Earth Colors (18 page)

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Authors: Sarah Andrews

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“And weren’t they? Why not?”
Mr. Hauser’s grin broadened until his eyes were merry little dots. “Because that wasn’t the only place the stuff was coming from. You see, during the mid-1800s, when chromite mining was at its height, Baltimore was also growing at a terrific clip. They needed more solid ground for building. Baltimore sits at the boggy edge of the Chesapeake, so they had some baylands to fill. And what nice, solid fill material was handy? Why, the tailings from the chromite milling! Half of downtown Baltimore is built on chromite rubble, and there’s no way the EPA is going to get those towering buildings to lift up their skirts while we sweep away the floorboards they’re standing on. So as groundwater percolates through the ground Baltimore is built on, it acts like one, big, nasty tea-bag spewing that carcinogen right into the Bay.”
“Martin,” said Mr. Carter, “Miss Hansen will think your amusement over the fouling of the Chesapeake rooted in psychopathic glee.”
“No, sir,” he replied. “This is how perfectly healthy scientists speak
when discussing the human comedy. Certain tensions inevitably erupt around our attempts to fix errors made in prior ignorance, and a delight in irony can dispel the irritation built up while dealing with the zeal of regulatory agents who too often take the attitude that retroactive righteousness is a proper cure for the environmental woes that betide us all. In the 1800s, humanity wanted chromate, and the demand created an economic basis for mining, refining, and manufacturing products from it. Unfortunately the technology used had an unintended side effect, namely the release of toxins that were not understood until people and oysters began to show illness many decades later. Sadly, the cost of cleanup probably dwarfed the profits made in the heyday of production.”
“So the chromate was made into paint,” I prompted.
“Yes,” Mr. Hauser replied. “Nowadays chromite is a strategic mineral used in strengthening steel, but back then, much of it was processed into lead chromate, a lovely yellow pigment. Locally it was called Baltimore yellow, although with minute variations in chemistry the pigment has also been called Paris yellow, Vienna yellow, Cologne yellow, and even Leipzig yellow, not to mention king’s yellow, new yellow, Spooner’s yellow, and jonquil chrome yellow.”
“All those names for one pigment?” said Mr. Carter, the corners of his mouth crimping into a smile. “Really, Hauser, you’d think you chemist fellows would get together on your terminology.”
Mr. Hauser raised a finger in mock schoolmaster severity. “There exists a solid solution between lead chromate and lead sulfate. The more lead sulfate you add, the lighter your tone, transiting primrose yellow to lemon yellow. And really, Carter, why be such a curmudgeon? Can’t each city have its own special tint?”
“Ah, well,” said Mr. Carter, “I’ll go with Washington jonquil chrome yellow.”
“No,” said Mr. Hauser. “There are no colormen or chemists making pigments here in our nation’s capital. We’ll have to rely on Baltimore to defend our chromatic honor.”
“What luck to meet you here,” I said. “I can’t imagine even knowing to ask to speak with a chemical engineer about this topic.”
Faye’s great-uncle preened. “The Cosmos Club was founded to promote social and professional congress between scientists.”
I wondered if there was a chapter on lead chromate in the
Artists’ Pigments
volumes. “So lead chromate had not only the offending hexavalent chromium, but also good old lead, a nice, toxic, heavy metal.”
Mr. Hauser’s cheeks went into shiny apples as his smile again brimmed with enthusiasm. “My dear, surely you’ve noticed that a great many of the classic mineral pigments are salts of heavy metals.”
“Salts?”
“Why, yes, in the chemical sense.” He picked up the saltcellar from the center of our table. “This is what most people mean when they say ‘salt’: Table salt, sodium chloride. NaCl. One sodium atom to one chlorine. As a geologist, you’d call it by its mineral name, halite. But chemically speaking, a salt is any metal atom joined through ionic bonding to a nonmetal. In the case of lead chromate, the chromate ion acts as the nonmetal. But take your other classic pigments, especially the reds: Vermilion, that’s mercuric sulfide. Realgar, another source of red, is arsenic sulfide. Your most important white is lead carbonate. They don’t call cadmium yellow ‘cadmium yellow’ for no reason; it’s cadmium sulfide. Mercury, arsenic, lead, cadmium, all heavy metals. Other important pigments are salts of strontium, cobalt, antimony, copper, zinc, titanium, barium. A whole host of heavy metals, most of them as toxic as all get-out.”
