CHAPTER 21
hen Theo had taken his first walk down the sidewalks of the Boughery, the day after his arrival in Golden, he felt as if he’dW stumbled upon a place that was vintage Americana. That feeling grew with each stroll through the neighborhood. He learned that many of the extant old houses were built in the mid to late 1800s, when Broadway and downtown were the center of life in the community.
The exteriors of those houses — gables, columns, porticoes, handrails, dormers, ceilings, doors, window frames — pointed to a bygone architectural era that celebrated whimsy and individuality in residential design.
Porches were standard fare. Some wrapped around the entire circumference of the houses to which they were attached. Others were mere nooks, often beside a front door. All allowed for and seemed to encourage the blessed leisure art of sitting and relaxed conversation.
Lawns and gardens in the Boughery were well-groomed and meticulously cared-for. On spring and summer days, the scent of gardenia, tea olive, camellia, and narcissus beckoned walkers closer and closer to the yards, where those fragrant plants grew in abundance.
In the early generations of Golden’s history, houses in the Boughery had belonged to wealthy leaders in the community. More recently, during Golden’s rejuvenation, many of the houses had been purchased by an eclectic assortment of artists, young families, professionals, and affluent history buffs who were willing to live at the borderlands of an increasingly gentrified town center to the north and a chronically impoverished low-rent district to the south.
An abiding hope that the downtown would continue to flourish and, at the same time, retain a healthy regard for the city’s past was a common trait amongst the tribe of Boughery residents. They were proud and protective of their little province, Asher among them.
At 8:58 a.m., Theo arrived at 107 South Broadway, on the west side
of the median. It was a three-story house — pewter gray with green trim, red front door, and wraparound porch on three sides. Though obviously intended to be a residence at its inception, Asher and Brooke had bought it cheap and converted it into a studio.
Asher did most of his work there, awash in natural light and able, through an assortment of strategically placed windows, to see trees and sky at all times with a mere tilt or turn of his head.
Theo climbed five steps up to the porch and knocked on the door. He was a mixture of mild uneasiness and eagerness at the prospect of conversation with the young prodigy. As he waited for Asher to answer, he surveyed the porch. It was deep and long on the front side with a balustrade of turned hourglass spindles.
The porch ceiling was painted powder blue. An old superstition held that such a practice was effective at keeping bad spirits from entering a house and also at keeping spiders from spinning webs in the corners.
Perhaps it worked. No bad spirits seemed to be present as Theo waited for Asher’s welcome, nor did he see any spiders.
Bronze wind chimes, still and silent at the moment, hung at one end of the porch. An assortment of wicker furnishings, neatly organized and cared-for, filled the area without crowding it. Theo was making mental notes of flowers and plants around the lawn when he heard footsteps inside the house.
Asher opened the door and wiped blue paint from his right hand with a towel, before holding it out to Theo.
“Good morning, Theo. Sorry to make you wait. I was just finishing a canvas and cleaning my brushes.”
Theo hesitated to step inside. “Please, Mr. Asher, let me come back at a more convenient time. I can come whenever you’d like. I don’t want to take you from your work.”
“No, really,” Asher insisted. “This is a perfect time. I woke up early and came on over to touch up something I was working on last night. I just finished, so we can celebrate over coffee. Please, this is a good time.
Come in.”
Finally convinced, Theo entered as Asher held the door for him. The smell of coffee and the strains of music, something baroque, greeted them. Theo, in true European fashion, presented a bouquet of flowers
to Asher.
“Thank you, Theo. Ah, echinacea and narcissus. My mother’s favorites. How did you know?” Asher pointed to the wall behind Theo.
“Here’s a painting I did years ago for her. Echinacea and narcissus. I’m guessing you saw it on my website, or Shep tipped you off. Thank you.
Anything that makes me think of my mom is welcome here.”
Theo had barely glanced at the painting when Asher directed him to the back of the house. The walls along the hallway were filled with Asher’s work. Theo was tempted to stop and linger with each step but he resisted, settling instead for mere glances left and right as he walked to the large room that served as Asher’s work area.
Throughout that large, open room — hanging on the walls, displayed on the floor, stacked on tables, framed, unframed, matted, large, small, painted, drawn, finished, unfinished, landscapes, cityscapes, birds, flowers, nudes, still lifes, portraits and more portraits — the genius and exuberant output of Asher Glissen was on stunning display. For Theo, 107 South Broadway was sensory overload. If the entrance hall was an appetizer, this room was the main course of a feast.
Three easels — facing the south, west, and north walls — held canvasses or drawings in various stages of completion.
On one was an unfinished oil portrait, slightly less than life-sized, of a distinguished older man. He was standing in what appeared to be a home library. The tones were dark and subdued.
The middle easel held a somewhat smaller work in progress, a pencil drawing of a child on snow-white paper. She was kneeling on a sidewalk beside a bucket of chalk, drawing a large smiley face that was asymmetrical and disproportionate.
In Asher’s composition, there was no background at all to the little girl. The viewer was forced to see her and only her.
