Part 1: Treasure in the storage unit
Finding lost art and bringing home more
The Thompson Lane Self Storage unit felt hot and airless that summer day. I’d been in the dim silence for a while, squeezing between tottering piles of old furniture and vaguely labeled boxes from my childhood home, which had also absorbed the lion’s share from both grandparents’ homes many years before.
I was looking for the oil portrait my great uncle painted of five-year-old me. Dad was certain he’d given it to me when he moved; I was certain he had not; and we’d searched our houses, basement to attic. This was the last place to look. Finally, in the furthest corner of the unit, I found a large crate of framed paintings and prints standing like records in a bin. There she was, waiting in the dark for me to come find her.
As the youngest, mine was the last of the eight oil portraits of grandchildren Uncle Goode painted for my Davis grandparents, who hung them together across a large wall of their living room.
I’d been pleased with the portrait, thinking it prettier than I actually was — except for the wisps at my hairline, which I resented for some reason. The dress had been my mother’s, impossibly fine batiste and lace sewn by my grandmother’s best friend, who we all called Baboo. Baboo taught Mom to sew equally exquisite baby and children’s clothes, virtually obsolete today, they’re so ironing-intensive. Even then, it felt like I was wearing the antique handkerchief of a long-ago queen. The necklace with tiny pearls had also been Mom’s, a gift her Granny brought back from a voyage to Asia.
I’d sit up on my knees on the sofa in my grandparents’ living room to examine my portrait closely, nose to the canvas, marveling at Uncle Goode’s painterly tricks. Pearls’ luster rendered with bare dabs of white paint. Tiny, blended brushstrokes to give the impression of lace, rather than the actual threads. It was magic to me.
The silver cup in my hand was a baby gift from my paternal grandmother, Grand E (for Evelyn).
It had also been her baby cup, a gift from her namesake aunt. This is engraved on the bottom with my grandmother’s birthdate, and my name and birthdate are engraved on the side:
The cup’s inclusion in the portrait was not planned. It was my parents’ quick-thinking when Uncle Goode asked them to find something to occupy my hands. Apparently, I already talked a lot with them.
Goode Paschall Davis, the closest to my grandfather of the eight siblings, was an artist and a colorful character. After several years on the west coast, he and Aunt Martha returned to Nashville, where they lived in a little house on Alton Road. In a studio converted from a garage out back, Goode made a living painting and drawing portraits.
I vaguely remember the initial photo session and at least one sitting in the studio as he painted. Aunt Martha calling out from the house like a gently scolding bird, “Goode!” to let me stop for a snack and a run-about (in that lovely, fragile dress). I came across the contact sheet of those portrait photographs years ago and seem to have hidden them from myself. My expressions were surprisingly goofy and self-assured, hands busy indeed. Uncle Goode did me a kindness, making me far more serene than I actually was.
For centuries, traditional oil portraits have signaled sophistication and prosperity. They still do, in some circles. In the South, where virtually all socializing was done in homes well into the 1970s and often beyond, the tradition held strong. From the ’50s until he died in 1989, Uncle Goode produced oil portraits for families, banks, law firms, social clubs, and the like. They’re excellent, if not as exceptional as his portrait drawings were. Clients who opted for a portrait in graphite or pastel — comparatively subtle, informal, and less expensive — got his very best work. Quieter and more intimate, Goode’s portrait drawings are hauntingly true. I particularly love this one he did of his little brother, my grandfather, John Paschall Davis:
More than any photograph, this captures the Gramps I remember. Uncle Goode gave him wispy hair, too. The way it curls behind his ear? My dad’s does exactly the same.
Uncle Goode also did my portrait in pencil, which Dad still has. It captures the true roundness of my cheeks and the serious, vaguely melancholy, expression I often still bear. That portrait is perhaps more true than I like, but isn’t this just the way of things?
Uncle Goode was in his 80s when he tried to help me salvage a hopeless self-portrait for my ninth grade studio art class. We sat side-by-side, trading the pencil back and forth. His clear, blue eyes revealed utter puzzlement at my struggle, as did remarks like, “well, you just do it. Like this,” and he’d take back the pencil, and I’d watch, equally puzzled how he thought I could “just do” anything of the sort. That’s when I understood that teaching is an art form all its own.
Uncle Goode painted more than just portraits, but they were his bread and butter. A more unusual project was designing the abstract stained glass windows for the sanctuary of the historic First Baptist Church in downtown Nashville. I never saw him more animated than when telling me the stories of Creation and Divine Revelation expressed in the colors of the glass, from base to the top of the windows. His eyes sparked, and his hands swept about, tracing the story’s progression. I was bearing witness to creative joy itself, bursting the confines of a man nearing his life’s end.
Back at Thompson Lane Storage — I placed my portrait to the side, a bit smug in anticipation of saying, “Guess what I found in your storage unit?” and decided to see what other pictures might be hiding in that crate. A determined tug freed a large, framed print of J.J. Audubon’s “Horned Grebe” that I’d always associated with my parents. I knew it had been a gift to them from Grand E. “They reminded me so much of the two of you,” she’d said. Even as a small child, I saw it, too.
Those who know my dad probably see why. Like the male Horned Grebe on the left, he is a bit formidable, tall with a booming voice. Fiercely intelligent, articulate, and prone to temper, Dad is a litigator, in and outside the courtroom. Few know that he is as gentle and intuitive as he is fierce and relentless, as caring as he is protective. His volume is rather like the Horned Grebe's bold feathers.
The female Horned Grebe on the right is petite and self-possessed, regarding her mate with keen understanding. Not meek, but thoughtful. My mother was all of these. She softened Dad's edges and wore the muted plumage graciously, her equally fierce initiative, intellect and dazzling curiosity shadowed in those feathers. Mom and Dad understood each other profoundly, inside and out.
As a very little girl, I knew I was like my dad — willful, outspoken, yet often shy; at times alarmingly fierce for a small person. These were liabilities for a girl. What I felt as disapproval was more likely warranted concern; my parents and grandparents knew the world — especially the South — did not welcome such girls. But there was no place in our family for shrinking, frivolous or intellectually lightweight females, either. It was a not uncommon girl conundrum; I just lacked a devil-may-care instinct to protect or propel me. Instead, I took it to heart.
If only I’d known — did Grand E or my parents know? — that female Horned Grebes have plumage just as bold as males, and males wear muted plumage in the winter, too. Both have seasons for color and quiet. Here the male and female are courting:
And here they are in winter:
If you’re wondering why Audubon painted them as he did (allowing for such angsty misinterpretations as mine), keep an eye out for part II of this story.
The timing of these findings was perfect. Eric and I were moving to a new home in our own season of shedding, determined to bring only essential and meaningful belongings with us. Here I’d discovered two, a portrait of little me and a metaphorical portrait of my parents, rich with memories and stories yet to tell. Lost and found. Or maybe they weren’t lost at all — just waiting for me to bring them home.
The Audubon print needed a new mat and frame, and the print itself was considerably darkened. It would benefit from professional cleaning, if it warranted the expense. Audubon prints are legion, ranging from rare and museum-caliber to mass-produced poster decor. I had a hunch this one might be closer to the former, given its clues, patina, and likely source in my grandmother’s parents. The prospect of an art mystery to solve sparked an excitement I hadn’t felt in decades.
The story continues: Treasures in the storage unit, part II