He leaned back and chuckled. “It’s all chemistry. By taking the materials from their native states and spreading them on canvas, you’re starting a chemistry experiment. You see, from the moment you grind your pigment—or dry it out of your washing bath, in the manufacturing plant—and expose it to air, or your wetting medium, or to the other colors you put around it, in the case of artworks, you continue your chemistry experiment. Everything attacks it. Light, heat, moisture, the sulfur in the air. And what happens? Your pigment reacts. So you want the least reactive molecule you can get that still has the color you want. It’s just basic chemistry,” he concluded, quite pleased with himself.
I glanced at Mr. Carter. He was starting to nod off in his chair. Mr. Hauser followed my glance and patted his friend on the wrist. “Wake up there, Carter, it’s time for you to go home.”
We ended our party then, and agreed to meet again the next evening, this time beginning our occasion as a threesome. Both gentlemen simultaneously tried to give me directions regarding how to travel via foot and the Metro from the Dupont Circle station to the National Gallery of Art,
but could not agree. “George in the lobby can help you,” Mr. Carter said, winning the debate.
“Yes,” added Mr. Hauser, his cheeks turning into apples again. “Let George do it. That’s what we always like to say around Washington.”
On that effervescent note, we all nodded like so many penguins and toddled off toward our separate accommodations for some much-needed sleep. I had miles to go the next day, and people to see, but three steps up from the lobby floor, I turned and asked, “Oh, by the way, did the Krehbeil family have any interests in the chromite industry in Baltimore?”
“Krehbeil?” Hauser asked, standing half in and half out of the front door of the Cosmos Club. “Why, certainly, my dear. William Krehbeil founded Chromium Exporters, Incorporated.”
“I don’t know that company,” I said politely.
Hauser smiled. “It’s what we called Chromex before it was called Chromex,” he said, then bowed, put on his hat, and headed down the walkway toward the street.
Gamboge is a transparent dark mustard yellow pigment derived from trees in Southeast Asia. An organic resin, it is soluble and therefore best suited for use in watercolor. In modern times, it has been replaced by synthetic pigments because of its extreme toxicity.
—from the files of Fred Petridge
DEIRDRE SPREAD A THIN LAYER OF MARGARINE ON THE BREAD SHE had purchased at the day-old store. She then spread an exceedingly fine glaze of last summer’s strawberry preserves across it, took a miserly nibble from one corner, and contemplated every item large and small that filled her with rage. Such as the fact that the preserves were almost gone, and next year’s crop was not yet flowering. Her feckless son had eaten nearly all of it. She would have to hide this last jar from him.
Moving on to a more perennial loathing, there was just how deeply she hated her brother William. All of her hard work had stacked itself into a towering cliff that overhung his hard-headed selfishness.
Precious William. God wasted charm and talent on you, boy. What have you done with it? Nothing. You loll about with your fancy pals in the museum set, and Mother thinks you’re as clever as clever. Is she interested in what I studied in college, or what jobs I have slaved at as I’ve struggled to save this farm?
And then there was that woman who had come on Monday morning.
Out of nowhere! Imposed herself on this household. Snooped all around; I know it! I’m not fooled! How much did she see?
The two irritants became fused in the hardened muscle she called her heart.
Something has to be done!
Having finished her breakfast and hidden the jar of jam in the back of the refrigerator, Deirdre rose and started running water into the sink to do her dishes. As she soaped the plate on which she had served herself toast, the dish slipped from her hands and broke in two against the porcelain.
“Damn!” she shouted. She picked up the two pieces and hurled them onto the floor, shattering them into much smaller parts.
Deirdre’s daughter walked into the kitchen. “Ho, Ma, what’s up with that?” she asked, dodging the sharp chips with her bare feet.
Deirdre’s lungs heaved with emotion. She leaned on the sink a moment, then dropped backwards into the nearest chair at the table. “I can’t feel the dishes anymore,” she said angrily. “They slip out of my hands. My hands are totally numb now.”
Her daughter put a hand on her shoulder. “Aw, Ma. You loved that pattern, too. Was that the last one without a chip?”
“Yes.” Deirdre’s voice came out high-pitched, pitiable.
Her daughter massaged her shoulders a moment. “Have you been to the doctor lately?”
