Dr. William Thornborough
Curator
Massachusetts Museum of Art
July 12
Dear Dr. Thornborough:
Thank you for your prompt response to my letter. I apologize for the delay in getting back to you, but this matter has weighed heavily on my mind. I hope after reading this letter, you will be able to understand the decision I have reached concerning your request.
As this concerns not only the paintings in question, but the feelings of Alan, and by extension, those of myself, I feel I must begin at the beginning. I apologize for not mentioning any of this in my earlier letter, but I thought then it might be irrelevant.
I first met Alan at the beginning of our freshman year. I was a music major and Alan, of course, was a visual arts major. We attended a large state university, and though its art and music departments were not particularly famous, it was all either of us could afford. My father was a businessman, and when I decided to major in music, my father, thinking it not only a waste of money, but more importantly, of time, adamantly refused to pay. In hindsight, he may have been correct, but at that time I was idealistic, and instead of discouraging me, the idea of playing the starving musician only spurred me on.
Alan's father died a violent death while Alan was young and having spent most of his taxi driver's salary on alcohol and women, left little behind. His mother, having the twin burdens of both raising the child and working to sustain both of them, unfortunately became a bitter and selfish woman, and desiring a better life in retirement than she had previously experienced, demanded that Alan take a more practical major. This led to a break even more final than the strained relationship with my own family.
What our parents failed to understand was that there was no choice for us. Art was our only way of life. I remember many nights sitting in his dormitory room until the dawn broke over the harbor, our first whisky bottle empty and another well started, talking about Art and its corollaries of God and Truth. However, I was no more than a layman in the visual arts and he in classical music. It was then that we began our weekly trips to concerts and exhibitions that had continued as an unbroken tradition.
Though we tutored each other about our worlds, an unwritten rule developed between us that I would never see his work and he would never attend a recital of mine. For I had taken him to the best performances that happened through the city. In return, I saw quite a few world famous exhibitions, including more than a few weekend trips to New York. Of course, what student could measure up to those standards? Neither of us could stand to be judged by the other and possibly lose their respect. Though we hoped someday to reach that level, we knew then we were far inferior, and instead of asking the other to judge us not as a craftsman but as an apprentice, we found it simpler to share only the emotion of our art than its realization. What started then continued our entire lives.
Unfortunately, I wasn't in university for long before I realized I could never reach that standard. It is a hard lesson for a young man to accept, but it became impossible to ignore the truth. My school was not famous for music, but even there it was obvious that I was near the bottom of the class. No manner of practice seemed to help. I just wasn't as good as the others. That's not to say I was bad, but there was something the best had that I didn't. Maybe it was talent, but I'm not sure exactly what that is. Of course we have all read the story of a piano player who plays technically perfectly but lacks emotion until she sees a beautiful butterfly or falls in love and then the meaning of the music is all at once revealed to her and she goes on to win an international piano contest. I experienced the joy of falling in love, and the misery of falling out. I tried everything from staring at butterflies to Zen meditation and feel obliged to state those stories are myths written by people who have never touched a musical instrument. Finally, I was forced to accept that I would never be great, and the best I could hope for was to become competent.
I realize all this seems irrelevant to the issue of the paintings but Alan experienced exactly the same emotions. Actually, his crisis come before mine. After a particular teacher, narrow-mindedly devoted to only one school of art told Alan he would do better to take up commercial art because he was wasting his time otherwise, Alan became quite despondent. After many long nights, and more bottles of whisky than I care to remember, I convinced him to continue, if only for himself. When later, I became suicidal and swore to kill myself if I couldn't be a great musician, he repeated back what I had told him, and somehow we both managed to survive. Our weekly trips at those times were particularly difficult - seeing what we wanted to become, and knowing it was impossible.
Graduation was yet another serious problem. What jobs are available for an untalented artist and a mediocre musician? I happened into a job as a music teacher at a junior high school while Alan did mostly house painting, bathroom tile work, and other odd jobs, but we both continued on with our Art, for there was nothing else in life for us. I played in the town symphony and a number of quartets while trying to steer all but my very best students away from taking their instruments too seriously. Alan continued his painting at home, and we never once missed our weekly outing.
Eventually, Alan fell in love, though it was my feeling that he was more in love with being in love than with the woman herself. The fact that his marriage was reasonably successful is a reflection not on their love for each other but the nature of the woman he married. It's a very rare woman who can stay married to a true artist, I feel, because an artist is always first and foremost married to Art. Of course there are those women who love artists, and those who fall in love with a man's art, but very few can love the man himself, because his passion is reserved for his art and she can only be second in his life.
Maybe my somewhat bitter feelings are a reflection on my own unsuccessful marriage. It was not long after our marriage that my wife began her complaint that I did not spend enough time with her. It came to a head one Saturday as Alan and I were preparing for a weekend trip to New York. The women, of course, were not invited as they would have interfered with our plans and inhibited our discussions during the drive. My wife presented me with an ultimatum - it was her or Alan, she said, which only showed her ignorance. It wasn't her or Alan, it was her or Art, her of Life, for without Art, I would surely cease to live, but I guess that is what most of us do in the end, isn't it? When I returned, she had left.
Alan's wife, Krisa, was wonderful - that is to say, she accepted her role as a wife and later as a mother, and as far as I know, never once tried to interfere.
That's why, when Krisa called me sobbing on the phone, I knew it was more than an argument. When she told me about his death, I rushed over and tried to console her and their daughter as best as I could, but what can one say in such situations?
