It was the last ride of the Southern Crescent. Trains were no longer making a decent profit, and this particular old fashioned one, with its run between Boston and New Orleans, was to be discontinued. They loaded my black streamer trunk filled with paint, canvas, and supplies on to the train. I was settling in as it moved slowly out of the station. I worked my way to the dining car. Black waiters in white jackets with large metal trays emerged from a steaming kitchen as if from some yet unwritten Canto. I was seated next to a croupier from Atlanta and we discussed his art as we rumbled along eating our dinners. The train rumbled, the plates rumbled; everything – the cutlery, the glasses, my teeth – was shaking. I was twenty seven, couldn’t believe any of this still existed and thought what a shame it was to lose it.
Bill Smart, the director, met me at the Station in Sweetbriar and drove me to the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts. He showed me around the large southern-style mansion where a dozen artists and writers were housed, then out to the stables which had been converted into painting studios and writers’ rooms.
I was to stay for two months on a work scholarship, which meant an hour or two a day of painting walls or cleaning up the kitchen at the side of a few of my poor painter-poet colleagues. There was one familiar face among them. Carl Woods was a hard working, grey haired poet We met previously at the Millay Colony for the Arts. He methodically kept hundreds of rejection and acceptance notices from various magazines in two wooden boxes. He was as poor as a church mouse and lived in the attic of the Center as a sort of permanent ward of Bill Smart. Though young enough to be Carl’s son, Bill was like a father to him.
In many artists colonies the fellows work alone all day in and meet in the evening for dinner and an affable exchange of creative and inspired thinking…in theory. At dinner the first evening I discovered a dozen middle aged, middle class, alcoholic female writers. By the first course they had picked up quite a bit of momentum and were arguing virulently about everything, anything and nothing. It was the first time l’d been in the South. I was a long way from home, didn’t know a soul
As I was wondering how (and if) I was going to make it through this Sari Denes entered. She was eighty years old with a huge white ball of curly hair and the colorful robes of an African princess. She made strange drinks with bananas and garlic in a blender brought for that purpose – of which I drank copious amounts. It was a small price to pay for the pleasure of her company. She took me to openings, presented me to well known artists, introduced me to the I Ching, even met women for me to go out with. She found so much wonder and magic in the oddest things. She would stop in delight to photograph some stains and markings on the sidewalk or to pick up a squashed can and examine it as if it were some relick of an ancient civilization. Then careful store it in her giant multicolored sac. We went to the Smithsonian lnstitute and stood before the almost lifesize portrait of her, done by Alice Neal. That is the image of her that I keep today.
Alter a few days it started to rain and then to freeze. The rain turned to ice as it hit the ground and covered everything, including the telephone lines and tree branches, with a clear, solid, shining coat. The fellows were huddled in the salon by the fireplace, sipping their bourbon and trying unsuccessfully to be cheery. I decided to take a walk out to my studio in the stables about one hundred yards from the house. I was slowly walking down the road, marveling at the transformation of the southern landscape into a crystal wonderland, when there was a loud crack. Over my head about half of a towering tree was on its way down. There was no time to moue. I stood dumbfounded as the iceladen branches came showering down. The broken trunk stil) clung to its origins but now hung upside down, leaving a curtain of branches and ice dangling two feet in front of me and blocking the road. Stunned, I thought perhaps l’d skip going to the studio and instead retuned to the house. It had been a close call.
About an hour later the electricity avent out. It stayed out. For several days. There we were, my merry band of bourgeois ladies and I with no lights, no heat, no running water. My trip to an artists colony – where one is spoiled and all elements are created to promote creativity in ideal and undisturbed conditions – was turning out to be quite something else.
The director arrived. Ah, good news? WRONG. His basement was flooding and he was desperate. Carl Woods and I got a couple of buckets and avent down there before the house sunk. We bailed for hours. We were knee deep in water and it was below zero. Still we hauled bucket after bucket out of that basement until the house was safe.
The next day I was in bed with a high fever that lasted about a week. When I recovered, the storm was over, the ice had melted, the electicity was back. Bill said that I didn’t have to work anymore. I had done enough. He was very grateful.
