmith students hosted a benefit on December 15 in support of a classmate whose home was lost in a fire. Just before the event, after weeks of planning and promoting, the most valuable auction item—a booklet of drawings by legendary Chicago “outsider artist” Henry Darger—was stolen and destroyed.
“Pure shock—indescribable shock.” This was how the school’s principal, Dr. Regina Stickman, expressed her reaction upon learning the artwork had been destroyed. Even now, no arrests have been made. In fact, neither school authorities nor police investigators have identified any clear motive for the crime.
My take on it? A December prank this cold-hearted can only be credited to a different kind of outsider: a Grinch.
As most readers know, Dr. Seuss’s beloved 1957 children’s book relates the tale of a miserable old hermit who tries to “steal Christmas” from a neighboring town.
The Grinch fails, of course. In the wake of his looting, the people of the town still sing, still celebrate, still believe. Certain things cannot be stolen.
Fortunately, Highsmith’s holiday tale also has an uplifting ending.
Despite the crime, the school benefit managed to raise approximately $50,000—a sum that will provide significant comfort to this family in crisis. According to Dr. Stickman, a small portion of the money has even been earmarked for campus improvements. Now that’s a heartwarming story, no matter how you read it.
If we could visit Highsmith today, I would lead you down the silent corridors until we came to a striking seal on the floor, a blood-red H carved in stone. This hallowed seal represents the sacred Honor of every student who spends four years at Highsmith.
The stone seal is indelible, consecrated by the generations of alumnae who have passed by, understanding and believing. No outsider, no matter how cunning, can ever steal that belief away.
Bob Bishop, columnist, Chicago Tribune, December 23
On DECEMBER 25, in a yellow farmhouse kitchen where an obscenely large turkey is roasting,
Javier Conejera, sophomore,
uses an ancient desktop computer to write to his friend Jennifer.
Now we are in Wisconsin, at the house of my host grandmother. My brothers and I sleep in camping sacks in the basement. We will be five days here.
My host grandmother, Nancy, is very tall, of course, like her children, like the pine trees outside. She is the first American I met who smokes! Last evening, when we arrived, I went outdoors to smoke, and she followed me with her own cigarettes. We did not talk together. I think she is shy like me. Instead we stood and looked at the snow covering the trees and fields with white. There are no neighbors on neither side of this house, only nature. I feel far away from Chicago here. I will enjoy this place for a while, surrounded by trees and birds, and some occasions for quietness.
This morning, while the others moved to separate corners to play with their new games and to wash new clothes, I called my mother. For her I described Nancy’s belén, which is on the floor in the living room—not just a barn with animals and Los Reyes Magos, but a complete village of ceramics, with houses, bank, church, school, ice cream shop, train and tracks, and the Jesus baby in His barn in the middle—a size bigger than all the other items, because He is made from a different company.
Mama asked if Papa Noel had come, and I told her yes, he brought a package of chocolates and money all the way from España! She pretended the surprise. I did not want to tell her that this money will pay for library books that fools damaged in snow for no reason. It was good to hear Mama’s voice.
And now, Jen, the most incredible part: If I tell you that Steve has been transformed by the holiday spirit, will you believe me?
This morning, when we awoke in our camping sacks, he sat up, rubbed the eyes, and said, “Oh, hey bro, Feliz Navidad.” Later at Mass, he embraced me and wished me peace. And most surprising of all, when we came back to Nancy’s house, Steve gave me a card. The note says: “Javier, I realize the past few months have been difficult for you. I am sorry for not being the perfect host brother. But I believe in second chances, and I will try to make things better when we get back to school, especially after the basketball season is over in February. Merry Christmas.” I believe we can call this a miracle of Christmas, no?
Steve promises to make things better for me when we return to school, but I fear it is too late. Is a “second chance” possible? Jen, I want to tell you something now. I must confess what I have done or be miserable. I wanted to tell Mama, but I do not have the courage to say something that will give her pain.
Here is what happened: For many days, I felt anger when I was at the school. Anger, because of the library books. Anger, because of the absurd accusations. Anger, because I have failed to discover the life here that America advertises to people all over the world—a life of friends and community and hope. Instead, at the school I observe only fire, theft, destruction, and the faces that always turn away from me.
