The saga began on a pleasant English Sunday morning in
August of last year. It was the weekend between our first and second week of
summer school at Cambridge University. The day before, Ann and I had gone off
to Canterbury, paying homage to Thomas Becket, that “meddlesome Priest” murdered
and martyred in Christ's Church Cathedral founded by St. Augustine in 597. 597!
We slept late Sunday, hiked into town from our dorm at Selwyn College, and settled into a sidewalk café for some eggs and salmon, right across the street from Kings College and its chapel.
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| Kings College and its "Chapel" |
This “chapel” would put to shame many of the Cathedrals here State-side.
In front of the college and its chapel was a tent city of students demonstrating for Gazans and against Israel’s (in their view) hyper-aggressive retribution. (The English seem better than we at differentiating between opposition to IDF aggression and antisemitism.)
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| Student Protesters' Tent Village |
After breakfast, we wandered about decrying the hordes of
(other) tourists, many of whom were bus-loads of Chinese highschoolers checking
out Cambridge colleges for their studies abroad. One doesn’t expect to find
galleries of fine art in a university and tourism avenue, but Byard Art’s
window caught our eye; the skillfully done, larger than life still lives drew
us in.
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| A Byard's Still Life |
Now: a little background on art and Ann and me.
Our walls
are adorned with visual art; most would say over-stuffed with it. Not just the
living room, but the dining area, the bedrooms, the entry hall. Every
horizontal surface hosts sculptures (some mine; the better ones, other’s),
vases, Lionel Joyce bowls, Philippine woven baskets, and what not. Ann’s
watercolors delight guests in the guest bathroom which we have come to call
“the Loo Gallery.” So, four years ago we made a solemn pact: no more art.
I was the first to break the agreement, having fallen in love with a glass sculpture by Tlingit artist Preston Singletary, a piece which was sold out from under me. So, through Traver Gallery, his agent, I commissioned another – without telling Ann. When finally finished, I sneaked it into the house, holding my breath.
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| Singletary's Raven |
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| Ben Steele's Visual Pun |
The second transgression occurred later that year in Sun Valley, while having a last hurrah at X-country skate skiing. We always take a gallery walk while in Ketchum. There, in Freisen Gallery, Ann was captivated by a visual pun painted by Ben Steele: Sargent Crayons. It and El Jaleo went home with us.
The third breaching of our solemn pact was mine again. From Preston Singletary’s Smithsonian show, Raven and the Box of Daylight, I fell for Salmon Chief, bought a version for a B-day present to myself, and told Sarah Traver to hold it until my September celebration. Again, beyond telling Ann I had bought myself a present, for all she knew it might have been a pair of new shoes, I kept mum that it was more art, contrary to our agreed NO MORE ART!
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| Salmon Chief, Singletary |
And now comes a beautiful English summer morning in Cambridge and we innocently wandering into Byard Art Gallery. Ann’s turn. She is drawn to, enchanted by, bewitched with desire for a trompe l’oeil oil of a red balloon painted by Swedish artist, Tommy “TC” Carlsson.
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| The Enchanted and The Red Balloon |
And so began the
saga.
Byard was staffed that morning by a pleasant young man named
Toby (I had been “Toby” all my life up until my sophomore year in college) who
did not pressure us but stood aside and let the painting work its magic on Ann.
She, we, succumbed. Yes, shipping was included. Toby recommended and we agreed
to have the painting taken off its stretcher and rolled up to facilitate its
shipment and customs clearance. Byard would reimburse our re-stretching once
home in Seattle. The Red Balloon, rolled and stoutly crated, departed Cambridge
on the wings of UPS on August 22nd.
So, Where is it?
We knew it would take a couple of weeks to arrive and clear
customs. In mid-September, having heard nothing, I tracked the package: in
transit, came the confusing report: it had not yet left England but would be
delivered in another week. A couple of weeks later: to be delivered tomorrow.
Great! Tomorrow came and went. No balloons. More anxious tracking; more
“tomorrows” or “cannot determine delivery date.” Then: in Lexington, TN, the US
Customs Center. “In Lexingtons” persisted for several more weeks interspersed
with “cannot determine deliverys.” Custom’s customer service desk no help; a
nice woman I became voice-pal with told me she didn’t know what the problem
was, when it would be released, and assured me that all was well. Customs’ web
site offers a chat: no information. Never heard of Red Balloon. October: Customs
wants my tax ID; I wish I had one. I responded, by e-mail of course, that I was
not a dealer or re-seller, but the consumer, and anxiously gave who-knows-whom
my social security number. Ann asks that I file an insurance claim, as I had
listed the balloon on our homeowner’s policy. I hold off.
In November came word from Customs: they had ordered the
crated painting returned to sender! I protested via e-mail and to my friend at
customer service Lexington, and via maddening web-site chat – all to no avail. Balloon
was on its way back to Cambridge.
December 9th: Toby emails “Hallelujah!!!!!!!!!!!
Your Painting has arrived safely back in the gallery. I cannot
believe it. It just turned up unexpectedly this afternoon.” Byard opens the
crate, inspects the piece and finds no damage, re-crates and sends off again
via DHL on Dec 11th.
Tracking shows us nothing – no location, no delivery
estimate, nothing. Then more “delivery to be determined” – not. Then silence. Not
locate-able.
December 31st, from my e-mail to Toby at Byard:
After fruitless hours “chatting”
via computer with DHL’s not-so- customer service dept., calling their
diabolical voice mail system multiple times, and getting nothing but
invitations to “chat” some more – when I think of the joy of having a real chat
over a Guiness in a Dublin pub – whatever. This afternoon, on a hunch that I
might find help, I drove to the Seattle DHL Express “office-point”. I asked the
agent, can you help me locate this shipment?