Alter a few days it started to rain and then to freeze. The rain turned to ice as it hit the ground and covered everything, including the telephone lines and tree branches, with a clear, solid, shining coat. The fellows were huddled in the salon by the fireplace, sipping their bourbon and trying unsuccessfully to be cheery. I decided to take a walk out to my studio in the stables about one hundred yards from the house. I was slowly walking down the road, marveling at the transformation of the southern landscape into a crystal wonderland, when there was a loud crack. Over my head about half of a towering tree was on its way down. There was no time to run. I stood dumbfounded as the ice laden branches came showering down. The broken fork of the trunk still clung to its base but now hung upside down, leaving a curtain of branches and ice dangling two feet in front of me and blocking the road. Stunned, I retuned to the house. It had been a close call.
About an hour later the electricity went out. It stayed out for several days. There I was a merry band of bourgeois ladies and no lights, no heat, no running water. My trip to an artists colony – where one is spoiled and all the elements are created to promote creativity in ideal and undisturbed conditions – was turning out to be quite something else.
The director arrived. His basement was flooding and he was desperate. Carl Woods and I got a couple of buckets and went down there before the house sunk. We bailed for hours. We were knee deep in water and the temperature was below zero. Still we hauled bucket after bucket out of that basement until the house was safe.
The next day I was in bed with a high fever that lasted about a week. When I recovered, the storm was over, the ice had melted, the electicity was back. Bill said that I didn’t have to work anymore. I had done enough. He was very grateful.
I couldn’t bear to live in the house any longer. I had someone help me move out to my atelier, which was quite big. Each studio had a bed in it: they felt that every creative person needed a bed close at hand while working. Mine happened to be the only one with a shower as well. I was happy there and content to return to my studio after dinner in the house. I was living in a barn in Virginia, at peace with myself and the world.
Tragedy struck again. One night the big grandfather clock in the hall stopped ticking. Cari Woods was found on the side of the highway, hit by a truck. No one knew where he was going or why he was out there. Sweetbriar was not the same without him.
People left and a new group was arriving. They were more interesting and open. I was working well. I stayed an extra month.
Alter a few days it started to rain and then to freeze. The rain turned to ice as it hit the ground and covered everything, including the telephone lines and tree branches, with a clear, solid, shining coat. The fellows were huddled in the salon by the fireplace, sipping their bourbon and trying unsuccessfully to be cheery. I decided to take a walk out to my studio in the stables about one hundred yards from the house. I was slowly walking down the road, marveling at the transformation of the southern landscape into a crystal wonderland, when there was a loud crack. Over my head about half of a towering tree was on its way down. There was no time to run. I stood dumbfounded as the ice laden branches came showering down. The broken fork of the trunk still clung to its base but now hung upside down, leaving a curtain of branches and ice dangling two feet in front of me and blocking the road. Stunned, I retuned to the house. It had been a close call.
About an hour later the electricity went out. It stayed out for several days. There I was a merry band of bourgeois ladies and no lights, no heat, no running water. My trip to an artists colony – where one is spoiled and all the elements are created to promote creativity in ideal and undisturbed conditions – was turning out to be quite something else.
The director arrived. His basement was flooding and he was desperate. Carl Woods and I got a couple of buckets and went down there before the house sunk. We bailed for hours. We were knee deep in water and the temperature was below zero. Still we hauled bucket after bucket out of that basement until the house was safe.
The next day I was in bed with a high fever that lasted about a week. When I recovered, the storm was over, the ice had melted, the electicity was back. Bill said that I didn’t have to work anymore. I had done enough. He was very grateful.
I couldn’t bear to live in the house any longer. I had someone help me move out to my atelier, which was quite big. Each studio had a bed in it: they felt that every creative person needed a bed close at hand while working. Mine happened to be the only one with a shower as well. I was happy there and content to return to my studio after dinner in the house. I was living in a barn in Virginia, at peace with myself and the world.
Tragedy struck again. One night the big grandfather clock in the hall stopped ticking. Cari Woods was found on the side of the highway, hit by a truck. No one knew where he was going or why he was out there. Sweetbriar was not the same without him.
People left and a new group was arriving. They were more interesting and open. I was working well. I stayed an extra month.
About a month after I returned North, the news arrived. The old Southern mansion- with the large white pillars on the front porch, ten bedrooms, a dining room that could seat sixteen comfortably- had burned down to the ground. No one was hurt, but the grand old building was gone. They built a new one. I’ve never seen it. l’ve never been back to Sweetbriar Virginia