University of Northern Iowa

RestorationAuthor(s): Paula V. SmithSource: The North American Review, Vol. 288, No. 2, National Poetry Month Issue (Mar. -Apr., 2003), pp. 15-18Published by: University of Northern IowaStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/25126930 .

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NAR

restoration A STORY BY PAULA V. SMITH

In the past hour I've introduced myself to doll collec

tors, retired dealers, people who inherited antiques or

picked them up at auctions, family members

sharing a hobby. The older ones are especially kind, seeing be- _

fore them a nice,

well-groomed ?g^^^ m young man, not

.J?hIh ?H ?B long out of col- li^^^^B -'''jmK?k. w^m lege. They look ^^^^^^H ??I^^^H ̂ V impressed to learn ^^^^^^m ^^^^^m /^HL I am employed ^^K^^m ^^^K ?^^n by the R?gnier ^vl^r ^^^H I^^B Arts Trust. One ^^^^

l^^Y couple tells me all J?????& Hfttfr ^^V about their daugh- ^^ HB^^gSHjIHMk ^B who ter- fl^^^^^l^^BP^^B w

They repeat how ^HB^^^^^U^ ^?UH much they would ??j??i^^^l like me to meet her, ^^? J?u^^^H once they are back ^^ h^mHj |H^^^^| in Chicago, when ^^^^^^^H ̂ ^^^^^^1 the class is over. ^gj^^^^^^m ^^^^^^H Some VV^H^I^^ ^^^^^^| arrive with what the *^^ ^^^^1 program calls non-

..^a?????I^^^ ^^^W

partkipating spouses. ^HJ^^^L Oh, if you were ^^^^^^^^Hp JB here, it would raise ^^^^MMBBP^^ %M

c all over again the ^^^^ iK? 5 question of how i^^Bl^^ jl^^M^ ^^ > to introduce you, ?I?I^IHI ^i^B^lk the tanned and W^^^^H ^^^J ^^?L awkward l^^^^^ft ^^^m ^^K.

my ̂ ^^^^^^^^m ^^H partner, compan- ^^BMI^^ ^^

ion? (Briefly, I

savor the imag- |_ ined reactions of

the couple with the daughter.) But you are not. Even in

times past, when we were together, you would have

found something else to occupy you, some more physi

cal adventure, a bike tour or a mountain trek. This place

would seem restricted, too far indoors for your taste. And

still, from habit, I find myself thinking of how I would

describe it all to you: the home of legendary restorer

Mrs. Wee. I would describe the broad foursquare of

brick, how it is surrounded with shade trees, furnished

with American primitives and modern Swedish

appliances. _ Before leaving

the house on this

first evening, we

Jy?fl??k '';^?E??Ey are Perrnitted

?jn?^^m????^ M^SSB to descend the

^l^^^^r >J^^^^Kk m groups of two

?fHI^BP^H or three, to see

?jHH^Hjj^^P our teacher's work

J^^^^^^^KF room. Every sur

J^^^^^^^r ^ace covered

j^^^^HPF with small bot

j^^^^^r ^es and Jars brist

J^^^?r ^?^^ ling with hand

flHfefc. I^^F J^R^B tools, racks of

^^^Q^k ^^

JJH^B paint tubes, brush

^^^^^^k t^_ ^^^^V es propped in

^^^^^^B ?B ^^^^m variegated con

^^^^^^H j9| l^^^E tainers. Shelves

^^^^^^m Jj^A ^^^B on me wa^s ^^^^H^ ^^^B ^^^H vases, platters, and

^^HP^ ^^^H ^^^H elaborate ^^^ ^^^^

^^B urines.

j&?^^ ^S^ ^^ Even before ?k J^^^B f^v seeing this room,

H J^B ^^ ^^ I was taken wjm

WE J^^b iki^?^? t^ie nomery Pra?"

