When we returned to the Congo, we washed our faces and cooled down, resting for a few minutes, deciding to forego lunch (as the Beacon's food still sat heavily). Though I contemplated staying at the Congo for the rest of the day in an effort to avoid any further phatasmagoric experiences, Penny convinced me to soldier on, for we didn't know when we would ever come back to Oxford and have this opportunity to visit all the unique places we'd heard about for so many years. We looked at the itinerary and saw that our next stop would be to the University Museums on campus.
We pulled into the lonely parking lot (our Jeep the only vehicle there), and Penny suggested putting Georgia in the stroller. Foolish woman. Didn't she know how ridiculous it would look to be pushing a stroller through an art museum? Didn't she know that our child would want out of the stroller not five minutes after we put her in there? "Oh, so let me see if I got this right," she said (for apparently, I didn't realize I had spoken my thoughts aloud). "You're the one that worries about being embarassed in front of two or three total strangers because you're strolling your two-year-old daughter, yet I am the one who's foolish? You're the one that would rather hold her for forty-five minutes straight instead of thirty, yet I am the one who's foolish? And--you're the one who says his wife is foolish out loud, in front of her, right when she's about to stroll your child, so you won't have to carry her, yet...."
"You're right," I said. "I'll get the stroller. I'm sorry. I was wrong." Penny harrumphed.
"Mom," Nicholas asked, "what are you and Dad arguing about this time?"
"About whether he's wrong or I'm right," she answered.
"Mom," Nicholas asked, "doesn't Dad know by now that you're always right? That's what you always tell him. Dad, you know Mom's always right. You shouldn't try to argue with her. That's foolish." Nicholas was more right than he knew.
I put Georgia inside the stroller, and we went inside the museum. The first exhibit we ran into (literally) was the Millington-Barnard Collection of Ninteenth-Century Scientific Instruments. The largest instrument displayed was a fifty-foot in diameter, hand-cranked, mobile of the solar system; this wrought-iron contraption greeted us at the door, and Nicholas greeted it back with his head (as he wasn't looking where he was going). He didn't hit too hard, though; we asked, and the mobile said it was okay. Other items among the antiquated artifacts and tools were: old sextons, quadrants, prisms, numerous swirly-durlies, mechanical bubbledy-pops, spinning whatzits, and the crumpled remains of the laboratory set--donated by Mel Brooks--from the 1931 Universal film Frankenstein (unfortunately, most of the truly marvelous equipment seen in the film was destroyed four years later when Boris Karloff pulled the level that caused Castle Frankenstein to collapse upon itself).
We next saw the David M. Robinson Collection of Greek and Roman Antiquities, which showcased Greek and Roman vases and coins over two-thousand years old. The vases, my favorite aspect of the collection, were exquisitly carved and illustrated by master craftsmen (my God, I sound like a Franklin Mint commercial), and they depicted scenes from The Illiad, The Odyssey, and other poems by blind Grecian bards. I was particularly fascinated because not two weeks before, I had taught some of these stories, these legends of the Greek world of gods and monsters. Since Nicholas was by my side now, I thought that this would be the perfect time for a literary lesson in ancient literature. We closely examined the vases, and I began to regale him with stories of Perseus and Herakles, when--every time--he'd exclaim, "Dad! Look! A coin!" and we'd have to leave the vase and its story to determine if that coin was the quivalent of a quarter, or a nickel, or a penny, or a fifty-cent piece, or a silver dollar, etc... (Nicholas still thinks that the Greeks and Romans were pretty poor people because apparently they couldn't afford any Susan B. Anthony dollars).
We viewed an exhibit on quilts, one on Civil War memorbilia, on one dolls, and then--at the butt end of the museum--we saw an exhibit showcasing the sculptures/whittlings of the late Mississippi/New York folk artist Sulton Rogers, and I knew I was in the prescence of greatness...weird greatness. Rogers's carvings are the most nightmarish pieces of art I've ever seen first hand. The figures seem simple at first glance, resembling, from a distance, painted wooden pieces not unlike one might see at a county fair or fall festival, housed on tables and booths. Seen clearly and closely though, Rogers' art definitely stands head and tails and possibly an extra breast above (possibly below) and beyond the ordinary. Rogers's distinctiveness lies in his juxtaposition of the ordinary and the grotesque within the same figure. This quality lends his sculptures the disturbing air of the nightmare, where often what frightens are not the horrifically ugly, but the just slightly out of place--a normal person with cat eyes, or large pointed ears, or, well, just look:
We pulled into the lonely parking lot (our Jeep the only vehicle there), and Penny suggested putting Georgia in the stroller. Foolish woman. Didn't she know how ridiculous it would look to be pushing a stroller through an art museum? Didn't she know that our child would want out of the stroller not five minutes after we put her in there? "Oh, so let me see if I got this right," she said (for apparently, I didn't realize I had spoken my thoughts aloud). "You're the one that worries about being embarassed in front of two or three total strangers because you're strolling your two-year-old daughter, yet I am the one who's foolish? You're the one that would rather hold her for forty-five minutes straight instead of thirty, yet I am the one who's foolish? And--you're the one who says his wife is foolish out loud, in front of her, right when she's about to stroll your child, so you won't have to carry her, yet...."
