23. Visiting Quan Yin

After walking Pedee to school that day I drove over to the museum to visit Quan Yin to make sure the decision I’d made was the right one.

In 1969 when I was ten, my mother smiled at the museum guard who knew her, and once he nodded, she took my hand a little too hard and we climbed three sets of marble steps. I felt breathless. My mother moved like the great blue heron taking five or six steps before flapping its wings above the salt marsh. Her friend Ada always told me Mom was their star docent. I wondered how she had memorized so many details and wished I could ask her now.

I had so many questions. Did they really bring the Egyptian temple across the ocean on a barge? What treasures could I find on my own? Wide wooden floors squeaked. Stone floors felt slippery and cold. The gold frames around paintings had gobs of flowers, birds, scrolling vines. Who would frame something with a simple black line back then? Nobody, if they wanted to make an impression. The first time I climbed that staircase to the top, the Rotunda felt like a lighthouse. She pointed out figures on the ceiling, so far away, I could barely see them.

“John Singer Sargent painted Athena,” she said. “See the cloak she’s holding to protect Painting, Sculpture and Architecture? Otherwise, Father Time might slash them with his scythe.”

My imagination turned this into “things that went on before we drove in cars and went out for ice cream at Friendly’s.” Over fifty years later, I heard my mother’s tone in me when I repeated the story to Pedee on one of our museum visits.

“Look up and you’ll see Athena protecting Art from Time.” This observation may have been related to why I worked so diligently on the 12^th century Chinese soldier. It made me feel like part of the family. My mother had taken it on herself, believing that if people understood Art was endangered, what would they do differently?

This day, with three days to go before flying to Wyoming, I sat on Quan Yin’s bench where I’d learned over the years, ask for what you want and maybe you’ll receive it.

I’d been lucky for much of my life to be able to play the Banyan card. Yes, my clients in the suburbs had heard of my great-grandfather but what they did not know was that Bradford Banyan changed his name from Bancroft to Banyan after an early trip to Japan. He had fought with his father over changing his career from lawyer to world traveler.

Banyan trees are known as ancestor trees. They are found all over Asia, believed to be haunted by spirits of the ancestors. Bradford Banyan redeemed himself by donating so many objects to start the Asian Wing—right around the corner from where we sat. I had thought of him more as a free spirit than a stuffy, entitled white man.

One day Pedee stepped with me into The Art of Europe Gallery after walking through the Rotunda. “Doro, someone needs to paint Black people on this ceiling. All those white people are boring.”

“I’ve told you; we’re never going to paint over Sargent. Is there something else we could change?”

She paused to stare at a late 17^th century tapestry called The Emperor on a Journey, where a group of 3^rd grade students stood with clipboards. Their teacher asked them how many animals they could find in the tapestry? One boy counted seven.

“Do you mean alive, or on a flag, or on that tent pole?” one girl, a budding perfectionist, asked. I identified with her. Pedee spoke up. “People need stories about their own lives.” The whole group turned to look at her.

“Good point,” I said, wondering what if no one in Pedee’s generation could relate to these historical or mythological subjects anymore?

***

That night scrolling on Facebook, I saw a dachshund and a turtle playing together with a rubber ball. Two different species can find a bond playing together, but will we young, old, white, and people of color manage to agree on realms of art we want to conserve? I recalled turning 60 when I thought, it’s time to step up, once and for all. But how to do that? I wanted to change my great-grandfather’s legacy. No more sanding of 12^th century warriors in the conservation wing. The idea of the quilt came to me in the Jackson Hole airport. Had I been uncompromising and brave enough in my quilt vision?

I recalled how my great-grandfather’s contribution had been celebrated once when a group of MFA donors made a champagne toast to the art objects he brought back from Japan: the gilt bronze statues of Buddha, the mandala, one of the oldest Japanese paintings to ever leave Japan. In contrast, our quilt felt like a bunch of journal entries pasted together to welcome visitors to the inner sanctum of an MFA exhibit.

My bully quilt idea had evolved. I’d gotten so invested in it I was willing to plunge into the Charles River to retrieve it. I was sitting on Quan Yin’s bench when it came to me to send Toni a letter. I wrote a draft on a scrap of paper I found in my bag.

“Dear Toni, I did not understand your pain when we worked together on the Inclusivity Committee and later on our quilt. I don’t want to lose you as my friend. I know it’s on me to learn about bullying and racism. I wish I could ask you questions about what happened between us. I can’t solve this alone. Please talk to me about it. All the best, Doro.” I sent it on a Hokusai Great Wave card I found in my collection at home.

***

Now my vision of inclusivity felt muddled. I wondered if I were to get sober, would anything become clearer? Pedee was going to have dinner with Maribel and it gave me the chance to go to an AA meeting in my neighborhood. I’d been aware of it for a long time, seeing people smoking on the sidewalk outside the church on Newbury Street. I wouldn’t have made the effort, but I’d promised Pedee to do something, and it was only five blocks from home. I would sit in the back, and leave early.

The room was packed with a young, mostly gay crowd. The homeless people sat on the floor and leaned against the wall behind me. I felt more comfortable sitting near them than sitting near anyone else.

The woman next to me said, “First time here?” I nodded. “If you keep coming, you’ll find people you can relate to.” She seemed to be appraising who I’d want to hear from and said, “The speakers usually come from the suburbs. I have to hand it to them, telling their stories to this crowd. Takes courage.”

I watched three men and a woman in their respective suits walk in, and recognized the woman in a black pencil skirt and indigo jacket. Cay Caldwell.

I ducked down in my seat and asked, “Do you think it’s necessary to quit drinking forever?”

“The only requirement is the desire to stop drinking,” she said. “Can you relate to that?”

“Sometimes,” I said. How would I handle returning to Lander and staying near the Lounge?”

Cay spoke before the break.

“Cocktail hour got earlier and earlier. Cooking Julia Childs’ beef bourguignon on the weekends, I kept refilling a glass of red wine over and over.”

She did that, too?

“I was lonely. Never met anyone I wanted to date more than once. My drink of choice was a dirty martini. I’ve never been able to eat an olive since I quit 25 years ago.”

She ended to thunderous applause. The rough-around-the-edges, tattooed and pierced people identified. They’d been lonely, too, I guess. Their slashed jeans and pink hair streaks made me feel a little like I was in a comic strip, until I’d heard from someone who lived in the same world as I did. Cay. But that felt a little too close to home so I kept ducking down in my chair.

As soon as the break started, I snuck out.