A rather mysterious envelope arrived in the mail a few weeks ago. It was from a church with which I was utterly unfamiliar, yet with which I indeed shared a connection I’d not considered. As it turned out a local artist had bequeathed a large group of paintings to the church upon her passing nearly two years back. The letter further stated that these works would soon be sold at auction, with the proceeds evenly divided between this church and another charitable organization.
The news prompted a flood of emotions, questions — and memories. It also prompted a determination to be in attendance when the event took place. For, although I hadn’t actually spoken to this artist — Eve Alwyn Hinchman — in many years, she had been a very great influence on my childhood, and because (regular readers of this publication well know) I value art as a most wondrous and lasting reflection of the artist, I was filled with excitement at the possibility of becoming the fond caretaker of a couple small pieces of Eve’s life.
I’ve written previously here in Mil Mania about another favorite oil painter — my mother. And, while I’ve made it abundantly clear I believe my mother truly gifted in this area, she did have one (and only one) teacher to assist in honing her artistic skills — Eve.
To explain from the beginning, my mother, her mother, myself and my brother all took oil painting lessons from Eve, my own tenure in this endeavor beginning when I was nine. At that time I and my brother were in the “kids” (under 18) class while my mom and grandmother were in the women’s. That may seem obvious but I point out the distinction because my brother quit after a very short time, at which point Eve proposed I join the women’s class as well...the youngest student ever granted such an honor.
I must point out, too, however, that this privilege wasn’t bestowed because I exhibited any precocious talents in the form. In fact, I’d have to say that while I enjoyed the lessons and made every effort to improve, I was under no illusions I might ever become the next Rambrandt or Van Gogh...although, come to think of it, becoming the next Munch was a distinct possibility — I was undoubtedly capable of eking out a “Scream” from even the admirably patient and encouraging Eve.
Be that as it may, I attended these classes during summers, school vacations, and for the half-year in 7th grade our junior high experimented with “split sessions”. And, while I may have learned little in terms of “how to” paint throughout those years, I did learn much about appreciating art, and a great many lessons on the art of life itself, and growing up. I also learned quite a bit about Eve, and in particular enjoyed that aspect of the education.
Born in New Zealand, she still retained a rich accent that only added to an already colorful personality...which featured elements I’m sure seemed incongruous to those who knew her as merely a passing acquaintance. Although she had been a member of “society” in the most prestigious applications of the word — including serving as a show business/feminist pioneer by co-hosting both a radio and TV program with her psychologist mother, Laurie — Eve walked away from the spotlight when she met and married NJ farmer Roger Hinchman. Roger was a very wealthy man, surely one who could have bought his way into the social circles Eve had long inhabited. He had no aspirations toward this end, however, choosing instead to live a simple country life on his family land — a pursuit Eve thrust herself into wholeheartedly...right down to the coveralls and muck boots that would have more easily convinced strangers of homeless person status than that of a “lady” in every sense of the word. I vividly remember Roger stopping by the studio — i.e. the back yard, filled with roaming ducks, geese (and far too often a butting sheep named Elvis!) — to say hello to Eve’s students from time to time. And, while I can recall quite a number of these visits, I can’t to this day conjure a mental picture in which Roger isn’t smiling. He was just a kind, cheery and humble man who made it easy to understand Eve’s choice.
Of course, that didn’t make it any less amusing to see the quite proper Eve one minute serving English delicacies at a “tea time” break during classes, and the next take a break from class herself to go bottle-feed an orphaned lamb in the farmhouse kitchen.
Speaking of the (18th Century) farmhouse, it was the
painting pictured here of this
very structure that proved the
prize of the auction for me.
Oddly, of all those in atten-
dance vying for (more than 70
of) her works, there was only
one other bidder on this piece.
Maybe it’s the Irish in me that
still leaves me baffled by this
circumstance. As Gerald O’Hara
admonished Scarlett in Gone
With the Wind, “It will come to
you, this love of the land. There's no gettin' away from it if you're Irish...Why, land is the only thing in the world worth workin' for, worth fightin' for, worth dyin' for, because it's the only thing that lasts.”
I’m not sure I’d go quite that far in placing value on...well — place. But, I’ll admit I was quite determined to win this representation of Eve’s “place”. For, when I look at this house I’m transported by a myriad of recollections to a most welcome re-living of countless experiences. I see various other paintings from the auction hanging where they did in the various rooms. I almost trip once more over the heaved plank floorboards in the dining room. I again make my way carefully up the narrow spiral staircase leading from the kitchen to the upstairs hall. I feel the warmth of the enormous living room fireplace in winter, pet the coarse hair of canine gentle giant, Boy, and enjoy the warmth of dinners with my family and our dear friends. And, of course, in every memory I see Eve, think about her many words of wisdom — and, of course, hear her contagious laugh.
I’ve received one of those forwarded e-mails a couple of times that says we have “some friends for a reason, some for a season”, etc.. Although I didn’t see Eve many times after reaching adulthood and moving on with a life that didn’t include painting classes, she remained someone whose advice continued to serve me well, and who I looked forward to sending birthday and Christmas cards to as a tiny way of letting her know she yet lingered in my thoughts. While some might say such occasional correspondences serve little purpose and should perhaps even be discontinued after a time, I just want to close with this final note. When the auction had ended and those conducting it struck up a conversation with me, it was asked how I knew Eve, etc. I briefly outlined our history, adding (a bit ruefully, I admit) that we’d been out of (in-person) touch for years, but that we still sent Christmas cards. A light went on at that revelation as I was informed, “That’s how we got in touch with you! We contacted the names in Eve’s personal address book. You were there.”
With that in mind, I just want to close with some gentle advice of my own. When you think there’s no point in just sending a card to someone, think again. For, small gestures, much like pictures, truly can be worth a thousand words. In my case, they were worth a chance to recapture a thousand memories. And, all the words I’ve written here can never describe the worth of that picture above… the art — and more than mere imitation — of life it represents.
You can read a bit more about Eve via this newspaper article announcing the above-mentioned auction.
