Laid Bare: Essays and Observations (2 page)

We made a stop at the hardware store to try to find light bulbs for some lamps Pat and Sop had brought from Holland.  The hardware store is tiny by American standards but is the only game in town on Saba.  I noticed a lot of the items on the shelves are the Walmart store brand, Home Goods.  But while Sabans may be “living better,” they are definitely not “paying less.”  A tube of silicone caulk?  Ten dollars.  An eight foot pressure-treated 2x4?  Well, that’ll set you back a cool twelve bucks.  In the grocery store
eight dollars and fifteen cents
buys you a tin of Spam.  Since literally everything on the island has to be brought in, the markups are breathtaking.

It turned out Patrick’s lamps were fitted with a particular European-size socket.  The only option? Travel to St. Maarten—to the French side—and find them there.  So the lamps will remain dark until enough things are needed to warrant a trip over.  (Again, like the old west.)

After the hardware store we had to stop for gas.  The gas station is just outside the port down the hill from The Bottom.  The Bottom is something of a misnomer as the road from there to the port drops precipitously.  Steep, curvy and constantly threatened with huge boulders that careen down the mountain every now and then.

This week Saba is experiencing one of its periodic gas shortages, the reason for which I couldn’t quite glean, but it meant that one had to wait in line at
the
gas station and each car was allowed about seven dollars worth of fuel.  Until next week.  The needle barely moved on the gas gauge, so driving will be kept to a minimum for a while.

The port was hopping; the cargo ship was still in its berth, almost completely unloaded.  Cars and small trucks were parked here and there along the quay while their owners caught up with the news since last Wednesday.  I witnessed a lot of back-slapping and good-natured ribbing along with some late-morning beer guzzling between unloaded pallets of goods.  The men then took their turns retrieving their orders. The atmosphere here—with its combination of salt water and diesel fumes and workers calling to one another from the pier to the ship—brought to mind less an old western and more one of those steamy melodramas from M-G-M about characters getting into each other’s way and each other’s beds in romantic, remote outposts.  “Red Dust,” specifically.  Griffin, the man in charge, could have been Clark Gable had he been wearing a pith helmet and jodhpurs.   

Wielding a clipboard and an authoritative air, he checked the bill of lading and told Patrick the butter he had ordered was in the cooled container on the right-hand side of the ship.  Sure, we could just go ahead and get it ourselves.  (Imagine that in liability-crazed America!) We climbed onto the ship’s deck, dodged a couple of forklifts and walked over to the open door of the mammoth metal box.  There at the end of the empty container sat one lonely little parcel:  a taped-up cardboard box which originally held packages of Oreos with a hand-written sign taped to it:  “El Momo Cottages.”  In a movie, the image would have been accompanied by a clanging metal echo. We retrieved the butter and hopped back onto the pier. 

The other delivery we went to get—a new toaster—was buried somewhere on a pallet but we were on the clock and had to get back to make sure Patrick was there to greet the 11 AM arrivals.  So Griffin offered to bring it up to Windwardside with him when his work was done.  (As it happens, I just saw him drive by the café where I’m writing this so I may stop by and see if I can get it myself.) 

We headed back up The Road, dodging parked cars, oncoming traffic and even wild goats, and made it back to El Momo ahead of the new guests.

I always loved those “remote outpost,” “tramp steamer,” “isolated rubber plantation” black-and-white potboilers I used to watch on the Million Dollar Movie when I was a kid (all of which seem to have featured Thomas Mitchell.)  Even then I suspected the situations and locales were overly romanticized and the characters too broadly drawn.

After just one week on Saba I’m not so sure.  

HOUSES OF WORSHIP

There is a house in Pennsylvania. Discreetly placed in the forested hills at the western edge of the state, this house was conceived to be one with its environment while simultaneously enhancing its surroundings. It was built as a rarefied place where its owner could spend a few days unencumbered by the pressures of his life as a successful businessman. A house of serenity, this house.

