Delights: July 15 to July 21

July 15: I really (really) wanted to take a nap this afternoon. (I was still recovering from yesterday’s toddler playdate and a big outdoor screen-cleaning project involving lots of 40 Mules Borax.) But a glance at the National Gallery of Art’s website confirmed two things: that the acclaimed Afro-Atlantic Histories exhibition would close imminently and that I absolutely needed to see it.

The galleries vibrated with people studying, discussing and photographing everything. I found a wonderful David Driskell, an unusual Alma Thomas, and a vivid Jacob Lawrence (had I seen them at the Phillips’ exhibitions?); a spectacular story quilt by Faith Ringgold; a sitting child by William H. Johnson; and a shimmering masterpiece by Romare Bearden. Old friends. And I found amazing pieces from Brazil, Uruguay, Haiti, Africa, and the United States. This two-minute tour can give you a tiny taste. I’ll sprinkle my favorites below.

The one that captivated me, though, was a contemporary piece that wedded bitter history with wry humor. The artist, Glenn Ligon, reimagined handbills that had been used in the 19^th century to find enslaved “Runaways,” as the piece is called. Each lithograph features a stock printer’s image and a description of the “runaway,” in this case the artist himself through the eyes of his friends. Ligon’s friends offer quirky descriptions and sometimes disagree about his height, build, coloring and even his personality. The context is grotesque — and the content is hilarious. 

This piece works on so many levels. I confess I linger here: How do our friends see us? What would they say are our defining traits? How would our friends translate our uniqueness into a handful of effective words? Where do they disagree? Would they miss us if we ran away?

Bonus: I had depleted my last museum reserves and now teetered toward the exit. But through a series of galleries I saw the large James McNeill Whistler painting known as “Woman in White.” I sighed. Yes, the National Gallery of Art had just launched an exhibition centered on that piece. I’d find the energy to visit today.

As I approached through the gallery arches, I saw a security guard peering closely at the work. She’s really into brush strokes, I guess. I trudged onward. And then I stopped abruptly. This work, which I’d seen a dozen times framed by those arches, had altered before my eyes. I suddenly realized that the security guard was transfixed by thousands of bits of glossy paper torn from magazines to simulate Whistler’s painting. I joined her, incredulous. We bowed and stretched together, pointing and gasping, stepping back and boring in as close as we could. 

My camera won’t capture the wonder of this work, by American artist Vik Muniz. The collage is on loan to the National Gallery of Art to fill the void left by the real Woman in White (while she anchors the Whistler exhibit elsewhere). The Whistler exhibit closes in October, and then the Muniz will be whisked away. I’ll probably get to the Whistler exhibition. But I’ll definitely return to the Muniz.

Double Bonus: True to last week’s resolution, I asked the security guard what her name is. And then I told her mine. My new friend Kamica and I chatted for a long time — and she directed me to her other favorite piece. Happily, it was near the exit. 

July 16: In just two days, our local hardware store had repaired our patio screen doors. And they look great! But, alas, I discovered a missing track wheel just as Kevin and I were about to reinstall them. I returned to the hardware store, leaned the beautifully screened (but still broken) door against an outside wall, and went inside. 

The hardware store guys and I have known each other for years. (I used to purchase dried ears of corn for a local 19^th century barn museum I helped manage, but that’s a different story.) Out back, John thought he could replace the wheel and invited me to wait. No problem. Then he hoisted a garage door I’d never noticed before and revealed the store’s inner workings. 

I am definitely one of those people who love small hardware stores. Maybe because, when I was little, our local hardware store man would always find a nickel behind my ear. Maybe I love the tiny (and huge) bits and bobs, each with a very specific job to do. (I especially love the tiny drawers with the screws, nuts, bolts and nails — and walking out of the store clutching four of them in a tiny brown paper bag for 32 cents.) Maybe I love wandering the four aisles knowing I’ll always find something I need. Or maybe I just cherish the friendly, knowledgable folks who work there. 

So, naturally, I gaped as I stood at the threshold of the cool dark room beyond. I saw supplies on racks and brackets, horizontal cubbyholes for storing pipes, homemade low-rise stairs, and a large platform that held next winter’s ice-melt bags and the screen door that John was about to inspect. 