“No,” she scolded. “He knows nothing.”
“I thought he wanted to test for lead.”
“Where would I have gotten that?”
“I don’t know … the old paints in the woodwork?”
“I’m hardly given to chewing the windowsills.” She glared at the closest one. “It could use a little paint, though, eh?”
The younger woman nodded. “Yeah. There’s lots of things that need fixing around here, Ma. Maybe it’s time to hit up Uncle Tert for a loan, don’t you think?”
Deirdre’s voice dropped to a growl. “I will ask nothing from your uncle! Nothing!”
“It was just an idea, Ma. Don’t go biting my head off.” She sat down and poured herself a bowl of cereal.
Deirdre said nothing more. She sat and watched the sun rise through the leafless trees near the spring.
The elephantine sounds of her son’s descent of the aging wooden stairs broke the silence. Deirdre heard the front door open and slam, heard his
car start, heard the diminishing sound as it exited the driveway and moved off down the road. Silence once again settled on the room except for the clinking of her daughter’s spoon against the bottom of her cereal bowl and the occasional slurp.
Presently, having unceremoniously finished her breakfast, Deirdre’s daughter shrugged her way into a jacket, said a cursory good-bye, and left.
Deirdre stared down at her hands. They might as well have been someone else’s.
She’s right
, thought Deirdre.
It is time I called brother William
.
I WOKE UP EARLY, SICK WITH WORRY OVER SLOANE RENEE Latimer. I knew that Faye was a good mother in all ways except one: She had taken her baby to stay with a man I did not trust, and my anxiety over her safety woke me long before the alarm.
I lay on my back, staring into the darkness, trying to figure out anything I could do that I was not already doing. I itched to telephone Faye, but waking her early was no way to convince her that I was anything but insane. How could I regain her confidence and get her and her infant away from this man who might …
Might what?
I asked myself.
What exactly is he capable of doing?
As it grew light out I rose and showered and put on a nice pair of corduroy slacks, but kept the dress pumps, knowing I was going to hate myself as my feet swelled over the course of the day. I didn’t like torturing myself, but I was more than a little nervous about meeting with the conservator at the National Gallery of Art; and for reasons I’ve never understood, the thing I worry about most when meeting strangers is whether or not my feet are properly dressed. Like they’re really going to be looking at my feet.
The evening before, on my way to dinner, I had stumbled across a room on the ground floor of the Cosmos Club that had a computer, and now I found my way back there and typed my way onto the Internet in search of e-mail messages from Jack. I found one:
Dear Em,
Another day here and lots to do, but just wanted to take a moment
to talk to you. I have sorry news. My friend Bill who’s here needs to get home, and there are just the two of us at our level, so one of us has to stay. I know you’ll understand. Bill’s wife had a baby just before he came out here, and he needs to be back there, watching the little one learn to walk and all the wonderful things that babies do. So I’ve volunteered to stay a little bit longer, just to make sure he gets clear and gets home, then I can start my release campaign again. Not much else to report. The food’s lousy and my bed is lonely.
Love always, Jack
The only replies I could think of were,
Guess my life is less important than this guy Bill’s,
which sounded peevish, and
Guess you have to do what you have to do,
which sounded final.
I stared into the screen for a while, then shut down the computer and quietly left the room.
I headed out the front door of the Cosmos Club and walked down Massachusetts Avenue toward Dupont Circle, passing rows of elegant old mansions, half of which appeared to be embassies. It began to dawn on me at last that I was in the nation’s capital. I found the Metro. I negotiated the purchase of a ticket from a vending machine. I read the map on the wall. I got on a train. I got off and climbed the stairs back up to street level. I turned, oriented myself by a map of Washington I had purchased in the bookstore in Lancaster, and headed toward the Mall, that long, narrow park around which the principal buildings and museums of Washington were built.
The weather was brisk, and the only people that were about jogged along in tights, fleece jackets, and various descriptions of casual headgear. Not a one smiled or looked at me as they passed. I put on my city face and quit trying to make eye contact.
I glanced at my watch. Just past eight. My meeting was not until ten. It seemed that business was not done in Washington at this hour.
