Chagall, a Suitcase, and a Pair of Dreamers
The advertisement for the estate sale boasted that the previous owner was the founder of a famous beverage company – and there was a half-mile winding driveway to prove it. Someone at the top of the hill directed cars to park by the well kept barn that was behind the house where the contents for sale had been brought. It must have been at least 3,000 square feet.
It was easy to decipher the beverage company; wall clocks, posters, sweatshirts and an autographed image all bore the trademark that afforded this person an estate with a sprawling home, guest house and refurbished barn.
Alas, I wasn’t looking for skis, beverage merch or dart boards. But something did catch my eye, a suitcase. It had a hard shell in marshmallow white, and it looked like it had never left the grounds of the estate. For $10 I snapped it up. At the checkout, the woman running the sale mentioned they had items not on display in the barn up for auction.
That evening boredom and curiosity got the best of me. There was a lot left unsold at this estate sale with many interesting items up for grabs. One even inspired me to do something I rarely do, place a bid. It was a poorly framed sketch of ballerinas dancing. And I swear, there was movement within the frame. While my mind said this was impossible, my heart was as light as their fluttering airborne feet. And so I placed a low bid as I went to bed, and woke up a surprised “winner”.
I was pleased with my purchase, as memories of my youth flooded back to when I believed I was a dancer. By adolescence I was outgrowing my makeshift studio in our aluminum trailer’s living room. The day my wiry swinging arms shattered my mother’s beautiful German crystal reindeer set was the end of a dream that never really began.
It turned out it wasn’t a sketch, but a lithograph by Marc Chagall depicting one of the scenes from the Palais Garnier Opera House in Paris. I had crossed paths with him before. A few months prior I had a moment alone with Chagall, or rather, I had a moment alone with stained glass art created by him. In the tiny town of Pocantico Hills, NY inside a little chapel I discovered colorful mosaics of stained glass windows that culminated in an awakening. If humans are capable of creating such beauty, our importance couldn’t be overlooked. Marc Chagall opened my eyes, there was no doubt. Humans add value.
I’ll likely never know if the lithograph I “won” was actually signed by Chagall, but I do know that this church and the estate sale where I purchased my ballerina picture aren’t far from one another. The owner of the beverage franchise was alive during the time when Chagall lived and worked in Pocantico Hills. I like to imagine their two worlds somehow collided with my dreams in youth. The picture brings me joy, and like an archaeologist, it unearthed a piece of my history that I often forget. I never did become a dancer, but I also never forgot how to dream.
And that marshmallow white suitcase, it rolled out the door with another dreamer, my 22 year old daughter. The two are living their best life in South Korea.