Moreover, near my locker, that seal on the floor! How this seal tormented me, the students giving me the rude, forceful bumps in order to avoid the sacred H. My anger grew like a disease inside the body. These students are hypocrites, I think. They are lying hypocrites without worth.
On the last Friday before the holiday, the school was empty by noon. I always avoid the crowded bus, a bus of cold eyes and sharp elbows, and usually I wait for some time before I go outside. On that day, the hallway had cleared, but I stood by my locker and stared at the hypocritical seal, thinking how this letter on the floor had become my enemy.
Without warning, I did something risky and stupid. I hardly believe I did it. My actions were not “pre-meditated,” like the crimes on the TV shows favored by the Davinskis. I did not think with reason.
One can of aerosol paint from the auction remained in my locker. Taking the paint, I stepped to the center of the hallway. I looked around and saw no one. Careful not to step on the H, of course, (that would be rude) I bent down and covered the H with the white paint. I made big circles, over and over—soft round white curls, like a ghost, the ghost of something dead. Maybe Kendra is correct. Maybe I am an artist after all.
I know, Jen—this action lacked purpose, like throwing water into the sea. And the administrators will catch me for certain. Like a fool, I put the aerosol can back into my locker. When I return to Highsmith, the students finally will despise me for a reason that is legitimate. Now I never will be part of that community. The difference is, now it is a situation I choose for myself, not by other people. Will that make it easier? I think yes.
Nancy is going outside to smoke. I will join her—I must enjoy the peace while it lasts. This is the most strange Christmas. I hope yours is normal.
On MONDAY MORNING, JANUARY 7, in the main office at Highsmith,
Jean Delacroix, Department of Art,
answers questions for an audience that includes the principal, the police detective, and the insurance investigator.
Lord have mercy. More questions about this? You are as bad as Ms. Ames.
Well, to give Ms. Ames credit, her statement proved to have some value.
Detective, you’ve shown them my own statement by now? Yes, I’ve openly admitted it: The person who removed the paintings from the gym office was me. I moved the album to the art annex without telling anyone. In retrospect, this was poor judgment, I see that now. But it was a spontaneous instinct—to protect it.
You felt justified taking it without permission?
I did! We were keeping an art treasure in the gym office, even after I pointed out its
value. After word got out about the paintings, the school was crawling with journalists, collectors, Darger devotees. And still, we decided to leave these paintings unprotected in the gym? I felt some individual responsibility to help keep the album safe. After all, I was the one who discovered it.
Jean, why didn’t you talk to me about your concerns?
Dr. Stickman, I did speak to you. More than once. With all due respect, you brushed me off like I was griping about the broken kiln again. I figured it was easier to move the album without permission and then ask for forgiveness later. The fact that I had no problem walking out of the gym with it shows that anybody could have done the same thing.
But nobody else did. You did. And between the time you took it and the time it was returned, it was destroyed.
I can’t explain that. All I know is—okay, yes, Ariel surely did hold the artwork in her hands, between the folds of a quilt, on the Friday afternoon when she came to ask for a ride. My plan was to take it home that night for safekeeping until the auction. But considering the snow, it didn’t seem smart to take it outdoors and risk getting it wet. So I left it here and gave Ariel her ride.
And you waited until Monday to come back for it?
No, obviously I came back to school first thing on Saturday to get it, but by then the album had disappeared from my room. It was gone! I searched everywhere, frantic, but couldn’t find it. And I couldn’t say anything without looking responsible for losing it. I assumed it would turn up, that whoever had taken it from me would be caught right away. But the school reported it stolen so quickly—
“Stolen” seems like the appropriate word for what happened.
Maybe it seems so, but I’m asking you to consider intention. My plan was never to keep the album or sell it, only to protect it until it could be sold. Detective, when your men confiscated my own work, I panicked. I came clean and told you everything. But you didn’t believe me. You seemed convinced I had stashed it someplace to sell at a later date. I gave you my keys so you could search my apartment and my car, but of course we never found it.