The intricacy of the lines that composed the child, the soft shading of her face, the smallness of her body against the bare background, and the delicacy with which those elements had been laid on the paper created a sense that she had been whispered into existence. The drawing, as Asher explained later, was an illustration — one of forty-six — that he had done for a children’s book.
The third easel was a riverscape after nightfall. In contrast to the
realism of the other two, this one, on a wide narrow Gessobord, was an impressionistic work in oil in which dense layers of color had been applied with a palette knife.
The river in the painting was stippled in various shades of blue, black, white, and peach. The tree line, in deep greens, stood against a night sky that was purple at the horizon and darkened into blackness as it ascended. The piece was unlike Asher’s other work and yet, to Theo’s eye, it bore the same delicacy of touch that was a defining quality of the artist’s style.
Theo took a cursory glance around the room, resisting again his desire to observe and study each piece closely. The sheer richness of the place washed over him. Soft morning light, the scent of paint, the finery of oriental rugs, the aura of mastery, the history of the space, and the younger man’s inviting presence enlivened the older.
Theo would have gladly foregone conversation, at least for a while, to meander from frame to frame, stack to stack, wall to wall, easel to easel. But when Asher offered coffee and nodded to a pair of cushioned chairs with a small table between them, Theo politely took a seat.
“Asher, thank you for letting me come by. I see now that you do more than portraits.”
Asher shrugged. “I try. Portraits have definitely been my bread and butter over the years, and I’m always honored when somebody asks me to do one for them. I love the challenge of drawing faces. Plus, I have a wife and daughter and a mortgage and all that, and portraits pay the bills. But I like to always have something I’m working on for the sheer pleasure of being creative. That one,” Asher pointed to the river scene on the easel, “is my present diversion. Ones like that usually don’t sell, but they pay me in other ways. They help keep me in love with what I do. But enough about me. What’s your story, Theo? I detect an accent.
Where’s home?”
Asher already knew, from speaking with his niece, Minnette, that Theo was from Portugal, but he asked anyway.
“I have lived in many places,” Theo said, “but I was born and grew up in Portugal, a little town near Porto in the north, a place called Pinhão, in the Douro River Valley with the hills and vineyards. It was a wonderful place to be a child. My parents were simple people, farmers,
but they loved beauty, and they loved books, though we didn’t have so many. They died many years ago. I have been a businessman and investor for much of my life, so I’ve lived in big cities for the most part: Paris, Florence, Rio. I have a home in New York City now. I’ve been
there for almost twenty years.”
“And what brings you to Golden?”
“I have some properties nearby that need my attention.”
Asher remained silent momentarily in the hope that Theo might say more. Theo didn’t, using the pause instead to sip his coffee.
“How long will you be here?” Asher asked.
“I’m not sure, but Mr. Ponder — you know him, yes? — has been kind enough to let me rent his apartment at Ponder House. It’s a lovely place.”
Asher seemed surprised. “I didn’t know Mr. Ponder rented that apartment, but I’m happy to hear it. You’ll have a front-row seat to the Promenade from up there.”
Theo nodded. ”I’m very fortunate. It’s a beautiful place. You’ll have to come see me sometime.”
“Theo, I hope the locals have been kind to you so far. I’ve been in Golden pretty much all my life — not a very ambitious artist, I guess — and I can’t really compare it to anywhere else, but I know we’ve got some fine, generous people in our town. Got plenty of problems and bad elements too, but there seems to be a prevailing goodness here most of the time.”
Theo nodded again. “I confess, I came here with some preconceived ideas about the South — some good, some not so good — but the only ones I’ve confirmed so far have been the good ones. Golden strikes me as a nice place. The town is fortunate you stayed here all these years.
So, Asher, please tell me about yourself. I feel that I know a bit about you from seeing your art, but what is your story?”
“Well, it’s pretty simple, really. I grew up here in Golden. My parents did too. They were old blood in the community, so my roots are deep here. My mom was a homemaker mostly, but she was an artist too. She studied art in college, actually took some classes in Madrid, at the Prado. A lotta things were changing in our country at the time — ya know, political stuff in the sixties, Vietnam and such — but I never got
the sense she was very interested in all that.
“She was real tenderhearted and had a wonderful eye for beauty. She tried to pass that down to my brother and me. I don’t think there was a day when I was growing up that there weren’t vases full of flowers in our house. She was quiet, sort of melancholy in a way, but always pleasant.
“My dad owned an ad agency. He wasn’t an artist himself, but he appreciated talent. I was their first child. I was born just a few months after they married. It was something of a scandal in our little town, but they survived it.
“I have one brother, named Pearce. I’m not very close to him. I was drawn to the smell of paint and linseed oil. He was drawn to the smell of money. Not a bad guy, but he thinks that all of this,” Asher’s hand swept the room, “is a very questionable use of time. He’s a tough one. I understand you met his daughter, Minnette.”
Theo smiled brightly and nodded.
“I call her ‘the world’s greatest niece,’” Asher continued. “She’s had some tough knocks, but Brooke and I are crazy about her. She and my mom adored each other. Minnie and Gammy.”
