The Art of Secrets (8 page)

Afterward, as the gym floor swarms with his teammates running drills,

Kevin Spoon, senior,

finally gets a chance to speak to the reporter again.

You know what's funny? I meant to tell you this the other day. My sister and I first learned about Louise Denison in
your
paper. This was last summer, long before we had any clue we might need her help. But the story really caught our attention because this woman's life sounded freaking awesome.

Do you remember the article? Ms. Denison has an “eye for art,” the story said, an “expert genius,” “glamorous globetrotter,” passionate advocate of self-taught artists who work in isolation. “Outsider artists,” the article called them, “whose work often isn't discovered until after the artist is dead.” The article said that Denison had just returned from India, where she had seen the work of a guy named Nek Chand, an ordinary government worker who spent half his life building this elaborate, whimsical kingdom in the woods near his house. Twenty-five acres, thousands of sculptures, gods, people, animals, made of cement, marbles, bottle tops, broken glass and tile, you name it. And the cool part was, he did it all in secret.

When Mom showed us the clipping, she told us, “Here's the perfect job for one of you.” The newspaper story included a big photo: two cement people, bug-eyed, straight nosed and long necked, covered head to toe in shiny beads. And dozens more just like them in the background.

I said, “Mom, do you want me to build you a secret kingdom in the woods?”

She was like, “No! Look, the art appraiser. She lives in Chicago, but she travels all around the globe, scoping out amazing art. And she gets paid for it. Who wouldn't want to do
that
?” She stuck the clipping on the fridge, between an article about a lady who designs super-tiny houses for rich people and one about the dude in Taiwan who invented Razor scooters.

So earlier this month, when we needed to have the Darger artwork authenticated, we were all like,
yes!
We knew exactly who to call.

My sister nearly flipped when she finally got to meet Ms. Denison. Kendra was all, “I gotta be honest. I want your life.”

“I want your
luck
,” Denison said. “You found this in an alley?”

After she authenticated the work, Denison told us that when a painting is not part of the artist's known body of work, then the painting usually doesn't have a title. Since this art was legit, she said, Kendra and I had the right to name it. Our book of Darger watercolors definitely needed a title before we auctioned it. I mean, to me, “Untitled” is about as interesting as a car without tires.

Kendra suggested something creepy like
Naked Girls Fight Off Old Men.
She said it would generate a lot of interest from the general public.

“But wait, are they
girls
?” I asked. “A certain part of their anatomy says otherwise.”

With a choking sound, Kendra indicated we had reached a place beyond her comfort zone. Mom said, “Now listen for a minute. The gender ambiguity doesn't suggest that Darger was a pervert. Just the opposite. The research suggests he was truly an
innocent.
It's possible this profoundly isolated man did not know there was a difference between boys and girls.”

Anyway, best way to put it was, the gender of the kids in the album was dubious.

Mr. Delacroix had shown us a list of Darger's titles. A lot of them don't make sense. Things like
At Jenny Richie.
Or
At Jenny Richie at Hard fury/2000 Feet Below.
Or
Sacred Heart: Battle of Marcocino.
The titles don't exactly roll off the tongue.

Darger also wrote a 15,000-page illustrated novel he called
Th
e Story of the Vivian Girls, in What Is Known as the Realms of the Unreal, of the Glandeco-Angelinian War Storm, Caused by the Child Slave Rebellion.

I mean . . . right?

Our mom knows way more about art than we do. She was an art major in college. No matter where we've lived, she's always taken us to museums and taught us about artists. Mom deserves the credit for coming up with the title we used:
Dubious Figures Frolic in a Fantastical Dreamscape.

The best part is thinking about what the money will mean to the Khans. They already moved into a new place. Picture it: This family goes from living in a cramped apartment in a so-so neighborhood to a Lincoln Park penthouse with marble floors and a sweeping view of Lake Michigan.

Kendra and I started this thing, and it's snowballing. Everybody is on board to transform this family's life for the better. And the Darger artwork . . . obviously, that's the key. We never could have expected that. It's like a magic rabbit yanked out of a hat.

To be honest, it still blows my mind that I am one of the people who got this going. For the rest of my life, no matter what else I do, I can tell myself:
How cool that you pulled that off. You changed that family's life.

Wait, sorry. That sounds self-centered. Your story isn't about us. Put it this way, maybe your story can be about what happens when people come together to help each other. Even people who don't really know each other. It's the power of teamwork, right?

Speaking of which, I should probably get onto the court. Otherwise, Coach P is gonna have me running drills until I puke.

Editorial: True art of people helping people

HIGH SCHOOL fundraisers typically don't make the news. After all, schools routinely plan events to help pay for sports programs, classroom computers, even music equipment.

But the upcoming charity auction at the Highsmith School on Chicago's Near North Side has made plenty of headlines this month. Among the items up for sale is a booklet of drawings by Chicago “outsider artist” Henry Darger (1892–1973). As numerous media sources have reported, the artwork was found in a discarded box left beside trash cans in a Lincoln Park alleyway. The drawings, which were authenticated this week, have been appraised at more than half a million dollars.

Darger's posthumous reputation among collectors is “one of the great stories of 20th-century art,” according to Mr. Jean Delacroix, an art teacher at Highsmith.

The discovery has brought welcome public attention to a fundraiser that is more remarkable for a completely different reason: All the money raised will go to one specific student. Not to extracurricular activities, not to infrastructure, but to the family of one sophomore girl who recently lost her home in a fire.

Sensitive to privacy issues, Highsmith officials asked that the student's name not be made public at this time. Besides, as Dr. Regina Stickman, the school's principal of nearly twenty-five years, told a reporter, “One family's tragic fire is not the story. The real story here is the inspiring response to the fire.”

