“Beauty, in a way, justifies our existence.”
–François Cheng, Oeil ouvert et coeur battant
My cousin Robb and I grew up amongst lawyers. Drawn to the arts, we both forged paths that were atypical in our family. Robb became a painter, and I studied literature. We were both teachers.
Last week, Robb died unexpectedly. I feel the pain of this loss in my bones. And memories arise. When we were little, large family gatherings at Grandma and Grandpa’s farm were a wall of noise—wild children waiting for the Easter egg hunt to begin, or, in December, demanding to know when Santa Claus would arrive. We existed in a joyful, buzzing mass of cousins.
Happily, Robb and I got to know one another as adults. Once we met at Caribou Coffee and spent a few hours talking about our favorite museums and gossiping about our siblings. A few years back, I attended one of his shows—in a parking ramp! It was brilliant! The curvy, cavernous, concrete space allowed me to see the genius of his bright and bold paintings. To no one’s surprise, our cool cousin Robb put on a cool show. It is the most cosmopolitan Des Moines, Iowa has ever felt to me.
That evening, my brother and his wife purchased their first Robert Spellman piece, detail of which I share in this post. It hangs in their front hallway, and my eyes fall on it each time I enter their home. Robb left the painting untitled, explaining to my sister-in-law, “this started as a woman and morphed into so much more.” I see echoes of the organized chaos that defined the Spellman get-togethers of our childhood. In Robb’s energetic swirls, I see us charging through Grandma’s house, fueled by sugar and time with cousins. I sense the members of a family gathering around tables. In the center, I see Oneness.
My cousin experienced beauty and created beauty. There is also beauty in our grief. We loved Robb. He graced us with his attention, his presence, and his art. His life was beautiful, and he leaves beauty in his wake.
Inspiration
I am more productive and less grumpy when I take the time to orchestrate not sad desk lunches. Last week I slipped and found myself scrambling in the early afternoons. I ended up eating unmemorable and somewhat unhealthy food.
During my last visit to Paris, I spied a few of these messages of love, all sprayed by the same hand. They delighted me. Moving about Paris can be stressful, especially given the security measures of recent years—more soldiers, more police vehicles, more security checks. In short, more fear.
When I entertain, I almost always favor savory over sweet. I’d rather linger over a few small bites before dinner than serve a rich dessert after dinner.
Flea markets are therapeutic. My eyes do the initial sifting as I make my way down the aisles and through the booths. When I am drawn to an object—a hand-painted tray, a copper planter, a Limoges teacup—I approach for a closer look. Where was it made? What is its story? Can I make space for this object in my little house?
Oh, how I’d love to slip away to Melbourne for a weekend! Alas! Quick visits to Australia are out of reach for most of us in the Northern Hemisphere. But all is not lost. My memories and pictures bring me back to the mosaic floors of Melbourne’s elegant covered passages and its iconic street art. And in my Kentucky kitchen, I revisit a stunning meal shared with my good friends Stephanie and Jeremy.
The painting unfolded before me and in me.
“…I brought to my lips a spoonful of tea in which I had softened a piece of madeleine. But at the exact moment when the mouthful mixed with cake crumbs touched my palate, I shivered, attentive to this extraordinary thing that was taking place in me. A delicious pleasure had invaded me, isolated, no notion of its cause. It had instantly made me indifferent to the vicissitudes of life, made its disasters harmless, its brevity illusory, in the same way that love operates, filling me with a precious essence: or more accurately this essence wasn’t in me, it was me.” –Marcel Proust, Du côté de chez Swann
Then each one of us, […] will move back out on the pitch-black porch and let the body heat of the day leech from the house and our own bodies out onto the night, its billion singers—tree frogs, cicadas, the deathless crickets, the high whine of bats–” Renyolds Price, Outdoor on the Porch