Another Bird.

"Corb, did you notice we're surrounded by penises?" 

One of our favorite stops when we travel to Vermont is The Vintage Den, which is located in Jeffersonville, and is a "quirky, multi-dealer antique and secondhand shop housed in a historic post-and-beam barn." 

The barn is huge, and three levels, and while the space has a distinctive musty smell, and the comic books aren't sorted as well as I'd like, there's a wide variety of really cool items, including an enormous amount of amazing artwork on the second floor. That's where we were when we became surrounded by penises, in one of the dealer areas located at the center of the barn.

Corb's gaze was focused lower, on a painting of a woman bathing in a fountain naked, which I founded amusing. She was surrounded by a number of onlookers who appeared to be judging her.

"What's that? Surrounded by what?" 

His gaze drifted upwards to the other paintings in the area. They had clearly been all painted by the same artist, who appeared to figure prominently in every one--or at least, an idealized portrayal of the artist (I assume), all Greek godlike and rippling. Often, possessing a rather girthy member, may I add.

Corb abandoned the judged woman to get a better view of everything else he had kind of glossed over in the room. His eyes widened. "These are kind of amazing," he said. 

There were pieces of artwork on all three sides and in between, at various stages in the artist's career. Smaller paintings, big expansive paintings, multiple versions of different drafts. An artist's sketchbook. Two cubes with different artwork on every side of the cube. All set in this sleepy old barn, a hidden treasure waiting to be discovered. 

Most paintings were clearly drawn from the fevered brow of a gay man, all muscles and penile and sinewy, mixed in with a healthy dash of religious fervor to really heighten the tension. On one wall, there was one far more somber painting. An image of an older man, clearly wasting away from something, with two medical professionals standing behind him. It bespoke the final stages of something. It bespoke time is not a finite object.

Was it the painter or his partner? I was unsure.

There was one painting that really caught my eye. The idealized artist, this time with his genitalia covered by a bear (not bare) encrusted loincloth. Straining to break free from a purple cape that connected him to a clearly older figure, all bumps and sadness and almost Picasso-esque in its formation. 

"I love that," said Corb.

"Me too," I replied. 

There was a second variation on this theme, located next to this straining Atlas, but that version seemed a bit angrier and altogether more angular. The face of the artist on the version we preferred seemed less angry and more resigned. And the sadness on the older figured seemed more pronounced.

It spoke to me. For me, the painting represents the artistic spirit, eternally young and beautiful, bound by the physical slowly decaying presence of aging, mortality and distraction. 

Corb loved this painting, too, and it was a quick decision for us to buy it. But he was also drawn to a much larger one that may have been drawn at an earlier stage in the artist's career. We debated for quite some time regarding whether to get it, since it would not fit in the car in its current condition. We even drove back after leaving the barn so Corb could measure it. Corb decided to put up a poll, asking our friends: 1.) Do we need this in our home? 2.) How do we get it home?

Interestingly, many of our gay male friends responded right away, letting us know in no uncertain terms they supported bringing it home. Several other artistic friends were like, why are you even asking? The only really negative reaction came from my ex-wife, who seemed rather dismissive.

I have my own theories about why that would be. I feel like lately, Corb and I have been leaning a bit heavier into expressing our queerness, while Josie has become increasingly straighter and more maternal. PS: there's nothing wrong with that.

Feedback received, we made our decision: we would return tomorrow and Corb would remove the painting from its frame to roll it up and stretch it back out when we get home, to mount in our den. He let the owner of the barn know and while he was at it, asked: who was this artist anyways?

"We are friends with the sister of the artist," the owner replied. "He passed about a year ago and his sister is looking to sell his artwork." She sent us a link to his obituary.

David Lucian was born on August 1938 in Newport, Vermont to Lucian and Grace Brown Whitehill of Morgan, Vermont. He was the youngest of six children and is survived by Norma Lemieux of Williamstown, Vermont and Kenneth Whitehill and Barbara Whitehill, both of Morgan. David also leaves his long-time friends, Greg Pease of Washington, DC and Tim Willis of Grove City, Ohio. He was predeceased by his parents and his sisters, Phyllis Burroughs and Anita Plummer and by his partner, Ivan Carter.

David graduated from Brighton High School in Island Pond in 1957. He graduated from Lyndon State College in 1960 with a BA degree and graduated from Ohio University in Athens, Ohio with an MA.

David taught school in Canaan and also taught art classes after his graduation from Ohio University. He worked for Battelle Institute in Washington, DC until his retirement in 2007. After his retirement, he returned to his hometown of Morgan.

David was an avid painter from an early age and sold many of his paintings during his lifetime. In the last summer at Lyndon College, David painted a mural in the Morgan Center Church, (now the Morgan Historical Society.) Unfortunately, the mural has been painted over. He was a member of the MAC Center for the Arts in Newport and displayed many of his paintings there.

He was passionate about the arts, especially grand opera and Broadway. David loved travel and made several trips to Italy and England. He enjoyed hiking and was also a very good gardener.

Corb and I read through the obit and smiled at each other. An artist, passionate about the arts. Lover of theater and world traveler. Hiker and gardener. 

I looked up the Battelle Institute afterward and discovered that this is an institute in DC dedicated to "applying advanced science, technology, and engineering to solve the most complex challenges for businesses and government agencies." 

Aha! A Corporate job.

So, while this man didn't exactly set the art world on fire, he clearly had something to say, was fairly successful at doing what he did, and kept his commitment to the arts to the end. 

I looked up at Corb and smiled. "He's a fellow queer bird," I remarked, and that knowledge warmed me a bit.

It also explained why I felt such a connection to smaller painting. 

The artistic spirit, eternally young and beautiful. Bound by the physical slowly decaying presence of aging, mortality and distraction.

"I can relate to that interpretation," I said to Corb as we drove away from the barn, the smaller painting in the back seat of our car. "I would love to hang it in my office to remind me. Although I really don't care where it hangs as long as it's in the house. 

It reminds me of the life I've lived. I put off my creative spirit for so many reasons my entire life. When I was younger, it was insecurity. Then criticism. Then obsession. Then, I abandoned writing for a more solid career, which was kind of writing, where I made enough to live comfortably and be in the position where I can write comfortably, and say whatever I want. 

But can I really? And for how long? And who will hear?"

Yes, I felt bound, too. 

"And you get it, too," I said, on a roll. "All that you've been through. Both of us have been told by our parents, by so many others, all our lives to play it safe, to not take too many chances, to not do this, not do that. What could we have achieved if we hadn't been shackled?" 

Bound. Shackled.

Me. Him. So many of us. David.

It warms me to think that this artistic queer bird would have a new life, freed from the confines of that musty barn in Vermont. Traveling to our house, our Green Victoria, to be surrounded and loved by two fellow queer birds and serving as inspiration for new artistic endeavors.

New life, new dreams springing from the ashes of the old. 

Maybe the chain actually can be broken. 

Maybe us queer queer birds actually can make our voices heard. Maybe if we tweet loud enough. 

And Corb and I are sure gonna try.