^^^k hHb matism, the mak

?J^^^^^B G^H^B ing-do, suggested S^^^^^^B ^I^^^^B by Mrs. Wee's list ^IHHH^^ ^^^^^^B of

^^^^^^B tools to bring with

IkteMj^^^Mg^ ^^^^^^v us: work apron; VMHMMH?B VB^^^ aquarium grav

el in a wooden

_| box; magnify

ing glass; used

dental instruments, any style; popsicle and match

sticks; skewers, dowels; old paring knife; soft old shav

ing brush; scrap aluminum; fine-grid cheesecloth; steel

wool; silk rags (white only); spackling compound; eye

droppers; shot glasses; old toothbrush. The sort of

thing one can't quite throw away, lest it may come in

useful some time?and now is the time. You, too,

March-April 2003 NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW 15

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N A R

perhaps, would have felt drawn to it: a room perennial

ly in process, labeled a mess only by the uninitiated. As part of the week-long package, we reside on

campus. I am writing in a dormitory room with tall

bare windows. Outside is the warm night, leafy and

dark, punctuated by the occasional twang on the screens of an invisible junebug catapulting against them. A real college student would bring a desk lamp, rather than sit under the naked bulb like a prisoner.

But I concentrate entirely on what is before me. And

if at times you break into my thoughts, I remind you that you do not want to be there. That, too, was your

decision.

/. Museum Ethics

Integrity and reversibility are the cardinal rules. Never

do anything that cannot safely be undone. For the

time may come when our work can be replaced by

something better, something more closely approaching the pot's original condition. Some students wince at

the word pot. Diminutive Mrs. Wee smiles like an

angel. She explains that this generic term is used for

any piece of pottery or porcelain, regardless of age,

beauty, value, or sentiment.

We have all brought with us damaged pieces to work on during the week. The goal is to learn many proce

dures, not to finish a particular project. The pots stand

before us on a long schoolroom table. All but one of

mine were hauled out by my supervisor from the stor

age rooms at the R?gnier. The exception is a pitcher

decorated with one dark blue flower, a souvenir of our

trip to Cabarete. It broke. Remember? You probably

thought it was buried in a landfill, but?surprise!?I have it here. It may be dross compared to the R?gnier treasures, but it can hold its own, even with part of the

handle missing and a large chip out of the spout. I can

only imagine what might cross your mind if you saw

this piece again, especially if you were to see it as

whole and perfect as the day we bought it.

For to alter (our teacher makes this point) is not to

restore. We are enjoined against shearing off the

residual handle of a sugar bowl, or grinding down the

wing-stubs of a damaged cherub to make a perfect child. Even to entertain this option is to condone dis

figurement, anachronism, deceit. I bow to the purity

of her standard, in all its humbling implications. Restorers do not create?we have no license to make

what never existed. We serve the intent of the potter,

whose work might have remained whole always. When we succeed, trauma settles into memory like a

healed scar.

Graft, amputations, and vandalism, I write in my note

book, for so Mrs. Wee describes such practices as

painting a bracelet onto the re-attached wrist of a

shepherdess, shrinking the circumference of a chipped plate, or changing the color of an old part to match the new. In London, they accused the Americans of com

monly engaging in such practices, and all eyes turned to

her. Even Americans, she wryly notes, ought to be capa

ble of rectitude. (If you wonder how I am getting along without you, the answer is that I'm doing better than I was a few weeks ago. I can look steadily at the broken

pitcher without averting my eyes.)

Note: Always label the piece restored.

2. Blood Heat

We rinse a pot in clear lukewarm water. At blood heat, in

the words of Mrs. Wee. We air-dry it on a clean towel,

placed with utmost care. The domestic gestures evoke

a feeling of peace. However, we must be vigilant. Old

repairs may fail at any time. Never trust heads or handles.

The wisdom of this class strikes me afresh. I have never

trusted heads, especially other people's. As for a handle,

I know nothing more likely to be pried off by the very

clutching grasp that tries to save itself by means of the

handle's presumed solidity. Some of us, I think, have

been there.

Removing stains is a slow process, one that risks wors

ening rather than bettering. We work, heads bent, on

the broken things we packed so carefully in our suitcas es. We are asked to consider the basic properties of

ceramic: hardness, porosity, fragility. If both crazed and

porous, it invites a stain. What have I learned? To use

common salt on a damp rag for removal of coffee, fruit,

and ink stains. (I think of the fruit and coffee that you and I consumed at dawn on the wide terrace at

Cabarete, looking out to sea.) White vinegar to remove

soap film from glass. Oxalic acid for rust stains caused

by the rivets in earthenware.

We are warned to avoid household bleach, which causes irreversible damage. The chlorine seeps under

the surface; then, despite repeated rinsing, it recrystal

lizes and disintegrates the glaze from below. Any appar ent bleaching action is not only transient, but ends in

betrayal.

