Sally Asher's Blog

When I was nine-years old I frequently updated my will. This left my parents continually unnerved, especially when my mother would peer over my shoulder as I scribbled away in my notebook and ask what I was working on. “My last will and testament.” She stopped asking about my writing, a sage habit that she has kept up to this day. But I was obsessed with my prized possessions ending up in the right hands and I often accompanied this “legal document” written in flair pens with lengthy notes to the privileged beneficiary describing how much I cared about them and why I wanted them to have a certain possession.  I didn’t necessarily have a lot of things at age nine, and surprisingly the most difficult thing I found to place was the collection of my cats’ hair clippings in various envelopes. Who deserved that bounty?

While I am planning to live at least into my 90s, I have accumulated a lot of items over the years and desperately want to see them go to people who I feel will enjoy and appreciate them the most. Years ago, I wrote up a brief list on where and to whom some of my art pieces would go. I haven’t really told a lot of people (don’t want to lose the element of surprise; timing is everything) but I did let slip to my good friend Kathryn Hobgood Ray that I would be leaving her and her family their favorite painting of mine, “Afternoon in Rome.”

About ten years ago, I was working in an art gallery in the French Quarter. There I was able to acquaint myself with many international artists. Most of my art was (and still is) by local artists; I rarely bought out of the country. Out of all the artists in the gallery, one particularly stood out to me – Gleb Goloubetski. He was from Russia and only 25 or 26 at the time. His father was a master artist and he became a professional artist at age 15. Goloubestski’s use of color and depth absolutely floored me. I would stand in front of his paintings for hours and examine his deliberate and vigilant swipes of the palette knife. His paintings were much more traditional then what I was typically drawn to – but the point is that I was drawn to them. Unfortunately, I knew the gallery markup and even with my employee discount I could not afford the prices for his work. Still, Goloubestski’s effect on me did not wane and I researched online until I found a gallery in Prague that sold his work for about 40% less. For the next few months, I kept my eye on the website (which was frequently updated) waiting for that one piece that hit me – and one day it did. It was a painting of two bicycles on the street – a “girl” bike and a “boy” bike. It was perfect. The lighting was astonishing and I loved the symbolism of the piece (which I interpreted as the ideal relationship – together but separate). The placement of the bikes suggested intimacy and togetherness, while at the same time demonstrated independence. I thought it would be the perfect present for my boyfriend at the time who used to be a professional cyclist. It was the first time (and the last) I bought a painting online without viewing it first. It arrived from Prague within a few days nicely rolled up tight in a tube. Goloubetski did not disappoint. In fact, he surpassed my expectations. The colors were even richer in person than they were online – I could almost feel the warmth radiating from his art.

Afternoon in Rome

Since it was only a few days before Christmas, I didn’t have time to frame it, but I was so anxious that I was practically twitching to give it to my boyfriend, imagining his surprise and delight. That satisfactory feeling that comes with a well-given gift.  Thermal around the heart. And when the moment finally arrived – he hated it. HATED IT! Thought it was too traditional, not avant garde enough, and chided me for becoming too “suburban.” Did I mention we eventually broke up?

I framed the painting anyway and hung it up and it quickly became one of my favorites. But years later, when the break-up occurred, he made some odd demands. He wanted to dig up the sweet olive trees I gave him and planted in the yard, the azaleas we bought together, and even the ceiling fan (despite the fact he was pissed when I gave it to him – that’s a long story). I basically conceded to everything but the plants (only because I thought it would kill them) and a Jazz Fest print. So I was terrified when the subject came up about the Goloubetski I loved so much but that was rightfully his. Luckily I didn’t even have to mention it – he brought it up, suggesting a trade for the mini television/dvd player he gave me for the painting. I immediately accepted.

Fast forward a few years later to last month when Trixie (Kathryn) and company (Dave and Louis) were in Mid-City with some of their friends and wanted to stop by my place to show their friends my photographs. I used to keep the Golubetski over the doorway to my bedroom, but had since re-arranged some of my art and it now resides in my bedroom.

I was holding the adorable Louis when Dave mentioned the painting to his friends and wanted to show it to them. I brought them into my bedroom explaining some brief background on the painting and the artist. As I stood there telling the story and sneaking in kisses to Louis every chance I could, it dawned on me that one day it was highly probable that this painting would be in his home. And I was struck by the moment – holding this child in my arms who has not yet learned to speak or even walk, standing in front of this painting, showing Louis for the first time something that is so dear to me and esteemed by both of his parents. And I couldn’t help imagine Louis one day telling his own family “Before the turn of the new millennium, a good friend of your grandparents worked in an art gallery in the French Quarter where she first spied the creations of a young Russian painter…”

Although I wasn’t necessarily raised this way, since I was a child, I always held true to this notion of the importance of family traditions – and believed everything had a story – if you just asked and if you just listened (or sometimes just listened to yourself).

The things I hold closest to my core are those things that have some kind of a story. I could probably replace my favorite pair of boots or coat, but not the button my friends gave me in a sheep field in Wales for my 18^th birthday that says “Finally 18!” or the small carved bear my mom bought for me when I was 13 from a farmer’s market in Los Angeles, or the old rusted cowbell that when we heard as children it meant that we were to drop what we were doing (digging in the sand, roaming the upper fields, or creating something on illegal time in our dad’s shop) and race home. All of these are probably inconsequential items at first glance. But not to me.

Objects transcend when they have a narrative – they become threads of your identity. They become pieces of you that you can pass on – and while I still believe that sturdy morals, wisdom, and unfeigned affection are the most important heritage you can leave to someone, there come days when only the quilt your great-grandmother made you can bring you comfort – and you can wrap yourself in it, hold it in your hands, and feel a slice of a moment past.

Suddenly after believing this concept for so long I finally felt it.

So Louis, here are some highlights for you: this was the first painting I ever bought online (don’t forget the internet wasn’t as “purchase friendly” then) and the first painting I ever bought outright (due to my strict blue-collar upbringing I still have problems purchasing expensive art and reason with myself that layaway doesn’t count). It survived Hurricane Katrina (by about 3 inches) and a bitter breakup. And through it all, I still found it as beautiful as when I first saw it – and I hope one day you will too.