The Portrait Artist, and: Ode to Riposte, and: The Nature of Advice, and: In Flight, and: Observation, and: Returning Books to a University Library

Abstract

The Portrait Artist, and: Ode to Riposte, and: The Nature of Advice, and: In Flight, and: Observation, and: Returning Books to a University Library Nicholas Friedman (bio) The Portrait Artist They show up smelling like their Food Court lunch, picking at teeth and smoothing lumps of hair. “It’s for a Christmas card,” Mom says. “Are there, like, props and things?” I point her to a bunch of stuffed elves, candy canes, and plastic candles. Three little girls! Mom’s youngish and demure. Her ruffled dress looks like a Douglas fir. You’d think it were a bomb, the way she handles the diapered one, face pinched, needing a change. And where’s Dad, anyway? That callow shit took off, no doubt. These days, it’s hitch and split. Oh well; there’s one less body to arrange. And that’s the trick: It’s how you ply the scene, not only shutter, flash, and aperture. See, when I let them pose as they prefer— legs crossed, eyes crossed, a plastic Nazarene in each child’s lap—the portrait falls apart. I need the little ones just so, and smiling. What, tears? I work their bellies like I’m dialing a rotary phone. Their joy, like any art, needs no more than a master’s gentle coaxing. (An eager hand works only half as well.) Even the bullish brats who squirm like hell, or stick a surly tongue out when their folks sing [End Page 21] “Old MacDonald,” have such an easy time with me. So when the parents make things worse, I wish we were alone—and could rehearse, the child and I, a more convincing rhyme. For Christ’s sake, look how crudely Mom corrals her girls, hands grasping. One’s begun to cry. Another lifts her skirt: A blotchy thigh gives way to festive panties, which Mom fails to hide, rushing her hand toward modesty. She blushes as I glide her to her seat, then place those little graces at her feet. They rock and coo. Their focus turns to me as I give all proportion to the frame, then make the moment still, and permanent. And, honestly, that’s all I ever meant— in other words, to make the wild eye tame. [End Page 22] Ode to Riposte Wildflowers abound somewhere I’m sure. . . . —Michael Homolka It’s like this, Michael: Life offers balms for wounds we haven’t suffered yet. True, sometimes the order doesn’t hold, so to bury your head in the sand is foolish, but don’t worry so much. Why not finish your take-out ceviche with an amber beer? I’ll tell you: In 1993, eleven people fell ill with salmonella in my birthplace of Syracuse. Come on, then. Wouldn’t you rather be sick on better than Taco Bell? You’ve got the Village, day trips to Poughkeepsie, and further up, the Finger Lakes banked with wildflowers. Imagine it: As a child, I watched goldenrod passing at the speed of a red Ford Taurus with the windows down, Simon and Garfunkel singing “Baby Driver” from the tape deck. I had to cover my ears during the sexy bits. They were unfathomable, but meant something— by which I mean that life is worth praising, even when the “infinite question” gnaws at you. And if an actual battlefront approaches Main Street, we shouldn’t be overly concerned with whose flag is bigger. That said, I wouldn’t want my family, or you, getting close enough to find out. [End Page 23] The Nature of Advice It’s rare in that the giving is simple. With age, one’s store of it only grows larger, and thus comes the great need to dispense some— not in generosity, but as a kind of coaching to stay in the game. Who knows what former griefs my father was reliving when, on the ribbed metal bleachers above the sixty-foot diamond, he’d make his hands into brackets and say to the batter hitting ninth, Just get a piece of it, buddy— meaning, at least foul the ball before striking out again? I really don’t mean to be nostalgic. There’s a proverbial baseball...