In no time, John replaced the missing wheel. Hardware: $3.29; labor: no charge.

At home, Kevin worked his own magic, with lubricants and patience, to reinstall the doors and get them whisking back and forth. They’re beautiful. I don’t know why I waited so long to replace those screens. But my visit to the hardware store today was a lot more fun than the chore it bumped: cleaning out the refrigerator!

Bonus: Ok, about that 19^th century barn museum. In the wee City of Falls Church, Virginia, we have a farm house built around 1845 and a barn almost as old. The interior walls and floors of the barn are filled, floor to rafters, with 19^th century and early 20^th century tools and farm implements. My favorites are the manure shovels, shoe lasts, an enormous slicing mandolin, a winnowing fan machine (I finally saw how wheat was separated from chaff), a reproduction Sears Catalogue — and the corn shellers and grinders. For 25 cents an ear on Saturday mornings in the summer, children could shell, grind and bag corn. They could also weigh each other on a pig scale. This five-minute video of Cherry Hill Barn gives you a peek.

I used to manage the barn volunteers and took a lot of shifts myself. I especially loved rainy days when I was alone and free to explore all those tools, the Sears Catalogue, and the barn’s mortise and tenon construction. Oh, I miss it. Maybe I’ll wander by on Saturday and see what I can do to help out.

July 17: A gently clouded sky; a lightly crowded space; an abundance of time to sit and talk. Kathy, thank you for inviting me to the pool today. And a breeze-cooled beer on your porch was pretty nice too.

July 18: A liter of water spilled over Nate’s feet and under his backpack. Different water saturated my skirt and driver’s seat. We arrived at the house to find a lightning-fried modem and embarked on an emergency hour-long trip to get a replacement. Trying to reconnect our internet, Nate missed his evening appointments. I failed to reboot the TV and missed watching the Home Run Derby with Jeremiah. The fountain pump had stopped; will the pond be scummy tomorrow?

Maybe. For now, I’ll read about the construction of the Brooklyn Bridge. If they could do that, I can do this.

July 19: “Wanna go surfing at first light tomorrow?” Nate asked me last night. First light? Surfing? Of course.

This morning, we consigned first light to the sea gulls and declared 7:45 am the new dawn. Nate whipped up French toast and veggie sausage links for our breakfast. And now I sit in the early morning sun watching the surfers. The waves have already cooled my knees and splashed my swimsuit. Nate is maneuvering his surfboard; I’m hoisting my book. We are both content. 

July 20: My skin was starting to crisp. I’d been taking diagnostic videos of the wrong floppy-hat surfer. And my shady beach chair was far away. I decided it’s definitely ok to grouse in paradise.

Then I saw a “surfer dude” toy bobbing in the ocean a little farther than he should be. You’re supposed to fling them into the whitewater and they’ll glide back to you. This fellow, though, was heading to the real surfer lineup. A pair of sad grandparents stood next to me. “Does that toy belong to you?” I asked. They nodded, and I offered to retrieve it. The ocean was a bit choppy for my taste, but oh it felt divine. I pushed out through the waves and grabbed the little guy. “Our hero!” they said. “Truly,” I said, as the cool water purged my grousing, “the pleasure was mine.”

July 21: Consistent with our biannual tradition (December to buy Christmas presents and July to return them), Jeremiah and I browsed the Criterion Collection sale. Drive My Car, the award-winning 2021 film by Ryusuke Hamaguchi, was at the top of Jeremiah’s list. 

We found it, along with Double Indemnity (yummy film noir), Twelve Angry Men (because watching decent people listen to each other is soul-soothing), The Funeral (by the director of the adorable Tampopo) and The Last Waltz (because Bob Dylan and the Band always have a seat at our table).

I can see it now: some very rainy day, we’ll watch (again) all three hours of Drive My Car, then the three-hour voice-over commentary, and finally three hours worth of bonus material. We’ll stagger up from the couch — and then decide that a light Cary Grant-Irene Dunn film would be the perfect nightcap.

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