THE HEARTLAND
It began as a simple business trip to Kansas City to visit a client, Bob McDonnell, a serious art collector, in his home town, and following up for an appointment with a curator at the Nelson-Atkins Gallery of Art.
Bob very generously offered to pick me up at the airport, and he did so, in a splendid Rolls-Royce, complaining that his wife didn’t like for him to drive his Maserati sports car any more. Not feeling too sorry for him, I was nonetheless grateful – especially when he dropped me off at the Crown Plaza Hotel, which happened to be hosting the Democratic National Convention at the time. As the Rolls pulled up to the entry, an extremely tall black man, wearing something like a Beefeater’s costume with a head-dress which made him appear at least eight feet tall, bent down, swept open the passenger’s door, extended a hand to help me out (which I didn’t need) and said in a loud, deep voice: “You don’ look like no Democrat to me!” a comment to which I failed to reply. He helped me with my bag and a large portfolio of prints and drawings which I had brought along in the airplane, in the days when it was easy to do that. Bob remained in the car, because he weighed some three hundred pounds and never moved unless it was absolutely essential. As I exited, he said: “I’ll pick you up at 6:30 this evening, and we’ll be taking you to The Club for dinner. I think you’ll like it, and I’ve reserved a table right under Tom Benton’s mural.”
What he didn’t tell me was that he and his wife had also invited Thomas Hart Benton and his wife Rita to dinner – a most welcome surprise which he knew I would appreciate. The Club was elegant, the service unobtrusive, the steaks charred to perfection, the conversations lively, and I was delighted to meet and spend an evening with a living legend of the art world.
The following day, I hauled my portfolio over to Bob’s house and showed him a selection of artworks I believed he would find of interest. He purchased a Mary Cassatt aquatint and a François Villon etching, which certainly made my trip worthwhile, and that afternoon I completed my transaction at the Gallery, in addition.
Flushed with success, I got out my guide book to see if there was a gay bar anywhere nearby, and found one within walking distance from the hotel. It was only 5 p.m. so I had no expectations and decided to give it a try nonetheless, feeling a bit out of place in my Bostonian three-piece suit. In addition to the bartender, there was only one other patron, a youthful boy who appeared to be barely twenty-one, sitting at the bar. I seated myself close by, and we talked about nothing much. The bartender turned on the sound system and was playing gentle dance music, so I asked the boy if he’d like to dance, and he accepted. We had few chaste and distant dances, and I asked him his name, and he replied: “Marilyn.” That seemed as surreal as the black doorman in the Beefeater’s costume, and I truly had no idea that the boy was a lesbian, her drag and demeanor were so convincing.
The following day I flew to San Antonio, where I had appointments at the McNay Art Institute; then on to Houston for appointments with the Contemporary Museum of Art and the Fine Arts Museum. The Director of the Contemporary Museum invited me to a party that evening, which I considered a friendly and civilized gesture, and once again I dressed up with a new lightweight khaki-colored suit, a white shirt and a spectacular tie, expecting everyone to be similarly dressed. Instead, there was a small group of artists wearing paint-spattered t-shirts who clearly considered me The Enemy and would have nothing to say under any circumstances, thinking me some sort of East Coast snob, I suppose. A bit ill at ease for a few minutes, I ordered a drink and was wondering what to do to make an impression with these rude people, when an elegant woman in a full-length gown composed of tiny pieces of emerald-colored metal links appeared suddenly and spectacularly into the room. We gravitated to each other and began a conversation, mostly centered around the artists who were concentrating far too hard on ignoring us. I remarked to her how unpleasant I was finding the event, and she agreed, so I asked if she’d like to join me in shaking up their complacency. She laughingly agreed, and I said: “Come with me,” which she did, and we went into the rest room, and she asked: “What are we doing here?” I told her: “We’re going to exchange clothes, go out on the floor for one dance, and then come back here and change back. They might even notice!” She was, happily, thrilled with the idea, took off her emerald gown, put on my khaki suit, white shirt and spectacular tie, and looked terrific. I put on as much of the emerald gown as possible, she zipped up the back for me to about three-quarters, and we emerged onto the dance floor. The room fell into complete silence, except for the music; we enjoyed our single dance, with her leading, of course, then returned to the rest room and changed back into our own outfits.
Our ploy was successful, the Director was vastly amused, and the artists began to warm up and accept us as real people. The woman was obliged to leave for a dinner engagement, and apologized, unnecessarily, for her early departure, telling me what a wonderful time she’d had and how she wished her husband had been there. I agreed that it had been a wonderful time, and, just then learning that she was a Trustee of the Museum, expressed my gratitude that her husband had not been there, or it would not have happened.