Dr. Stickman stressed that students, not administration, are leading the effort. “What's happening this month says something important about our school culture,” she said. “Our curriculum is designed to make ordinary students into extraordinary citizens—and we are succeeding!”

“We want to help,” said Kevin Spoon, a senior basketball player who has helped to organize the effort. “It's the power of teamwork, right?”

His sister, Kendra, agreed. “This family needs help. We can make this story turn out okay.”

These Highsmith students deserve an A+. The Darger artwork may add a splash of colorful glamour to this fundraiser, but we should not lose sight of the bigger story: the simple, shining example of caring young people at Highsmith who came to the aid of a peer.

In a society that focuses too much on results and outcomes, it's easy to get distracted by celebrity names and out-of-the-blue financial windfalls.

This Thanksgiving weekend, we give thanks for good intentions.

For those of us at the
Tribune
who are proud Highsmith alums—and there are quite a few—this act of altruism renews our faith that the sacred honor of Highsmith students still burns bright.

The auction is planned for Saturday, December 15. For information about bidding or donating, visit the Highsmith School website or contact the school directly.

Chicago Tribune
, November 25

Late on
Friday
, NOVEMBER 30, curled up on a bed that feels several sizes too big,

Saba Khan, sophomore,

stares out the window at the vast, black lake.

I've already gotten used to this million-dollar view. For a while, it made the obstacles in my life seem almost manageable. But on a snowy night like tonight, I can't see anything in the distance but darkness + ice. Maybe the lake will be beautiful in summer, but it looks scary now, miserable + cold.

When we 1st heard all the talk about an “art treasure” at school, I didn't believe the paintings could be meant for my family to keep, or sell. I figured whoever owned them before would want them back—or the Spoons would want to keep them for themselves. But that didn't happen. Ammi + Papa tell me not to worry about it or question it. “It's God's plan,” they say.

Is that so? Does that apply to everything? Because evidently it was also God's plan to provide me with my own personal
hottie giant
who hangs around my locker + sends flirty texts + carries my empty tray to the nasty conveyer belt after lunch. (Psst, I owe you 1, God.) If Ammi + Papa knew about Steve + me, they would not jump on board with God's plan. They would freak. Ammi wants to manage my life the way she manages her kitchen. She says, “You will understand, baby, someday.”

But I don't understand. Just like she wouldn't understand.

I didn't even see the Darger watercolors until after I learned they were valuable. Someone had decided the artwork should be locked up safely until the auction, so they moved the album into the gym office, along with the theater club sound equipment, cash boxes from basketball games + the popcorn machine. Usually I like being in the gym office, any chance to visit the big can of tennis rackets Coach P keeps for us. I always check that my lucky pink Wilson hybrid is tucked in the back, waiting for spring. Waiting just for me.

Coach P put the Darger album on an easel, borrowed from the art annex. Mr. Delacroix added a box of rubber gloves so that any visitor who had gotten permission could look through the album without damaging it.

The first time I went, I expected the pictures to be the prettiest thing I ever saw. The pictures were not pretty. Maybe there was something sweet about the girls, how carefree they seemed at the beginning. The setting was dreamlike + beautiful, like illustrations from a children's book.

But the fighting + the violence were shocking. I wouldn't want Salman to see it.

As soon as I saw the paintings, I wished we could sell them as quickly as possible. Auction them as a set, or individually, it didn't matter. We would use the money to invest in my family's dreams + turn something traumatic into something good. Best of all, we would take control of our lives again—not sit waiting, like pathetic spiders on a window ledge, for the wind to come along + carry us somewhere new.

Every few days, I went back to the gym to look at the paintings. Each time I looked at those strange, violent images, I had 2 distinct thoughts: 1) I will never, ever understand the art world; + 2) this ugly story was the story of my beautiful future.

Then today everything changed. The moment I entered the gym, Coach P stopped me—literally stood in my way + blocked me from entering the office. She put her heavy arms around me. At 1st I thought she was only going through another of her bizarre crying fits. I've gotten used to it. “I'm so, so sorry, hon,” she said, pulling me close.

“I'm feeling OK today, Coach,” I said. “Really.”

“Gone,” she whispered into my ear. “All gone now.”

I felt smothered in the colossal expanse of her boobs. I had to crane my head back, away from her, in order to breathe. “Things are being replaced,” I said. “We have what we need. Don't worry.”

“Saba, no,” she said, taking me by the shoulders. “Listen to me now. I am talking about the art.”

When I asked her what she meant, she let out a mournful little squeal, like air released slowly from the pinched mouth of a balloon. I couldn't imagine what she was talking about.

“Someone . . . or some ones . . .” she said gently. “They took it.”

I pushed her arms away + ran into the office to see the easel for myself. It was empty.

Coach P followed me, saying, “It must have happened during one of the PE sections today. And now it's gone . . . gone . . . gone.” The balloon began its slow sad squeal again.

I reached for the edge of her desk to steady myself. I didn't know if I could make my feet move forward, 1 step at a time, out of that office. My hands slowly searched my body for my phone. I needed to talk to Steve, or Beti, or Kendra. Anyone. I wondered if the school had called Ammi + Papa yet.

Gone—gone—gone.

The ordinary hallway suddenly seemed dangerous to me, full of strangers. My eyes scanned the passing faces, searching for—what? How was I supposed to know what the face of a thief looked like?

All at once, I stopped dreaming impossible dreams for my family + instead I began to pray. The shift was automatic, a comfort.

Maybe this is what Ammi + Papa mean by “God's plan.” When someone else's dream conflicts with my dream, God decides whose dream wins. I haven't stopped praying since.

ACT II