September 29 - October 3 - Nashville and Memphis, TN

Nashville. . . 

After Birmingham, my next speaking gig was in Memphis, but I cut through Nashville to visit one of my oldest friends, Bedford, and her family.  Bedford's daughter Sarah Scott was studying a math lesson on counting and gave me an uncanny interrogation about the book: what was the print run? how many had I sold? [easier to answer] how many states had I visited?

The next morning, I hung out in a coffee shop in downtown Franklin, Tennessee, catching my breath and going through email.  I have to say, if anyone ever wonders where many of the ruggedly handsome men on earth are, they kept, inexplicably, walking through the door of the Franklin Starbucks.  Either that is one of the enduring mysteries of the world, or they were all country singers I didn't recognize. (I mentioned this phenomenon to Bedford later and she said I wasn't the first to report it.)

I paged through another book from the Louise Cecil Lending Library (Birmingham), Twyla Tharp's The Creative Habit and her chapter called "An A+ in Failure."  Sort of a perfectionist's view of failure but an embrace of it nonetheless. . .  Aptly, I was just about to start blogging, belatedly (a mere two months ago, as I write now).

As I was leaving Franklin, someone barely grazed my bag passing buy, stopped dead in his tracks, "Oh, excuse me. I am so sorry."  It's never too much.  I eat it up.  

Memphis. . .
Memphis is where I was born.  I lived there until I was almost eleven.  I am still close to my childhood friends, Allison and Martha.  We lived on the same street, stone-throwing distance, listened to Duran Duran, watched unconscionable amounts of the Price is Right, dealt with a three-foot-tall bottle of Jeannate After Bath Splash Martha once won from the local drugs store, and generally hung out all the time and went to grade school together.  

We have some museum history together too as they came to visit London when I worked at the Tate and we went traveling in Spain and France.  At one classic point, there was a low blood sugar warning (in the irritability not medical sense) in the Prado so we bolted to the nearest cafe we could find, only to be handed menus and realize we were at Planet Hollywood.  Just as we were swearing we would never tell anyone, Allison glanced at the next table: George and Ashley Hamilton. . .


Memphis is a place steeped in memory and attachment, and I will acknowledge that right away by showing this photo:

This is the roof of the gymnasium where we used to roller skate after church fellowship dinner.  They had old-school, proper, brown lace-up skates.  And a trampoline.  And, I now realize in my older age, a Christian tile motif in the ceiling.  

I had arrived in time for church fellowship dinner which starts around 5:15pm and is priced at a maximum of $20 per family.  I tagged along to an after-dinner program, and can now report that I am a person who got up in the middle of an ADHD seminar. . . to go make a phone call, as I thought to do one thing in the middle of doing another.

Children's Story Hour. . .
Program number one in Memphis was children's story hour at Davis Kidd, a great independent bookstore.  Miss Marjorie, the regular host of the program, has that incredible, magnetic authority with children and had captivated everyone with the sing-along warm-up.  

(Barry and Martha and the girls to the left) 
We went through a few songs before she turned to me, "So, Miss Amy, do yo have any favorite songs you want us to sing?"  I couldn't think of anything age-appropriate (well, Miss Marjorie, how about some Aerosmith?).  I fumbled enthusiastically and she led us onward through Wheels on the Bus and the Hokey Pokey.  Song time is designed to tire them out slightly before reading.

(during the Hokey Pokey. Note the adorable girl in head-to-toe purple in front of me)
Martha and Allison were wonderful about coming along.  Martha and her husband Barry brought their girls.  Allison (and her mother) brought Allison's niece Ellie.  

(Allison with one of Martha and Barry's daughters)
The first thing that happened after I sat in Miss Marjorie's tiny chair and opened Harold and the Purple Crayon to brace myself for reading upside down, Ellie came and gave me a hug and climbed into my lap.  

I gently put her down.  You can notice in all the other photos of the event, many of the children are looking at me listening.  Ellie is looking the opposite direction busy with train tracks.

After the second book, Art, we did a craft project -- our own moons and suns -- (the moon is what anchors Harold back to his bedroom) and then "curated" the drawings by propping them up on the pink carpeted risers that form the children's story hour area.

There was a touch and go moment at the end when a couple of the kids approached Miss Marjorie and realized that the craft project was a substitute for, not complement to, the traditional lollipop.  And then we adjourned for lunch.

The Memphis Brooks Museum of Art. . . 

The second program of the day was a reading at the Memphis Brooks Museum of Art, a beautiful white marble building in the middle of Overton Park.  I remember having a birthday in the grounds once back when I was four and wore full-length dresses everyday and my mother made elaborate birthday cakes -- that year's looked like a butterfly.

Now I was being hosted by Karlene Gardiner, a very interesting and elegant member of the Education staff, who graciously scheduled us in the board room.  

The Brooks is particularly noteworthy in two regards: It is the setting for the second chapter of Museum Legs -- First Friday.  It is also the first place I had a two-event attendee.  Michel Allen, who runs a gallery in New York and is from Memphis, was at both the book party in New York and the reading in Memphis, where she kindly brought along her mother.

Below is the video obelisk from the story. I also read about whether the First Wednesday event was a pick-up scene, in front of Martha's mother who, in the story, nods genteely, perfectly coiffed hair going up and down. . . 

The Pink Palace / The Living Arts. . .

The next day, Martha's mother watched her daughters and Allison took the day off of work and we went to the Pink Palace craft fair.  The Pink Palace was the mansion home of the founder of the Piggly Wiggly grocery store.  I had last been to one of the fairs back when I had a plastic wallet I tried to find thirty-five cents in to buy a hand-sized piece of fur that rolled up when you petted it, or similar.  

You have to appreciate the cheerful food booths (Pronto Pups!):

Allison collects what I would call folk-art images of churches.  This one came from a small display of art by a booth owner's eight year old daughter and daughter's friend.

You can't dispute the curatorial eye.


This photo is really for my brother, because we used to be these kids

except that we were made to wear navy blazers and pale yellow dresses and were named the Toscaninis.


I spent the afternoon visiting with Winston Eggleston, son of the photographer William, who is a gentle, interesting, lovely guy.  We ended up paging through some photo books by William / Bill Christenberry.


That evening, Martha, Allison, and I hit the town.  If you are in Memphis soon, I heartily recommend Molly Fontaine's.  

It has a special magic energy -- a converted, steep-proportioned Victorian with an atmosphere that feels like fairy dust has been sprinkled on everything, but just enough incongruous, or even naughty, art to keep your eyes moving around and the vibe just that tiny, enjoyable bit unpredictable. 

Note the eyelashes behind us.

This is Hugh, my brother's best friend, and his girlfriend (since the photo, fiancee), Lisa, who joined us.


As a bonus reel, here are Martha's daughters enjoying chocolate cupcakes, part of the kindly babysitting by Martha's mom that enabled the adventure:

The woman at the top of this post, sitting in the lemon, is from the Pink Palace craft fair.  Sometimes, art is for the beholding in everyday life, more than in the museum setting, per se.