"You're right," I said. "I'll get the stroller. I'm sorry. I was wrong." Penny harrumphed.
"Mom," Nicholas asked, "what are you and Dad arguing about this time?"
"About whether he's wrong or I'm right," she answered.
"Mom," Nicholas asked, "doesn't Dad know by now that you're always right? That's what you always tell him. Dad, you know Mom's always right. You shouldn't try to argue with her. That's foolish." Nicholas was more right than he knew.
I put Georgia inside the stroller, and we went inside the museum. The first exhibit we ran into (literally) was the Millington-Barnard Collection of Ninteenth-Century Scientific Instruments. The largest instrument displayed was a fifty-foot in diameter, hand-cranked, mobile of the solar system; this wrought-iron contraption greeted us at the door, and Nicholas greeted it back with his head (as he wasn't looking where he was going). He didn't hit too hard, though; we asked, and the mobile said it was okay. Other items among the antiquated artifacts and tools were: old sextons, quadrants, prisms, numerous swirly-durlies, mechanical bubbledy-pops, spinning whatzits, and the crumpled remains of the laboratory set--donated by Mel Brooks--from the 1931 Universal film Frankenstein (unfortunately, most of the truly marvelous equipment seen in the film was destroyed four years later when Boris Karloff pulled the level that caused Castle Frankenstein to collapse upon itself).
We next saw the David M. Robinson Collection of Greek and Roman Antiquities, which showcased Greek and Roman vases and coins over two-thousand years old. The vases, my favorite aspect of the collection, were exquisitly carved and illustrated by master craftsmen (my God, I sound like a Franklin Mint commercial), and they depicted scenes from The Illiad, The Odyssey, and other poems by blind Grecian bards. I was particularly fascinated because not two weeks before, I had taught some of these stories, these legends of the Greek world of gods and monsters. Since Nicholas was by my side now, I thought that this would be the perfect time for a literary lesson in ancient literature. We closely examined the vases, and I began to regale him with stories of Perseus and Herakles, when--every time--he'd exclaim, "Dad! Look! A coin!" and we'd have to leave the vase and its story to determine if that coin was the quivalent of a quarter, or a nickel, or a penny, or a fifty-cent piece, or a silver dollar, etc... (Nicholas still thinks that the Greeks and Romans were pretty poor people because apparently they couldn't afford any Susan B. Anthony dollars).
We viewed an exhibit on quilts, one on Civil War memorbilia, on one dolls, and then--at the butt end of the museum--we saw an exhibit showcasing the sculptures/whittlings of the late Mississippi/New York folk artist Sulton Rogers, and I knew I was in the prescence of greatness...weird greatness. Rogers's carvings are the most nightmarish pieces of art I've ever seen first hand. The figures seem simple at first glance, resembling, from a distance, painted wooden pieces not unlike one might see at a county fair or fall festival, housed on tables and booths. Seen clearly and closely though, Rogers' art definitely stands head and tails and possibly an extra breast above (possibly below) and beyond the ordinary. Rogers's distinctiveness lies in his juxtaposition of the ordinary and the grotesque within the same figure. This quality lends his sculptures the disturbing air of the nightmare, where often what frightens are not the horrifically ugly, but the just slightly out of place--a normal person with cat eyes, or large pointed ears, or, well, just look:
D'ya see that middle guy? I've had nightmares about him before I ever saw that figure!
After being properly disturbed, we all made our way back through the museum to look at an exhibit of just ordinary (but, like, really really good) paintings, one of which depicted a pale, overweight, middle-aged man with long unkempt hair and a beard sitting on a tollet. Georgia looked up, pointed at the picture, and said, "Daddy! That Daddy!" Penny and Nicholas laughed for the next ten minutes solid, all the way out the door, into the Jeep, and over to our next destination....
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