With their meager earnings, the modest funeral consumed all the cash they had managed to save and more. It was obvious their small house had to be sold, and it was decided that they would move into my apartment until better accommodations could be arranged.
Alan left no official will behind, but while going through his desk, I came upon a note handwritten on a yellowing piece of paper buried deep in a stack of unsorted receipts. Since it has direct relevance to the matter at hand, I will copy it verbatim:
Krisa, Alexia, Jordan,
I hope you never have to read this, but we can't count on life.
I didn't want to write a will - I hate lawyers and wills are too gruesome, but I guess this isn't any better, is it? But I have some things I have to say, and there doesn't seem to be any other way.
First, to all of you, if you outlive me, I'm truly sorry, but then I'd rather it be this way than the other way around.
Krisa - you've been a fantastic wife and mother and I don't know what else to say except I'll always love you. Please remember me fondly, but have no hesitations about remarrying. The happiness and comfort of you and Alexia could be the only concerns of my ghost.
Alexia - always remember that Daddy loves you, darling, and be a good girl and listen to what your mother says, okay?
Jordan - no words are possible, or even necessary.
Well, now that I'm crying too, onto business. I'm asking Jordan to carry out what needs to be done. Krisa, I hope you'll see why soon.
All money, property, valuables, etc. are to be left to Krisa except for two things. First, Jordan is to use whatever money it takes to buy himself a new clarinet. Second, and the real reason I'm writing this, all my canvasses, every single one, are to be destroyed. They are of no value, and I don't want them hung in the house and cried over. I'm counting on you, Jordan, to take care of this for me.
Well, what else can I say? Life goes on. Make the most of it for me.
With love forever,
Alan
I had every intention of carrying out his requests to the letter if not the intention of the "will." I bought the cheapest clarinet I could find and donated it to the school. Later, I went back to the house to continue the cleaning and destroy the paintings as instructed. Having never once glimpsed a completed canvass of my friend's work, I was curious as to what I would find. I expected better than what one sees on sale at most galleries, but having heard Alan berate his skills for nearly a quarter of a century, I was shocked by what I found in the attic, for these were not the paintings of a mildly-talented semi- professional, but simply the most brilliant, emotional, imaginative creations I have ever witnessed.
One canvass in particular convinced me of the magnitude of his skill. It features Krisa, whose appearance can only be described as plain, and yet though this plainness shines through in the painting, her appearance is suffused with such warmth, caring, understanding, and inner strength, that no man, upon viewing this work could fail to fall in love with her.
I confess I am but a layman in these matters and my perceptions are, of course, colored by Alan's teachings, but I've been to an uncountable number exhibitions, seen the most renown works by the famous and not so famous from antiquity to the present and Alan's were far better. Still, I tried to destroy them, getting as far as dismantling the canvasses from the backing of a few before I could continue no further.
Without a word to Krisa, I regularly returned to the house to examine the canvasses and considered my limited options until the impending sale of the house forced me to make a decision. That is when I sent you those photographs. To be completely honest, deep in my heart I was hoping your response would indicate you did not share my views, or that they were hopelessly derivative of others' work and therefore valueless, but as I expected, you agreed with my conclusions and requested to see them in person in preparation for an offer from the museum to buy them. I apologize for not mentioning these details earlier, but as i hope you can now understand, I needed as unbiased an opinion as possible.
Now I find myself faced with a horrible dilemma. My only choices seem to be to destroy them as Alan instructed or sell. The most correct decision would seem to be to follow Alan's instructions and destroy the paintings. However, I'm not sure I'm capable of that. Also, his stated reasoning for wanting them destroyed was that they would not well represent him in death. In this, simply, he was wrong, and I only wish he could have known it while he was still alive.
The fact that the paintings range over three decades of our lives in topic and scene attest to the fact that he was unwilling to destroy these himself. Had the tables been turned and another artist made the same request of him, I understood the love he felt for Art and know he would have been outraged, even if the other works had been of negligible interest. It is doubtful that he would have been able to fulfill such a request himself.
Furthermore, simply stated, the family needs the money. However, even in times when his family was in dire straights financially, he would not consider selling even a single painting. Alan painted out of love considering it a bastardization to sell paintings drawn for his own pleasure.
Therefore, I have decided on the only compromise I find acceptable. If, after viewing the paintings, you are still interested, they will be donated to the museum on the condition that they never be sold. Of course, they may be lent out at your discretion, but no money is to be derived in any way from their viewing.
As to Krisa and Alexia, if they will have me, I will care for them as my own.
Again, I apologize for the delay in answering your reply and will make my self available at your convenience that you may view the paintings.
Sincerely,
Jordan Cavanaugh
Editor's Note:
The Massachusetts Museum of Art subsequently accepted the offer of donation of 173 paintings. Consequently, numerous museums and galleries asked for permission to borrow them, and a traveling exhibition was arranged.
Not long afterwards, the Museum, having had its budget slashed due to the current monetary crisis in Massachusetts found it necessary to place to paintings on the auction block. Mr. Cavanaugh filed suit asking for an injunction to prevent the sale, and after a short court battle, the request for injunction was refused on the grounds that not only was the "will" not legally binding, but there was no record of the Museum having agreed to the proscribed conditions and was thus free to sell the paintings. Though the issue is currently under appeal, the sale was allowed to proceed and at a subsequent auction, a series of nudes featuring Krisa Cavanaugh, the most famous of the paintings, were purchased by a Japanese investor, and are now displayed proudly in his home in Chiba, near Tokyo.
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