I reached Pennsylvania Avenue and glanced right, wondering if I could see the White House. I saw only big, important-looking buildings, looming above the street as if in competition to be the most imposing. Soaring pillars supporting carved pediments faced off against modern expanses of glass. Orienting myself by the building where I would meet at ten with Emmett Jones, I crossed into the Mall between the old and new buildings
of the National Gallery. Alongside the stolid neoclassical traditionalism of the old, the new was soaringly modern, all glass and wild angles.
I hiked right past them to the center of the Mall. I turned left. I stared up toward the Capitol. Sure enough, there it was, all ice-cream white, just like on the postcards. In all my thirty-eight years I had never seen it, and it struck me as absurdly comforting to know that it was real. Turning 180 degrees, I faced down toward the graceful needle of the Washington Monument. That was real, too, and both imposingly tall, compared to the buildings that surrounded it, and laughably short by the standards of modern skyscrapers.
Oblivious of what it was going to do to my feet, I began to stride toward the needle, soon lengthening my stride with the exhilaration of moving through all the human history and achievements the museums had been built to celebrate. On my left I passed the American Indian Museum, the Air and Space Museum, Arts and Industries, the Hirschorn, the Smithsonian Castle, the Freer. To my right lay the Sculpture Garden, the Natural History Museum, and the Museum of American History.
Now I crossed Fourteenth Street and walked up the lawn to the Washington Monument. I mean I walked right up to it, passing in between the big, ugly, cement highway barriers that had been put there to deter terrorists, and, stepping right up to the base of the thing, I stuck my nose right up to it, because I wanted to know what the building was made out of. It was marble, nice, white, metamorphosed limestone with big, fat crystals all dressed to a smooth face. I stared up the edge and enjoyed the intersection of stone and sky.
From the lawn beyond the Washington Monument, I could finally see the White House. It was a nice enough view of a not-terribly-interesting bit of architecture, and I found myself wondering what all the fuss was about. Its frail grace was besmirched by a string of ugly barriers, as if in a state of siege by an unseen foe. Anger rose within me as I thought of Tom. No guards or barriers had protected him.
Confused by my anger, I got out my map and made a straight hike down the Mall toward a special destination: the Vietnam Veteran’s Memorial. To add to my confusion, the cherry blossoms had burst in their ritual of rebirth and the day was warming nicely. Joggers and bicyclists sped past cars that cruised along the tidal basin, lining up to see the gorgeous row of blooming trees.
By the time I arrived at the memorial, I was thinking not only of Tom and Jack but also of Frank Barnes, and his brother and all the friends he’d lost in Vietnam. My hands balled into fists of anguish for the Frank who had left and came home caring too much. The Frank who needed someone to love. The Frank who loved babies. He had traveled to distant shores back when I was just a child because he loved his country, had suffered fear in the jungles, and had come home chased by a thousand ghosts.
The Vietnam Veteran’s Memorial was not tall, like Washington’s monument, but low, a slash in the earth. Before me stretched a long canyon of black stone, its polished faces incised with the names of the dead. I entered its depths in silence, and by the time I reached the middle, my face was wet with tears for an entire generation scarred by a war that had mired them in shame.
I stumbled onward to the Lincoln Memorial and climbed the steps, looking to rest for a moment by the great man’s feet, and was rewarded by his immense stone likeness waiting cool and serene behind Ionic columns. Lincoln’s visitors moved about quietly, as awed by his immensity as visitors to the Vietnam memorial were moved by its gravity. A woman bent over her tiny son, reading the Gettysburg Address aloud, explaining Lincoln’s words to him. A Japanese tourist took flash pictures.
I read Lincoln’s speech, too, and discovered that in this setting, it carried a whole new meaning for me. He spoke of the nation’s grief over lives lost in war, and urged humankind to rise from its ashes.
I began to feel overwhelmed by the conflicts of human history, a sensation I had avoided in all my years of thinking in the much broader timescale of geology. I sat awhile on the steps, facing back up the Mall toward the Capitol, contemplating how far I’d come in building my life, and wondered whether life was truly just an accidental accumulation of molecules, or was in fact the big string of lessons some religions said it was.
I was in love with Jack, but loving him had led me into danger, and Tom had followed. On this early-spring morning, as I looked down the length of the Mall, I saw how much of my life was in a shambles. So much was in a state of flux. The moments of my life seemed to stretch out before me like so many stepping-stones, leading away. And yet I knew what always brought me back to center: I always followed my heart, and my heart always brought me home again to myself.
