Memorable Art

 I rarely make mistakes. I am one of those people who checks out every move, option or path before committing to a decision. As my wife puts it, "It isn't often you make a mistake, but when you do, it is epic."

My wife had been writing letters to my adult children for a few months. I'm more of a texting dad but decided it was time to give my wife a run for her Parent of the Year trophy. I planned everything out so perfectly, it was going to be heartfelt, memories, they would keep with them for all time...because my competitive nature with my wife runs deep.

During lunch one day, I decided to walk over the the Art Institute of Chicago to get some ideas for my artsy children. I walked through each gallery looking at the paintings, taking some photos, and reading each plaque explain who the artist was and if there was some sort of story involved. Many of them didn't match the personality for each. Portraits were just dead people on canvas, the sculptures (although incredible to create) aren't really something I would send to them. Looking back, I laugh because it isn't like I could afford something like that to begin with.

No, I decided it needed to be something that reminded me of their childhood. There were 3 such paintings that made me think of them:



The Song of the Lark by Jules Adolphe Breton (1884)

This reminds me of my eldest child as she seems to always be looking into the darkness ready to take on whatever comes at her. She is truly the pioneer who is willing to do the hard work to get things done.



Terrace and Observation Deck at the Moulin de Blute-Fin, Montmartre by Vincent van Gogh (1887)

There are a couple reasons for this painting. First, my second daughter's favorite painting growing up was Starry Night by van Gogh. At one point, everything in her bedroom had to be associated to Starry Night. Sheets for the bed, umbrella, she had it all. But the spending her early years on the Maryland beach, I felt this painting specifically hit that specific memory of boating and fishing in the bay in Ocean City. It was always fun seeing that light reflecting off her face even on the colder fall days.



Nighthawks by Edward Hopper (1942)

My younger child and I would explore new restaurants and diners ahead of the rest of the family. This would be our special day out. When we found those special places we would sometimes bring the family back, and sometimes we would keep it to ourselves. This would be one of those diners we would keep to ourselves.

So stealing these paintings and mailing them off to my children may be a bit disruptive to the museum, and it may get me arrested. Plan B... the gift shop.

After spending entirely too long moving from knick-knack to prints, I settled on postcards. These postcards meant I could write that extra edge to open their hearts to dear old Dad. I selected the cards and made my way back to the cashier to check out.

"I am sending these to my kids." I volunteered to the checkout person who smiled and couldn't care less.

"Good Dad..." I whispered back to myself after seeing no affirmation of my activity was coming.

After returning to my office, I promptly pulled out the post cards and began scribbling my well thought out words of enlightenment and tear-jerking memories. I thought about the old days when you had to purchase "postcard" stamps for postcards. So after work, I decided it makes more sense to go directly to the post office in my neighborhood after getting off the bus.

As planned, I went straight to the post office, stood in line for about 15 minutes before coming to the counter to get my stamps. "Three postcard stamps please." Of course, I didn't have cash. I handed the clerk my card to charge the $1.05 charge for the stamps. She eyed me like I had given her the ring from Lord of the Rings.

After receiving my stamps and receipt, I walked to one of the stands to place the stamps on the postcards, applied them and walked over to the mail drop and placed them inside.

Later that night, laying in bed going over my day with my wife. I explained how I went to the Art Institute of Chicago to get something memorable for the kids, how I wrote cute messages to the kids and purchased the postcard stamps.

My wife was satisfyingly surprised, appreciating all of the special work I put into the project and looked appropriately impressed. "How did you get their addresses?" Seeing my brain stutter to a halt and my body frozen in shock, she burst out in laughter.

I had forgotten to put addresses on the post cards. I hope the people in dead mail like their art.