I still don't know what you have told Andrea. When

you introduced us, I must have seemed inconsequen tial, the guy you shared a place with. Now that you are

engaged, though, surely it is appropriate for me to send a gift, something that strikes a very personal note. I am

thinking of this pitcher, the dark blue flower standing on it like a flag. Wouldn't it be a nice surprise if it

arrived in the mail fully repaired, with a sweet note

reminding you of when and why we purchased it

together? I expect Andrea to be equally gracious in

response, and understanding, as befits a bride. She

must want to know everything about your past, to have

a full sense of who you are.

16 NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW March-April 2003

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PAULA V. SMITH

3. Locked Out

I stand the pitcher and its handle in the sandbox, care

fully balanced and waiting to be joined, but still with

out adhesive. Tape always perpendicular to a join. The

chip gets repaired with a composition of epoxy and tita

nium dioxide ground and scraped together. One fills in

the cavity ever so slightly above the surface?as Mrs.

Wee calls it, just proud. We learn to work in steps and layers, waiting for the

epoxy to reach the proper stage of cure. Always put

together an entity (bird's wing, cup handle, flower) before attaching part to whole. If the last piece will not

fit after inaccurate assembly, you are locked out.

When Andrea asks, you may tell her how the pitcher was broken. Not in anger; we never had that kind of

argument. And there is no one to blame, really, since

you happened to leave the door locked and I had to pry

open the kitchen window, which knocked the pitcher off the windowsill. (I never asked you why you locked

the door that day. Only now does that question occur to

me.) Mrs. Wee never inquires how a piece came to be

broken. She counsels us to discourage these stories,

noting that therapy for the owner counts not among the

restorer's duties.

Still, one can't help but wonder. Why do things break? Are some people born to break, and others to

fix? How can one instant of distraction require a hun

dred hours of painstaking repair? Though it lies beyond the scope of the class, I think back to your shaken con

fession, the scene of breakage. Andrea tempted you,

and you had stumbled, but only once, you said, the

intensity of regret in that moment eclipsing a more fun

damental indecision. That would emerge later. How

earnestly we worked, then, to gather up the sharp, dis

ordered fragments. Trying to find them all, even those cast farthest from point of impact. Warily assuring each

other it was possible to arrange everything just the way it was before.

4. Eternal Verities

Because shoulders are so thin and curved, they often

require special efforts to balance. We learn today about

dolls and figurines. The human figure as porcelain: hard, porous, fragile. Balance and support, Mrs. Wee

calls the eternal verities, whether in joins, in fills, or in

casting. She proposes, refreshingly, that it is more

effective to work with gravity than to defy it. Think of

being lifted by an incoming wave, finding your lean

body able to float for the very first time (an interesting

experience you reported to me, in Cabarete), and com

ing to rest again, gently, on a floor of sand.

This stage of repair is more difficult than anything we have done. I am touching a body, which I find

disturbingly intimate. I use epoxy composition to

model the fingers in two stages, the second stage for

fine modeling of knuckles and fingernails. Last night in that spartan dormitory room, I dreamed that I had a

woman's body, and of your pleasure at this fortuitous

compromise. I can hardly breathe as we are told that

to restore color to a doll's face we may impregnate vel

vet, invert to remove the excess, then pat over not quite dry

cheeks.

Embarrassed, I frown and busy myself with note tak

ing. Use three to five layers for the mold, talc inside and out, and knead after filling to expel any pockets of air. Now I

smile at something you would appreciate, if you were

here. Never ship latex in cold weather.

5. Properties of Color

With relief I turn to the pure and austere domain of

color. We are told to work in northern daylight, but not

directly in the sun. Whites, I learn, are metameric,

varying with the type and source of light. They are

hard to match. For practice we array white pieces in

order, from cool to warm. Blue, green, and violet

recede; red, yellow, and orange come toward you.

Looking at neutral grayness helps to see the color

needed. Apply color in layers, often the only way to achieve a match.

The color chart has a rhythm that lulls, mesmerizes,

like the sound of buttons slipping tenderly against each

other in a sack. Burnt sienna: Earth. Semi-transparent.

Makes pale apricots and corals. A trace modifies blues

without killing them. Add black for stronger brown.

Raw umber. Earth. Dark, low-intensity orange. Thin,

quite transparent, near gray with yellow cast. Simulates

worn old gold. You must admit this is an easy way out

for you, an escape from the intensity you fear and love.