Asher was not used to talking so freely about matters so personal. He would remark later that the old man listened in a way that made one dangerously willing to talk. A business partner had once described it as Theo’s superpower. It was fully functional as Asher continued his story.
“Anyway, I went to a small college to study art, and when I finished, I came back here, thinking I would only stay a while and then move to a big city and try to establish a reputation in a bigger market. I think a
lot of artists have that dream.”
Theo nodded.
“I ended up falling in love with a girl I’d known since grade school: Brooke. We got married, and we have one child, a daughter named Samantha. We call her ‘Sam.’ She’s a schoolteacher in South Carolina.”
“And your parents?”
“Well, my dad died not too long ago. He was sort of a soft-spoken, melancholy soul himself, but he was a good man and a good dad. He lived with me and Brooke at the end of his life. My mom died a few years ago of Alzheimer’s. I was fortunate I was always able to spend a
lot of time with her, especially toward the end of her life. Her mind was really gone, and she said some bizarre things, but she never got mean like some people do when they get the disease. It was hard on all of us to watch her trickle away, and it pretty much broke us financially, but I’m glad I was here. Up to the very end, she seemed to enjoy painting.”
Theo nodded. He had listened without a twitch.
“Your mother must have been very pleased you became an artist. You
were a fine student.”
Asher smiled. “I hope so.”
“I think maybe you don’t realize how gifted you are,” Theo said. He leaned slightly forward, as if to emphasize his point.
Asher smiled again, a bit embarrassed by the compliment. He made a sound somewhere between a chuckle and a sigh, then attempted a response.
“Well, I know I enjoy what I do, but I guess it’s for someone else to judge how good I am at it. That’s how the art world works, right?”
“Is it?” Theo shifted his weight in the arm chair. “Asher, let me ask it this way: from your point of view as a professional artist, what makes something ‘good art‘?”
“You should know better, Theo. Ask an artist what it takes to make good art and you’re almost sure to get an autobiography in response.”
Theo chuckled, and Asher continued.
“It’s hard enough to define what art is, much less ‘good art.’ I wonder if there is such a thing. Maybe there are just good responses.
But I guess if a work of art makes us see something familiar in a new way or makes us feel something we ought to have felt all along or shows us our place in the world more clearly, maybe then it qualifies as ‘good.’ If it makes us better somehow, maybe that’s what gives it value.”
Asher paused for a sip of coffee and to gather his thoughts before he continued. Theo remained silent.
“That means, of course, that ‘good art’ varies from one person to another, doesn’t it? And that good art can come from a child or a master. I don’t think the critics, especially the moderns, appreciate that idea very much. I think they like telling us what’s legitimate as art, what has worth and what doesn’t.”
Asher looked at the old man. “Theo, I get the impression you’ve thought about this before. What do you think makes for good art?”
Theo rested his chin on his right thumb and placed a bent index finger over his bottom lip.
“Yes, I have thought about it. In fact, I’ve thought about it a great deal. And I’ve asked others about it. But I don’t know if I have an answer either. Other than this. It might not make a lot of sense, but for anything to be good, truly good, there must be love in it. I’m not even sure I know fully what that means, but the older I get, the more I believe it. There must be love for the gift itself, love for the subject being depicted or the story being told, and love for the audience.
Whether the art is sculpture, farming, teaching, lawmaking, medicine, music, or raising a child, if love is not in it — at the very heart of it — it might be skillful, marketable, or popular but I doubt it is truly good.
Nothing is what it’s supposed to be if love is not at the core.”
Theo snickered at himself. “I think I sound like a crazy old man again.”
Asher shook his head. “Not at all. But I do wonder, Theo, how do you know if something has love in it?”
Theo nodded. “Yes, yes. That is the question, isn’t it? And I’m not sure I know the answer to that either. But God does.”
Asher looked into his coffee cup. “Hmm . . . I’ll have to think about that. It’s an interesting idea. One thing I do know with certainty is if ‘good’ means art that makes someone famous and sells for lots of money, I’m not a very good artist, certainly no master.”
Theo made no reply, other than a slight nod.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Asher continued. “I’m grateful for what I get to do. I’m a gainfully employed artist with a loyal clientele, good friends, and a beautiful family. You could even say I’ve been a successful artist. And I hope something worthwhile has come out of this studio over the years. But to answer your question, I have serious doubts about how ‘good’ I am. All of these unsold pieces around here would be an argument against me.”
Again, Theo nodded thoughtfully before speaking. “Don’t you think even the very great artists worked with many unsold pieces around them?”
Asher nodded. “Fair question. And yeah, they probably did. At least
until they died.”
A phone rang.
“Theo, forgive me. I meant to tell you. I’m expecting a call about a commission. Would it be OK if I check to see who’s calling?”
“By all means.”
Asher looked at his phone. “This is the call. It might take a little while. Make yourself at home, and feel free to look around. You can dig through the stacks, or go in the front rooms, whatever you’d like. I’ll keep this as short as I can.”
