One of the artists that displays his
work at Lange is J.B. Boyd. J.B. is young, exuberant, marches to the
beat of a yet to be identified drummer, and has an incredible flair
for creating magic out of the local landscape. Whether it's trees or
ocean or lowcountry marsh, J.B.'s work leaps off the canvas in a way
that hypnotizes, seduces, and makes your eyes linger. In one of our
visits to the gallery some months ago, Lily spotted one of J.B.'s
works in particular and was spellbound. It was the lowcountry marsh
with an unseen sun low in the sky where the highly shadowed grasses
and trees were as dark and serene as the water was fabulously ablaze
with the sun's reflection. The water was seemingly on fire and the
effect was riveting. It painted a scene that we had observed on many
occasions from our own backyard on the Isle of Palms but without the
intensity and amped up beauty that J.B. had found. Lily turned to me
and, with a plea that can only come from the heart, said how
wonderful it would be to own this one. She gazed lovingly at the
painting, but in the hubbub of the artwalk and the distraction of so
many other paintings, that momentary expression of desire got
distracted, and the matter was dropped. For the moment.
I made up my mind. I would buy this
painting for Lily. I called the gallery the next morning, spoke to
Robert and sealed the deal. It would be a surprise, a Christmas
present. Robert suggested that one thing I could do would be to
write a personalized note that would be displayed next to the
painting, and one day we would walk into the gallery and surprise
Lily with her gift. Pictures would be taken. A very personal
history would be recorded. Brilliant. The element of surprise, the
joy of watching another's joy, and the almost dark pleasure of
guarding a secret. The plan was to return to the gallery shortly
before Christmas and feel the excitement build.
Months went by. We went on with our
lives, happily filled with all the things that have made our days
here so satisfying. The painting mostly disappeared from my
consciousness and, I believe, from Lily's as well. But, with the
passing of Thanksgiving, the painting took center stage. The time
was nearing and the moment had arrived to plan the perfect evening.
There was an artwalk looming with a terrific new show at Lange and I
knew Lily wanted to go, but I did not want the artwalk to be the
backdrop for this present. Too noisy, too many strangers. This
screamed out to be more personal, more intimate. Luckily for me, we
had plans for both weekend nights and I, as nonchalantly as I could,
suggested that maybe we could pick an evening for the following week,
say thursday, to go pay a visit. She bit.
Thursday came and I was like a nervous
schoolboy. I worried over non-existent obstacles that might
interfere with the grand plan and blow the surprise. Would Lily
change her mind and decide that we should stay home that evening?
Would we have a minor fender bender on the drive into town and force
us to miss the gallery's closing time? Would Mojo run off in search
of deer at just the moment we were getting ready to leave? Despite
my best intentions, would I start acting weird in anticipation of all
this and tip off Lily's finely tuned radar that something was afoot?
We drove into town. I don't recall
ever being so acutely aware of speed limits and stop signs. But, we
made it without incident and worked our way the few blocks from the
garage to the gallery. I had called ahead and furtively asked where
the painting would be displayed so that I would not risk an all too
knowing look from Megan or Rob hinting at its direction.
While I was ready to burst at the
seams, Lily was in no hurry to make her way to the spot where her
gift was hung. And, why should she be? As it turned out, the works
displayed in the front room of the gallery were so captivating that
it seemed years passed by as I bit my tongue and went with the
agonizingly slow pace Lily had adopted in these insufferably long
minutes. Painting by painting, wall by wall, we worked our way ever
so slowly to the place where I knew drama was in store.
We approached what was at that moment
the only wall that mattered. I held my breath. Lily noted with
pleasure and surprise that here was the painting she had so admired
so many months before. She peered closer. There was a typed note
just below the painting, where you would ordinarily find the artist's
name, the title to the work, and the sale price. But, on this night,
there was another message. It read:
To Lily
Babe – I have long thought that this
work of art belongs in your hands and no one else's. Now it is
yours to hold forever. All my love, Jeff.
My eyes were on Lily, not the painting.
And, then it happened. You could hear a pin drop in the empty
gallery, but what I heard were fireworks. Lily's hands went to her
face, the fingers trembled, the disbelief turned to awareness and
then to rapture. The tears flowed and there were long hugs. Megan
was there with a camera to capture it all. Magic. There would be
time to tell the whole story, but that could wait. In these moments,
all was given over to joyfulness and the wondrous amazement of what I
had hoped to be the perfect gift. We sat on the swing in front of
the painting and let the moment live on.
I don't always get things right, but on
this night I did.