There is another house in Missouri. Standing on the sere, open plains at the western edge of the state this house was not intended to blend into its setting. It was meant to be seen from afar as a beacon for those coming to pay homage to the building itself, and to the cultural phenomenon that financed it. A house of worship, this house.

As might be expected, both houses were conceived and built by men of determination and conviction. Their work was not something they chose to do; they were compelled by forces greater than they. One man by the gods of art and nature, the other by God himself.

Even the names of these buildings summon up ethereal, yet vivid, pictures when spoken aloud.

“
Fallingwater
”. Images of a never-ceasing cascade of bountiful water come rushing into one’s head; changing with the seasons, yet immutable in its purpose. Much as the water rushes over the exposed Pennsylvania schist, giving the house its name.

The other house is more… well, it’s kind of… Alas, my craft fails me when I try to describe this other place. So, I’ll let its name speak for itself: “
The Precious Moments Chapel
”.

A visit to both houses on the same cross-country drive prompted this writer to ponder how different these buildings--and the emotions they inspire--are, considering the seriousness with which both their creators viewed their commissions.

___________________

One afternoon in 1936 in Spring Green, Wisconsin, Frank Lloyd Wright’s assistant ran breathless into the master’s studio. Edgar Kaufmann, tired of the delays and evasions he had been getting from Wright regarding the plans for his new country house, was on his way from Madison, just over an hour away. Unruffled, Wright tore off the top page from his sketch pad and ran his palms—smooth with age—over the equally smooth vellum. Reaching for a brown pencil he began to sketch planes and shapes. A student poked his head in the door and was “
ssshh-ed
” by the assistant. Within minutes word spread that something of importance was taking place in the room just off the main dining area, and the drafting table was soon surrounded by eager young men. As Wright formed the last letters of “A House for Edgar Kaufmann” on the drawing, the wheels of a hired Cadillac limousine crunched on the gravel driveway outside. “Please show E.J. into the studio,” Wright calmly uttered as he placed the pencil back in its holder.

___________________

Midway through Ronald Reagan’s second term as president Sam Butcher, a multi-millionaire (thanks to his wide-eyed beige Precious Moments figurines), stood in the center of a crowd of fellow Midwesterners, his neck craned upward to take in the glory of the Sistine Chapel. He whispered to his wife, “Honey, have we got any Tylenol back in the room? I’m gonna have a heck of a headache by the time we get out of here.” Then he thought to himself, “Hmmm…. a painting on the ceiling. I’ll bet I could take that idea and really do something with it.” His mind started to race and a dream was born.

___________________

A small, nondescript sign on a quiet country road directs one to Fallingwater. The modest parking lot, large enough to hold only the vehicles of the small groups allowed to tour the house at any one time, leads to a tasteful visitor’s center. In addition to vintage photographs recounting the history of the house, there is a gift shop that sells monographs of the world’s greatest architects. Neutra, Gehry and Mies van der Rohe share shelf space with numerous books on Wright himself. A small concession stand offers cappuccino and biscotti.

___________________

The illuminated billboard on the interstate alerts the faithful that they are nearing their destination. Turning onto the secondary road one joins a caravan of cars whose license tags represent a panoply of these United States. Like the Magi drawn by the star, these weary travelers are united in the desire to witness the epitome of what they hold dearest. As uniformed attendants direct private cars to one parking area and chartered buses to another, the Visitor’s Center comes into view. A small village, really, the center is accessed by passing a fountain graced by three angels. Three
Precious Moments
angels. Oh, if they only sold something like this for the yard! Once inside, the streets are lined with quaint
shoppes
, each selling the same line of merchandise. Let’s get a bite before we go into the chapel. I feel faint just thinking about it, and it’s been 2 hours since we stopped at the Shoney’s breakfast buffet. Just a couple of hot dogs will be fine. Oh, and a diet Pepsi.