My hunch was right; the pleasant
office manager checked her computer, looked up, and said “well, it’s right out
back in the warehouse. I’ll go get it.” I was floored.
Red Balloon had incurred an import duty. Duly paid on the
spot, we put the crate in the car and drove it home.
Now to mounting it again
First week of January: I called Sarah Traver to get her
recommendation of a framer. Dan Carrillo, of Gallery Frames: “he does all the
galleries here in Pioneer Square” says Sarah. I took it to Gallery Frames. Dan
and his team opened the crate – truly a bullet-proof casket – and laid it out.
Well, first of all, it’s not a canvas but is painted on linen – a thin and
fragile linen. Second, Dan shows me how the paint is also thin – that’s part of
the illusion of dimensionality. Red Balloon shows no brush marks. Dan is afraid
of the thin paint layer cracking as folded over the stretcher frame; we planned
to hang it without a frame, you see. Dan says he’s scared of it and declines
the job. Carrillo gives me the name of two art conservators, the beginning of
my art-preservation education.
The first of these is head of the preservation department of
Seattle Art Museum. While he does some outside projects for dealers and
museums, he declines: too busy with an upcoming show at SAM. But he recommends
another, the same person who Carrillo suggested: Peter Malarkey (how’s that for
a name that instills confidence?)
Malarkey turns out to be a highly trained, graduate conservator specializing in oil paintings; a sensitive, likeable, and trustworthy guy; a professional dedicated to the artwork almost more than to its owner; and expensive. In February, he came down from his studio and workshop in the San Juan Islands to do some work at the Frye and came by to pick up the crated Balloon. His findings a few days later: a strong recommendation that we order a keyed stretcher frame, one that reduces the strain of re-stretching in light of the fragility of our thin paint on linen. The painting cost us in the upper four figures; Malarkey’s cost of a keyed stretcher plus his time and professional fees will total mid-four figures. Ann objects: why a conservator? Why not just a framer? We have paid high three figures to have paintings professionally framed. I found myself defending Peter and opting for doing right by the piece. Ann said that’s our heir’s problem; we’ll only have the Balloon with us for a few years at best. And so it went (backgammon and bickering are our two favorite games.) Peter Malarkey said he didn’t want to get between husband and wife and he didn’t want to work with someone who did not appreciate his conservator credentials and professionalism. He returned Balloon but offered to advise.
Toby, in Cambridge, said in his experience and Byard’s a
framer should suffice rather than a professional conservator. He went on the
web to find a couple of Seattle retail picture framing shops, one of them a do-it-yourself
frame shop n Ballard. This was turning messy. I go back to Carrillo of Gallery Frames and
report Peter Malarkey’s findings. Dan says he’d rather not but if I insisted,
he’d want a hold-harmless release in any case. I decided not to go with a guy
who doubts.
I searched the web. No question: Malarkey is the best north
of San Francisco. But further searching turned up “restoration” – who knew:
frame it yourself, professional framer, preservationist, restorer, conservator
-- why can’t life be simple?!?
I called and chatted with Daniel Zimmerman, owner of Phoenix
Art Restoration. He sounded competent and credible so I loaded Balloon, safely
back in its crate, and headed north to Lyndale, WA. Zimmerman gave me
confidence as I watched him uncrate and handle Balloon. He also urged on us a
keyed stretcher. And he gave me a bid in the low four figures. Half the
expense was the keyed stretcher; half, time and labor. Ann, our CFO, approved
the compromise choice, so I left Balloon with Zimmerman and his team at Phoenix.
One catch: Phoenix chooses to have their stretchers sourced in Ontario. Better
woods, better craftmanship, Daniel says. So, the order goes off to Canada –
just as Trump is threatening draconian tariffs on imported items. A couple of
more weeks slip by: now, it’s late-April.
In the very beginning, Byard assured us they would reimburse
us for the re-stretching. But clearly, they had not foreseen conservators or
restorers or keyed stretchers and what not. And they were uneasy having to take
my second-hand reports of what advisors and sources said. I proposed to them
that we share the cost 50/50. Though it undoubtedly cost them more than they
originally expected, they agreed and responsibly shared the cost with us who
were making the decisions 3,000 miles away. We both have learned from this
experience.
What’s up, Phoenix? Actually, it’s “Tennessee”, the
operations manager with whom I had chatted a few times. On the 21st,
she tells me the keyed stretcher has arrived from Ontario but her skilled
stretcher tech, “Hutch” who does the work, has been out with the flu the past
ten days. (She knows; she lives with him.)
Ann so hoped to have The Red Balloon on the wall for our Welcome
to Spring neighborhood party last Saturday, the 26th. With
regrets, we accepted the likelihood that we’d not have it. But Saturday
morning, Tennessee called. Hutch had come in on Friday just for us; Red Balloon was ready. I hopped up
to Lyndale, gave Tennessee a hug and Hutch a hearty handshake, raced back home, and had it hung by 2:30. Neighbors began arriving at four.
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| The Saga Ends -- alongside James Tormey's Egg |
The saga of a red balloon is over, we hope. The Red Balloon is an object of delight on the wall of our dining room, right next to Egg (which the ex-foodie Chairman of Westin, harrumphing dismissively, told me “that’s a four day old egg.” But that’s another tale for another time.)
We'll be back in Cambridge for summer school this July and August and, yes, we'll browse in Byard's and visit Toby and Hanna once again. But --
-- NO MORE ART!
(Maybe)
