Andrea Jane is one of my younger sisters. Actually, all of my sisters are younger than me, but only one is littler: Julia measures in at 4’11”, while I am whole centimeters past 5’. These urns are Capo di Montes. Italian, date unknown. I am sure that when and if my mother reads this, she will wonder (possibly out loud) “What on EARTH do urns with naked babies all over them have to do with Andie?”.
Let me tell you. I met these urns on a spree to the local D.I. (my favorite local thrift store, Utah’s Goodwill equivalent). Visiting the D.I. is cheap and lively entertainment. Often therapeutic, and sometimes even a means of survival if your husband happens to be unemployed. Which Frank is, as of the beginning of this week. Life turns on a shiny dime. Anyway, when I first spotted these urns in the glass case, I was drawn to their sumptuous colors and their textural abundance (the baby forms actually stand a little proud of the urn’s surface, and look at all the flower stuff going on).
I decided to check the price, thinking I’d be willing to splurge and spend a whopping $40 for each of them. Maybe. I leaned in for a glimpse at the price tags, and was floored by what I read: $999 each. Holy Cow! No Way! At the D.I.?! I turned to one of the clerks (the key-holder, guard of precious things), and (laughing) asked him how he felt about guarding such treasures. He confessed that he was terribly uncomfortable, and even went on to say that if I wanted them out of the case for a closer look, he’d rather that I came back Monday, which was his day off. He was scared to even touch them.
Suddenly, I wanted those urns. Funny how influential context can be. Frank (who was with me, a small perk of unemployment) called a friend who collects antiques. She told us to buy those urns, date unknown, right now. Buy them now, she said, because I can’t get up there right away to look at them. She didn’t know Frank had been laid off. But we knew. Sobered by our growing sense of fiscal responsibility (while my inner child cried for freedom and flings and living in the moment), we drove home, thinking, sometimes joking about our urn adventure. Sigh. I really wanted those urns. But how crazy would that be, at such a time as this!
But hey! Maybe the urns could be an investment. We could sell them again on ebay, make a couple thousand. When we got home, we investigated on the internet, saw that Capo di Montes might sell for nearly twice what the D.I. was asking (or not at all). We went back for a second look, insisting that the guard of precious things open the case and lift the urns out. We scrutinized them, comparing them to pictures of other Capo di Montes. Identical in almost all ways, except that the rendering of the faces on our urns was distorted, a little slapdash. And that is how I let go (because really, I knew I had to). I loved the whimsy of the urns, the spontaniety. I loved the color. I loved the texture. I even loved all that nakedness (sorry, Mom). But I couldn’t love the faces, no matter what they were worth. And besides, these 18th century Italian knic knacs were just not me (I told myself). They took sweetness to such a high pitch that they became… oh, bubble gum and cotton candy (I can say this now, in the plain light of day). So I breathed deep, and walked out of the store with Frank. Well, actually, we bought a table on the way out, for $15. I’ll cut it down and refinish it…
A few days later, I set out to finish a painting of Andrea as a bride. As the painting strained to emerge from beneath my brush, I realized that I was choosing the colors and textures that I’d loved in the urns. Even Andrea’s body had an urn’s sweeping curves. But also like the urns (and this really frustrated me), the painting came out too sweet, and way, way too contrived. Augghh! I had to leave it, I was so cranky. It seemed that all that was left to me of the experience was just that…experience. I wanted to abandon…no, destroy the painting. I fumed for awhile, I fretted (see my Bad, Bad Day entry), and finally, finally, I came back to it once more, wanting to talk myself into some way I could be ok with it. On any level. I can walk out on $999 urns, but it is so hard to walk out on my own smudges (I haven’t yet learned to take the advice of an artist friend: never let a painting become precious to you).
And so here it is, the perspective I’ve tailored to the moment. Call it self-deception… but, while Andrea my sister is neither too sweet nor contrived, I think it is safe to say that this painting is a kitschy, naive fairy tale exaggeration of her. No worse than something one might discover at the D.I., and buy on a whim. I remember when she was a baby; she was angelic, cherubic. A little doll; we (Leah and Mara Lee and I) called her poopsie and Andie Pandie. I remember watching her recently as she gave birth to her second son; how relevant she is to babies, how naturally she welcomes and embraces them.
I think I’ll hang this painting in my little girl’s bedroom, to go with their fairies. Even an exaggerated Andrea would be good company for them.
