Remember those stories about someone who picked up a non-descript framed painting at a yard sale, only to find that hidden behind the amateurish artwork is an
original Declaration of Independence. Or someone purchasing a nice, inexpensive frame at a thrift store, discovering later that the copy of the Mona Lisa contained in the frame is the
real thing? Well.... this
isn't one of those stories.
My wife and I moved into our house in the late 1980s. Always a fan and frequenter of thrift stores, Mrs. P found one such establishment in a section of Northeast Philadelphia, jus a short drive from our suburban home. This was new and uncharted territory, as he had hit most of the other thrift stores within our area as well as the ones near her Queen Village apartment, where she lived when we met.
When we met, I was a second-year student at a fairly well-known and modestly respected art school in Philadelphia. I had dreams of becoming a world-renowned artist. Actually, I didn't. I did, however, hope that I could secure employment in my chosen field that would bring me enough money to support my soon-to-be wife and future family. (Over the years, that dream was both
fulfilled and
dashed at various times./ Such is the life of an artist.) As a student, working nights behind the counter at my cousin's health food restaurant, I could barely afford to purchase gifts when birthdays and holiday time rolled around. Instead of buying some useless trinket that would be tossed into a drawer and forgotten, I would offer family members a piece of my very own artwork. Of course, my homemade gift would be fawned over (before it was tossed into a drawer and forgotten) much to my feigned embarrassment. One year, I gave my aunt a six-color, hand-silkscreened (made with hand-cut stencils for each color) print of a character called "Flower Man." Flower Man was a guy who could be found ever weekend prowling the sidewalks of lower South Street in Philadelphia. South Street was a haven for quirky characters and, in the early 1980s, Flower Man was one of the quirkiest. Dressed in a rumbled tuxedo, his face covered in traditional identity-obscuring mime make-up, Flower Man toted a tray filled with single, long-stemmed roses. His shtick was, for a few dollars, he would trim and wrap a selected rose with innocent, but flirtatious, flair — all without the utterance of a single word. Before I met my wife, I was a veritable staple on South Street and would often bring dates to the hip mecca for dinner, maybe a movie — and always a little street-side performance by Flower Man. I was obsessed with Flower Man, He was the subject of a number of the pieces I produced at art school. I did block prints, paper sculptures and silk screened prints of Flower Man — even producing a few custom t-shirts with the image.
Mrs. Pincus had perused nearly the entire contents of the thrift store and finally brought her selected items to the front check-out counter to purchase. She got in line behind a woman who was holding her selections... including a large picture frame, the subject of which was facing away from my wife. When it was her turn, she placed her items on the counter and swung the frame up to show the cashier and ask a few questions.
"What can you tell me about this print?," the woman asked, as though the thrift store was an exclusive Park Avenue art gallery and the cashier was a highly informed art scholar. Mrs P glanced at the framed picture in question as the cashier rolled her eyes.
Then, Mrs. P let out an audible gasp. "I can tell you about it," she said. An expression of relief fell upon the cashier's face, happy that this customer was about to field any questions about the print. Mrs P continued, "The artist is my husband."
The customer and the cashier turned towards Mrs P, their eyes now widened.
This woman looks to young to have been married to Pablo Picasso, their faces conveyed.
"I have no idea
how this print ended up here," Mrs P explained, "but my husband made that print in art school."
"Is your husband
famous?," the potential customer asked. Mrs. P chuckled. "No, not really.," she admitted. Then she added, "But the frame is nice." The customer, now aware that she did not hold a museum piece, turned her attention back to the cashier. The transaction was completed and the customer left. She didn't even say "goodbye" or "thanks" or anything to my wife on her way out.
The mystery of my print ending up in a Northeast Philadelphia thrift store remains just that... a mystery. It's not unsurprising that some recipient of one of my homemade art school-era gifts tossed it among a pile of charity donations.
However, that frame was pretty nice.
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