___________________

Walking down the wooded path, the house comes into view through the trees. The lines of the structure mimic those of the forest, so imposing as it is, one must stand directly in front of the house before the full grandeur of Wright’s masterpiece is evident. Entering the almost-hidden front door you find yourself in a small entryway from which you are propelled into a generously proportioned living room. The walls on three sides are made of glass, allowing the woods beyond to become part of the décor. The only sound is the endless splashing of water as it tumbles over the waterfall
underneath
the house. Wright built the house
over
the falls, rather than facing them.

___________________

Leaving the Visitor’s Center, the Chapel stands imposingly in the near distance, at the end of a forecourt lined with Precious Moments topiary figures. The carved wooden doors, featuring (oh, well… you know) open into the vestibule, where organ music is piped in. The guides corral the groups through the sides of the chapel. Traversing the interior perimeter of the chapel one can view Precious Moments-inspired tributes to all the dead (Christian) children who have been “taken too soon”, until, through a set of imposing doors, one is thrust into the main chapel. The Mecca of all
Pretiosus Momentus
.

___________________

Little artwork graces the walls at Fallingwater. For one thing, most of the exterior walls are glass, for another, few works of art could compete with the house itself. And, not insignificantly, Wright wanted it that way.

___________________

Every inch of wall space is enhanced with murals designed personally by Sam Butcher. The centerpiece of the room is a mural entitled “Hallelujah Square”, which depicts multitudes of angel children being welcomed into Heaven and invited to worship at the feet of Jesus Christ, who floats above the scene. The rainbow of facial hues runs the gamut from pale to less pale. But, wait! Yes, there
is
a little n-, uh, African-American child up there in the corner. Look, that’s him—the one playing basketball by himself.

___________________

The respectful comments elicited by the visit to Fallingwater are what one might expect from a group touring such a masterpiece: “
How
much did this place cost?” “I hope it doesn’t fall over the edge; at least until we’re outa here.” “Well, it might be okay if it had comfortable furniture.”

___________________

Visitors to the chapel, when they can speak at all, offer the kind of sardonic comment one might expect from a group touring such a monument to kitsch: “It’s so beautiful. I wish Emma could see this. You know she has one of the largest collections in the country.” “The colors are so bright.” “See, George, I told you you’d like art.” “I… I… I’m sorry, I promised myself I wouldn’t cry and here I am like a faucet.”

Huh?!

___________________

To paraphrase P.T. Barnum, no one ever went broke underestimating the taste of the American public. Both Fallingwater and The Precious Moments Chapel, are, in their unique ways, masterpieces. Both are products of men with driven minds and ideas set in cement. Oddly, the buildings share the same exterior color. But, beyond that, the two could not be more dissimilar. At both places I was momentarily filled with rage: in Pennsylvania while listening to the insipid comments and, in Missouri, witnessing the almost sensual outpourings of devotion lavished on such an affront to good taste.

But I do not despair. One can only hope that some future visitor to Fallingwater, dragged there by his/her spouse will look around and think, “Wow, this is pretty cool.” And I envision a fine golden day when one of the pilgrim ladies at the Chapel begins to giggle uncontrollably until, gasping for breath, she turns to her friend and says, “When we get back to Minneapolis, Emma, you and I are finally going to that art museum in the park. No, the
modern
one! With the big spoon. Lord, could I use a frank. C’mon!”

AN EMPTY BOWL

There is a water bowl that has been sitting on the front porch of my cabin in the Catskill Mountains for the past year. It’s beige earthenware and has D-O-G crudely stenciled on its side. I bought it last year at a Mom and Pop store in Hell’s Kitchen after returning from the National Tour of the show “42
^nd
Street.” No dog drinks from this bowl, even though it was meant for one: Dan, a cute little terrier mutt I adopted from an actress friend of mine.

Dan had a pretty sketchy history by the time he came to live with me. He appears to be a mix of (mostly) Chihuahua and Border terrier. Picture Toto if he had fallen in with the Bowery Boys and you’ve got Dan. As a puppy, he was discovered in a prison yard in Hartford, Connecticut by a work-release prisoner named Dan. Dan (the prisoner, not the dog) knew of a woman in town who rescued abandoned animals and then placed them with new owners.