Where was home? Was it here on the Washington Mall, being American with the rest of America? Or was it something even bigger than that?
I smiled softly, enjoying the moment of clarity, even if what I saw in it was uncertainty.
The sun climbed higher in the sky, chasing the coolness of shadows underneath the budding trees. Traffic was increasing on the roads and footpaths. I glanced at my watch. It was time to head out if I was going to look at Catlin paintings at the Renwick before my appointment at the National Gallery, but yet I sat a while longer and savored a moment of quiet in all the rush and noise that was my life.
 
 
I HEADED OUT across the lawns of the Mall toward Pennsylvania Avenue. Catlin’s portraits had been hung at the Renwick, a small satellite gallery of the Smithsonian’s American Art Museum.
I expected at most a ten-minute walk, but after ten minutes I was not even clear of the Mall, so I got out my map and plotted the shortest route, which, it seemed, would take me right past the White House. As I approached that building, I was turned away by a man in uniform. “You can’t go through here,” he said, indicating the public sidewalk on the other side of the street from the edifice.
“Why not?”
“
He
’s coming through,” the man told me, and made one of those
Move along now
gestures that Irish cops make in B movies.
“Oh
he
,” I said. “When?” As in,
Should I just wait a moment?
The guard evaded my gaze and shook his head. “Don’t know. Can’t say,” he replied, his voice flat, either with condescension or boredom, I was not sure which.
Anger boiled up inside of me. I wanted to tell him,
I may be just a hick from Wyoming, but all I want to do is use a public sidewalk to walk along a public street to get to a public art exhibit—all of which are supported by the taxes I pay every time I’m lucky enough to get a job. You’re telling me that one man who lives on the other side of that big iron fence and the goons who handle him are so wigged out about getting shot at that they see fit to inconvenience the everyday business of hundreds of thousands of his fellow citizens! Why doesn’t he go live at Camp David and have those who don’t need quite such high security come to
him?
Rage rolled over me in waves. I began to tremble.
Dear God
, I thought,
this is supposed to be a center of strength and power, but it’s just as shook up and scared as I am
. The urge to run home to Wyoming all but flattened me to the pavement.
The cop now made a gesture that said I should get moving,
right now
.
Moving like an automaton, I started the long detour around the White House barricades. By the time I was halfway around, I had not yet even glimpsed the façade of the Renwick Gallery. It was time to make a beeline for the National Gallery of Art and my appointment with Emmett Jones, conservator.
So much for the Catlins
, I told myself.
Maybe I’ll have time this afternoon, after my trip to the FBI
.
I made it to the National Gallery by ten, but it took until twenty minutes after the hour to get all the way inside. Code Orange meant that I and a great crocodile-walk of other citizens had to wait in line, pass through a metal detector, and allow a uniformed matron to search our bags. Having made it through this screening, I then presented myself to another uniformed guard, who directed me to the security office, where I had to show identification, sign a form, and otherwise subject myself to scrutiny. Apparently deemed non-threatening, I was issued a visitor’s pass on a long plastic neck chain and finally was escorted by a guard with a squawking radio downstairs into the basement. Beyond a heavy door lay the Conservation Department, where a young woman with a big smile greeted me and showed me a place to wait, as if it made her deliriously happy to do so. She offered me a seat while she rustled up Emmett Jones, whom, she explained, was, “With somebody. Being chief of the department keeps him very busy. But he won’t be long.”
I nodded meekly. Even the basement of the building was grand, and I confess to feeling quite intimidated. But when the Chief of Conservation of the National Gallery of Art strolled up to fetch me, he put me entirely at ease. “Hi, I’m Emmett Jones. You must be Em Hansen,” he said, extending a broad hand to be shaken. “So,” he said, leading me into his office, “what can I do for you?”
Taking in his soaring bookshelves filled with reference texts, I said, “I’m looking for some help understanding Remington’s use of color. From a geological standpoint, that is. I’m wondering what pigments he used; which were natural mineral pigments, and which synthetic? And, if possible, I’d be curious to know where his paints came from.”
Emmett pointed to a framed photograph of an artist’s palette, a classic kidney-shaped blade of wood with a thumbhole. “He left four palettes, you know. Here’s a photograph of one of them. He died suddenly, so you can see that the paint was still on it, exactly as he’d laid it out for use. And he left some paint tubes as well.”

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