Charming and odd in her own way, Andrea is undeni

ably safe. You can take her out without questions, the

whole world approving of you together. Cerulean: Sky blue, cold. Greenish cast. The color of

sky above Cabarete, where everything felt perpetually

damp: clothes, hair, skin, breeze, shoes, blankets, tow

els, wood. Coarse lime-green curtains tinted the incom

ing light. At night it rained torrentially, as if tanks of

water were being emptied on our roof, and the lights went off at random, making shore and sea indistin

guishable in darkness. For a while the electricity would resume: buzzing lights for volleyball played on the

beach, for all-night bars with live music. In the street

outside our window, we could hear firecrackers,

portable radios?a motorcycle stopped to pick up a

hitchhiker and then revved up again?crashing waves,

horns honking; someone right next to the window

whistling, then shouting. Until it grew dark.

Remember?

March-April 2003 NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW 17

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N A R

Alizarin crimson: Has blue in it, going toward violet.

Transparent. Darken with ultramarine.

Light colors can be deepened; dark colors cannot be

lightened; too dark is more obvious than too light.

Always work from light to dark. Ending with the empty beach, stars and an oval moon reflected in dark water,

where two figures float, you and I, touching at star

points to make a pattern like Gemini, human outlines

resting against each other and the wide firmament,

infinitely clear, always averting its eyes from the light and facing toward darkness.

Prussian blue: Modifies greens. Makes turquoise, robin's egg. Dull with raw umber. Use with caution?

too much permeates and dominates. Greenish cast.

Even Sappho stood trembling among the guests at her

lover's wedding feast. Poisonous, airy, deep, and trans

parent. Seldom used alone.

6. Feathering Off

Mrs. Wee demonstrates a technique for edging out the

color, fading and merging it gradually with the china

surface. This was done with a feather, to create faux

marble in the eighteenth century. She pulls outward

deftly and lightly, dipping the small brush frequently, like a bird drinking after rain. On this summer morn

ing, the last day of class, the space is populated with

ceramic and human bodies equally transfixed, watching

Mrs. Wee at work. And yet, so deeply absorbed, she

could be alone in the room. For a moment, I wonder

what has happened in her life that demands such hero

ic effort to repair.

Perhaps it is true, as she has told us, that most trou

bles come from uncleanliness. Grease and dust, we

know, repel paint and adhesives. Tools and hands must

be kept clean for the next piece, the next step. All

week, we have watched diligently as she pours a pool of glaze no larger than a quarter, dips the point of a

palette knife into a diminutive jar of powder, feathers

off the hand brushing with a scrap of white silk. A sug

gestion is better than excess.

Our teacher now surveys the group, eyes level and

patient, as if to ask how well we understand this enter

prise, but also whether we grasp its limits. Not every

piece has enough value to warrant the labor and adversity of

finishing. Mrs. Wee turns her head in my direction, but

seems to look through me, past the open door that

reveals a maze of brick paths, university buildings, summer trees. Slowly I reach for the pitcher with the

blue flower, and then for a sheet of wrapping tissue.

Since the joins are evident, the pot will need no label.

What can I say? Simply, I invite you both to come and

see this journeywork standing now on what is my own

kitchen windowsill. D

ALISON TOWNSEND

Each Broken Note Shining

The music lessons were my mother's idea.

So I kept practicing for the Winter Recital

after she left the hospital,

pretending she was still there, as she'd been the afternoon

we rented the violin in its black case

smelling of cherry-eucalyptus cough drops and other children's hands.

I loved the faded purple plush inside

that changed colors and caught at the light, the honey-colored instrument scripted with S's

for sound, the silky chin rest, and the bow?

a lance of gleaming horsehair I learned to tighten right, rubbing it rough

with a cake of rosin that sprinkled my body with powdery stars.

All that autumn I had a purpose,

carrying the violin back and forth from school?

the case banging against my knees or bumping across the handlebars of the black Schwinn

she'd given me for my birthday? as it got dark earlier, and snow fell, and the fourth graders struggled to master "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star."

But on Recital night there was only my father, blur

of a face far back in a middle row.

And me, wearing a madras dress

too thin for the season, stretched-out

kneesocks sliding into my Buster Browns,

my body tense and resonant as the instrument

I dragged the bow across, each broken note shining as I stood there, playing

what I couldn't say to my father,

my foot tapping in time to that screech of grief, that starless sky, that lullaby so transfigured.

18 NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW March-April 2003

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