Cy Twombly (or the Pennsylvanian Art Historian perspective)

This is about my chat with the Pennsylvanian Art Historian, in Houston.  A real, person to person thing.  At the Menil Collection.

And the Argentinian security guy.

It’s also about Cy Twombly.

It’s also about how my life got changed in a matter of moments.

And finally it’s about the smell of the museum and my friend who alerted me to it.

That’s all this is about.

Marcel Marceau

For a more thorough report on this important person, see wikipedia.

What I’ll offer you is only an account. Worse, a thirty-one year old memory, buffered by many unrelated memories and other’s accounts. My memory is good. It’s just that my head is filled up with a lot of other thoughts.

Downtown Detroit in the late 70′s. Not sure what was happening in the world. I was nearing 10 years old; could only see what was in front of me.

Mom took us (3 brothers) to see Marcel Marceau. We lived in Franklin Hills, off 14 mile, I think. We only went downtown for baseball or hockey games, parades, fireworks, to see Dad in the Rennaisance Center … uhhhmmm … we were downtown a lot. I thought I was about to say we didn’t go downtown that much. Anyhow.

Downtown was simultaneously sparkly and slummy. The furcoats breezed by the frozen coatless. Rodin’s “The Thinker” is awfully close to one of the more dying neighborhoods.  I think it’s been like that for awhile. Anyhow.

Downtown Detroit is where we nearly got mugged after the Hudson’s Thanksgiving Parade. Two bums jumped on our Ford Fairmont station wagon. Me, Mom and brothers were in the car windows rolled up.  The tore off one of Mom’s windshield wipers. I learned the term “bum” that day. Anyhow.

Mom took us to see Marcel Marceau. It was everything. Mom encouraged us away from our “nosebleed” seats. Half way through the second part of the show, she gently demanded us to “walk up and get a better look.”  We wanted to leave.  I think we were getting bored.  Mom said “Ok.  We can go as soon as you walk up to the stage and get a better look.”  We fell for her trickery.

For 7 minutes of my childhood, Marcel Marceau was within spitting distance.  I saw everything including his brow’s sweat.  He was really in a box.  He was really going down the escalator.  He was really talking on a real phone.  But not.

It’s possible I’ll end the post here. Seriously, the dude made everything out of absolutely nothing.

PS. I love my mom.  She did shit like this a lot when I was a little punk.  She also did some bad stuff.  She is my mom.