gleam: A small china cabinet hung on the wall, all dark polished wood and sparkling glass. Inside it, three shelves displayed a dozen pieces of shiny porcelain.
Gingerly, I stepped closer to examine the cabinet and contents. Dr. Browning hovered just behind me. I let my eyes wander from piece to piece, knowing I had very little idea what I was looking at, knowing also that last week I probably wouldn’t even have stopped to look.
The pieces were all small, teacups and saucers, mustard pots and salt cellars, a sugar bowl, a cream pitcher. A gravy boat stood on tiny clawed feet; a white cup as translucent as a shellhad a red tiger painted on its side and another curling around the knob on its cover. Six salt cellars held miniature silver spoons and were each painted with a different stylized blossom. The pieces’ shapes varied, in ways that I knew told something about their origins, but didn’t tell it to me.
The designs painted on them, also, had meaning: more than one meaning. Each swirling line and lotus leaf, each glowing cobalt phoenix and fierce orange tiger meant something to the artist who’d put them there: a symbol, a talisman, a joke. They meant something else to a scholar like Dr. Browning: a clue to the origin of the piece, and to its destination, its intended fate.
And something else to me, something I was surprised to find myself feeling: a connection to people I’d never known in a place I’d never been to, people who dug this clay out of the ancient earth, formed it and colored it and sent it halfway around the world.
“How do you like my little ones?” Dr. Browning’s wistful voice, close behind me, brought me back with a little jolt to this dishevelled room in this city where I was born.
I turned and smiled. “They’re lovely. I didn’t realize you were also a collector.”
His eyes didn’t meet mine; they rested instead on the china cabinet as he said, half-apologetically, “Oh, I’m not, not at all. On a professor’s salary, I couldn’t possibly collect. But the occasional piece, here and there … something too special to leave behind …” He trailed off, looking lovingly at the porcelains, which stood at attention on their shelves as if on their best behavior to make a good impression on the strangers.
I suddenly recalled the large platter, also standing proudly, in the sun-touched case by the stairway at the Kurtz. “But you’re a donor,” I said. “We saw a plate at the Kurtz Museum that you gave.”
“Oh, hardly a donor. Occasionally I acquire a splendid piece which really must be seen. I do try to find a home for those. It’s quite marvelous, isn’t it, the platter at the Kurtz?And they’re displaying it so handsomely. So many people are given the chance to admire it. Did Roger Caldwell point it out to you?”
“No, his assistant showed us around. Do you know Dr. Caldwell?”
“Yes, of course. He’s very well known in the field. We were all very proud when he was given the post at the Kurtz.”
“ ‘We’?”
“Those of us involved in the study of export porcelains. Exports are widely considered the field’s stepchildren, you see. Because of the purely commercial intent behind their production. As if the early imperial ware—or Limoges, for that matter—were created for any other reason.” He said this with a sense of resigned bitterness, as though the injustice he was pointing out was so entrenched he had given up all hope of redress. “In any case,” he went on, “that a member of our small fraternity has been given the opportunity to direct a museum is quite gratifying. Even a museum such as the Kurtz.”
“ ‘Such as the Kurtz’?” I repeated, not sure what he meant.
“Well, for all its virtues, the Kurtz is not widely accepted as an institution of the first rank, is it? My understanding, in fact, is that that is a source of frustration for Dr. Caldwell: that he cannot quite get the museum taken seriously in the professional
Gingerly, I stepped closer to examine the cabinet and contents. Dr. Browning hovered just behind me. I let my eyes wander from piece to piece, knowing I had very little idea what I was looking at, knowing also that last week I probably wouldn’t even have stopped to look.
The pieces were all small, teacups and saucers, mustard pots and salt cellars, a sugar bowl, a cream pitcher. A gravy boat stood on tiny clawed feet; a white cup as translucent as a shellhad a red tiger painted on its side and another curling around the knob on its cover. Six salt cellars held miniature silver spoons and were each painted with a different stylized blossom. The pieces’ shapes varied, in ways that I knew told something about their origins, but didn’t tell it to me.
The designs painted on them, also, had meaning: more than one meaning. Each swirling line and lotus leaf, each glowing cobalt phoenix and fierce orange tiger meant something to the artist who’d put them there: a symbol, a talisman, a joke. They meant something else to a scholar like Dr. Browning: a clue to the origin of the piece, and to its destination, its intended fate.
And something else to me, something I was surprised to find myself feeling: a connection to people I’d never known in a place I’d never been to, people who dug this clay out of the ancient earth, formed it and colored it and sent it halfway around the world.
“How do you like my little ones?” Dr. Browning’s wistful voice, close behind me, brought me back with a little jolt to this dishevelled room in this city where I was born.
I turned and smiled. “They’re lovely. I didn’t realize you were also a collector.”
His eyes didn’t meet mine; they rested instead on the china cabinet as he said, half-apologetically, “Oh, I’m not, not at all. On a professor’s salary, I couldn’t possibly collect. But the occasional piece, here and there … something too special to leave behind …” He trailed off, looking lovingly at the porcelains, which stood at attention on their shelves as if on their best behavior to make a good impression on the strangers.
I suddenly recalled the large platter, also standing proudly, in the sun-touched case by the stairway at the Kurtz. “But you’re a donor,” I said. “We saw a plate at the Kurtz Museum that you gave.”
“Oh, hardly a donor. Occasionally I acquire a splendid piece which really must be seen. I do try to find a home for those. It’s quite marvelous, isn’t it, the platter at the Kurtz?And they’re displaying it so handsomely. So many people are given the chance to admire it. Did Roger Caldwell point it out to you?”
“No, his assistant showed us around. Do you know Dr. Caldwell?”
“Yes, of course. He’s very well known in the field. We were all very proud when he was given the post at the Kurtz.”
“ ‘We’?”
“Those of us involved in the study of export porcelains. Exports are widely considered the field’s stepchildren, you see. Because of the purely commercial intent behind their production. As if the early imperial ware—or Limoges, for that matter—were created for any other reason.” He said this with a sense of resigned bitterness, as though the injustice he was pointing out was so entrenched he had given up all hope of redress. “In any case,” he went on, “that a member of our small fraternity has been given the opportunity to direct a museum is quite gratifying. Even a museum such as the Kurtz.”
“ ‘Such as the Kurtz’?” I repeated, not sure what he meant.
“Well, for all its virtues, the Kurtz is not widely accepted as an institution of the first rank, is it? My understanding, in fact, is that that is a source of frustration for Dr. Caldwell: that he cannot quite get the museum taken seriously in the professional
Similar Books
