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Highbrow-lowbrow-anyhow garden art: a Fable

© Carol Wallace

Grandma came into the kitchen, clutching a paper bag to her chest, all flushed and looking a lot like Helen Hayes in Airport. She looked around cautiously. "Here," she whispered. "I've brought you something from my trip abroad."

He took the bag cautiously, amazed at its weight. "Lead?"

"Marble," she grinned. "Don't tell - but I've brought you the Venus DeMilo. I found it in a street market in France. The guy didn't even know what he had."

The bag did indeed contain a Venus, somewhat worse for the wear of whatever decades she had been through.

"I think he was fooled by the paint," she said triumphantly. For indeed, Venus was dressed in robes of brightest red, her flesh the color of pink sugar and looking almost as melted.

"It's wonderful, Grams. Perfect for the garden! Let's put it out back here - near the woodpile." When Grandma looked hurt he explained gently, "We wouldn't want anyone to haul you in for art theft, would we?"

And Grams, convinced that she had made the art find of the '90s, agreed. She was terribly pleased to have found something so perfect for her highbrow grandson. Not that she would ever be caught dead with something so - so naked - in her own garden. Give her a nice cheerful gnome anytime. Bright, happy - safe. Everyone was doing gnomes, so she knew they were the style. And there were so many interesting ones to choose from at the store. Happy ones, sad ones, grouchy ones, green ones, red ones - one to suit whatever patch of petunias she planted that year. Just looking at them, guarding her garden in all of their cheerful innocence, made her feel good all over.

And Mortimer, carefully siting Venus so that ivy would grow over her and no one would notice that he had such an abomination in his garden, shook his head. Gram was so hopelessly middlebrow. As if he could ever put the real Venus in an obvious place in his garden. It would be so dreadfully pretentious and out of place in the lovely little woodland setting, complete with original pieces, that he had so carefully created. As for this copy - well, copies of art are just - well, tacky! As if anyone would ever mistake them for the originals! As if anyone would think that Mortimer could afford to buy the real thing. As if anyone with a modicum of taste and education couldn't understand the difference between the form - the tasteless copy - and the soul, the spirit of true art.