The Center

A bushel of notebooks inherited from her grandmother lay in boxes at her feet. Lifetimes, it seems, of ancestral portraits, still-lifes of the garden, diagrams of pistils and stems, caricatures of grandma’s obese Maltese Geordana, interwoven with musings and commentary of worlds gone by. Intergenerational wisdom dwarfing her own twenty years, answering anything she may have forgotten: how to pickle verdant vegetables—how to tune the Cadillac’s carburetor—how to draw Garfield—how to process sadness, guilt, joy, and rage—how to be a better human being. Grandma’s familiar font and artistic perspectives lined every page.

Most weathered among them lying outside of the rainbow; a dog-eared, dusty, black notebook devoid of drawing studies and step-by-step guides. Her birthdate and name were carefully scribed into its first page, as though she herself had penned it. “Olive,” it began, underneath a photo of she and her grandmother, kindly tucked inside. The first seven years of her life were carefully chronicled—from white Christmases to summers spent together under the midwest sun, with no shortage of lessons imparted from queen to page—until the abrupt ending that had been her death.

Its final passage read: “Of you, I have asked nothing but an ear and an open mind. Through you, I have renewed my passion for artistry, relearning both the written word and the brush strokes necessary to capitulate moving color. For you, I entrust my life’s savings to create a space artists may call home, propelling their professional work into a world where their labor may be rewarded. Read on for guidance, as needed. Best of luck.”

And so she set to work. But first, she purchased a notebook of her own to capture the pursuit. She poured over the portfolio bestowed upon her. She toiled in any education the same as she had on the dingy floor of grandma’s garage. She ruminated in the shade of the grape thicket grandma taught her to construct. She planned as she canned jams and jellies for rainy days. She sketched the blueprints of the floors she knew she soon would walk, visualizing the day she would usher in artists from across the city. She stored any item of use—paintbrush, workbench, desk chair—for the day she would bring this center to fruition. She fixed her lips to spread the word. She flexed her pen to humbly ask for contributions to magnify the impact of grandma’s twenty thousand. She asked for help and was blessed with the opportunity to share this journey with those that would one day benefit. She showed up, she built, she worked, she grew, she wrote, she drew—she put down roots so deep that the Center’s integrity would never come into question.

And so they set to work. Artists decorated space and time with paint and music and laughter and light. They traced the blank canvas of the Center until it was indistinguishable from the masterpiece it became. They shared their knowledge with neighbors and strangers until they became friends, until friends became family. Years passed, careers blossomed, but never did they forget their home. And from this seed grew a mighty oak, moored in principle, flexible with the changes of time.

———

The Center’s 50th Jubilee would be her last anniversary. But now, she too had a granddaughter, an unwitting recipient of her own grandmother’s legacy. Because of those before her and for those after her sprang forth castles sans moats, wordscapes that could keep afloat the place that artists always deserved to call home. And like her predecessor, she welcomed her grandchild to all the knowledge so painstakingly recorded, by hand, the labor of her love. All the next generation would have to do is turn the page, and decidedly pick up the pen.