Page 56 of Grace & Henry's Holiday Movie Marathon
“What about something like this?” I say.
“She’s pretty,” says Bella. Then she squints at the page. “What does…‘contemporary’ mean?”
I smile, because how could I have missed this? “It means not old-timey.”
I manage to wrangle Ian in the direction of the stairs and promiseBella another trip to the café if she bears with me for fifteen more minutes. We enter a glass stairwell and walk down two flights before entering another wing. “Just over here, I think.” We turn a corner, and the energy changes immediately. A docent welcomes us with a smile, and I see the real-life painting from the map.
“Whoa,” says Ian.
“It’s the picture of the pretty lady,” says Bella.
The painting, by Mikéla Henry-Lowe, is called Dido Elizabeth Belle (1761–1804), and it’s a stunner. So, too, are the two others nearby by the same artist. There’s a painting of a woman sneering in blue lipstick, and one of a bearded man with closed eyes set against vibrant green.
“Oh look, it’s a seat,” says Bella, hopping with great joy onto an ottoman the size of a Volkswagen. Ian, though, bounds toward art once more.
There are paintings from other featured contemporary artists. An ominous set of word collages from a woman named Niki Hare. Some trippy, anime-inspired stuff by a Japanese artist named Takashi Murakami. A woman with a guy’s name, Joe Hesketh, has three jarring takes on being a young woman in modern-day Britain.
The New Radicalsexhibit is housed in one big room, so I can keep an eye on Bella as Ian and I explore. I dig into the recesses of my brain to note things about lighting, perspective, the blending of traditional and contemporary modes of representation, and the kid soaks it all in.
“These are so cool,” he says, and I agree. There’s nothing subtle about these artists’ talent; it’s the kind that runs up and slaps you, and I’m energized just being in its glow.
“I’m so glad we came here!” Ian says.
“Me, too.”
Eventually, we join Bella on her giant ottoman and stare for a while at the different pieces in the exhibit.
“When do you think they decided they wanted to be artists?” asks Ian.
“Maybe they never did,” I say. “Maybe they just always were. Like you.”
Ian smiles again the way he smiles when I say nice things about his art, and for a few minutes we just relax, because it really is nice to sit.
“These pictures aren’t as boring as the other pictures,” Bella says.
Maybe she’s just angling for another doughnut, but I’ll take that as a win.
I got to Edgar Allan’s this morning and stayed until after lunch. Then I came back again around 3:30 after Henry left my house with the kids. Aside from a few lulls here and there, the place has been packed all day.
Tim used to say everyone loves a bar at Christmas, and he was right. Co-workers come in for year-end lunches and sneaky beers. People meet friends for catch-up drinks and gift exchanges. Folks line up to take selfies with Edgar Allan Poe. I’m not a big resolution person, but I’m ready to start being here more, like before Tim died. Sad or not, this is where I belong.
“Your ass just chimed,” says Zoe as she darts past carrying three beers.
I take my phone out of my back pocket, and my stomach takes a little dip as I see a text from Dom.
You over there? Come over in 5 mins and approve the party menu. You won’t be disappointed.
Now I’m tucked into alittle table away from the busiest part of the Italian Embassy’s dining room. Jeanine, the head hostess, smiled andtold me to sit wherever I wanted, and that Dom would be out in just a sec. Such a Dom move to make me wait to be wowed. From the window to my left I have a nice view of Edgar Allan’s, all lit up and festive.
I love the contrast between Dom’s place and mine. It’s quieter here. The servers all have their shirts tucked in, the soundtrack is smooth jazz, and no one, at least since I’ve been here, has yelled the F-word.
I see Henry and my kids now through the window, back from the museum and walking toward Edgar Allan’s. It’s rare to see Ian and Bella without them knowing I see them. Henry and Ian are talking as they climb the front steps; Bella walks silently behind them holding half a doughnut. Henry opens the door for her, Ian waits, and they follow my little girl inside. They’re a trio trudging ahead through life, and a wave of affection for all of them washes over me. I shoot Henry a text.
Had to run a quick errand. Back soon. Find a seat at the bar.
As I sip from the bottle of Peroni I stole from the bar, Dom approaches with a tray of steaming dishes.
“Did you pay for that beer?” he asks.
