The Art of Secrets (15 page)

The following day, FRIDAY, DECEMBER 21, a half-day before the winter break,

Saba Khan, sophomore,

texts the following five messages to
Steve Davinski, senior.

7:58 a.m.

So hey . . . yesterday u surprised me. I was 2 shocked 2 respond. We can figure this out! Let's talk.

11:32 a.m.

WTF? I can't believe u just turned + walked the other way when you saw me! Is that how a man acts? Txt so we can talk! U owe me that, at least.

3:51 p.m.

OK ur busy. I get this is crunch time. Maybe we can chill over break + talk? I really need to see u. I will even bring breakfast?

7:10 p.m.

Seriously, what is up? Why don't u txt back? This is SO stupid. I feel awful.

10:22 p.m.

This is just to say, I hear u loud and clear. The silence tells me all I need to know abt us and abt u. + that is helpful. Hope u get everything u deserve.

Hard lessons on Highsmith curriculum

YOU'VE heard me brag about the basketball team at the Highsmith School, my alma mater, for more years than we need to calculate, thank you very much. But no sports talk today, folks.

The school is closed now for winter break. If I took you to visit the picturesque campus today, we'd see only winding footpaths covered in snow, the lagoon frozen over with ice, and the doors of the grand old buildings locked for a well-deserved rest.

Students at Highsmith learned a painfully cold lesson this month: Even when a community works together with good intentions toward a worthy goal, opposition may be encountered.

As multiple sources have reported, Highsmith students hosted a benefit on December 15 in support of a classmate whose home was lost in a fire. Just before the event, after weeks of planning and promoting, the most valuable auction item—a booklet of drawings by legendary Chicago “outsider artist” Henry Darger—was stolen and destroyed.

“Pure shock—indescribable shock.” This was how the school's principal, Dr. Regina Stickman, expressed her reaction upon learning the artwork had been destroyed. Even now, no arrests have been made. In fact, neither school authorities nor police investigators have identified any clear motive for the crime.

My take on it? A December prank this cold-hearted can only be credited to a different kind of outsider: a Grinch.

As most readers know, Dr. Seuss's beloved 1957 children's book relates the tale of a miserable old hermit who tries to “steal Christmas” from a neighboring town.

The Grinch fails, of course. In the wake of his looting, the people of the town still sing, still celebrate, still believe. Certain things cannot be stolen.

Fortunately, Highsmith's holiday tale also has an uplifting ending.

Despite the crime, the school benefit managed to raise approximately $50,000—a sum that will provide significant comfort to this family in crisis. According to Dr. Stickman, a small portion of the money has even been earmarked for campus improvements. Now that's a heartwarming story, no matter how you read it.

If we could visit Highsmith today, I would lead you down the silent corridors until we came to a striking seal on the floor, a blood-red H carved in stone. This hallowed seal represents the sacred Honor of every student who spends four years at Highsmith.

The stone seal is indelible, consecrated by the generations of alumnae who have passed by, understanding and believing. No outsider, no matter how cunning, can ever steal that belief away.

Bob Bishop, columnist,
Chicago Tribune
, December 23

On DECEMBER 25, in a yellow farmhouse kitchen where an obscenely large turkey is roasting,

Javier Conejera, sophomore,

uses an ancient desktop computer to write to his friend Jennifer.

Now we are in Wisconsin, at the house of my host grandmother. My brothers and I sleep in camping sacks in the basement. We will be five days here.

My host grandmother, Nancy, is very tall, of course, like her children, like the pine trees outside. She is the first American I met who smokes! Last evening, when we arrived, I went outdoors to smoke, and she followed me with her own cigarettes. We did not talk together. I think she is shy like me. Instead we stood and looked at the snow covering the trees and fields with white. There are no neighbors on neither side of this house, only nature. I feel far away from Chicago here. I will enjoy this place for a while, surrounded by trees and birds, and some occasions for quietness.

This morning, while the others moved to separate corners to play with their new games and to wash new clothes, I called my mother. For her I described Nancy's belén
,
which is on the floor in the living room—not just a barn with animals and Los Reyes Magos, but a complete village of ceramics, with houses, bank, church, school, ice cream shop, train and tracks, and the Jesus baby in His barn in the middle—a size bigger than all the other items, because He is made from a different company.

Mama asked if Papa Noel had come, and I told her yes, he brought a package of chocolates and money all the way from España! She pretended the surprise. I did not want to tell her that this money will pay for library books that fools damaged in snow for no reason. It was good to hear Mama's voice.

And now, Jen, the most incredible part: If I tell you that Steve has been transformed by the holiday spirit, will you believe me?

This morning, when we awoke in our camping sacks, he sat up, rubbed the eyes, and said, “Oh, hey bro, Feliz Navidad.” Later at Mass, he embraced me and wished me peace. And most surprising of all, when we came back to Nancy's house, Steve gave me a card. The note says: “Javier, I realize the past few months have been difficult for you. I am sorry for not being the perfect host brother. But I believe in second chances, and I will try to make things better when we get back to school, especially after the basketball season is over in February. Merry Christmas.” I believe we can call this a miracle of Christmas, no?

Steve promises to make things better for me when we return to school, but I fear it is too late. Is a “second chance” possible? Jen, I want to tell you something now. I must confess what I have done or be miserable. I wanted to tell Mama, but I do not have the courage to say something that will give her pain.

Here is what happened: For many days, I felt anger when I was at the school. Anger, because of the library books. Anger, because of the absurd accusations. Anger, because I have failed to discover the life here that America advertises to people all over the world—a life of friends and community and hope. Instead, at the school I observe only fire, theft, destruction, and the faces that always turn away from me.

Moreover, near my locker, that seal on the floor! How this seal tormented me, the students giving me the rude, forceful bumps in order to avoid the sacred H. My anger grew like a disease inside the body. These students are hypocrites, I think. They are lying hypocrites without worth.

On the last Friday before the holiday, the school was empty by noon. I always avoid the crowded bus, a bus of cold eyes and sharp elbows, and usually I wait for some time before I go outside. On that day, the hallway had cleared, but I stood by my locker and stared at the hypocritical seal, thinking how this letter on the floor had become my enemy.

Without warning, I did something risky and stupid. I hardly believe I did it. My actions were not “pre-meditated,” like the crimes on the TV shows favored by the Davinskis. I did not think with reason.

One can of aerosol paint from the auction remained in my locker. Taking the paint, I stepped to the center of the hallway. I looked around and saw no one. Careful not to step on the H, of course, (that would be rude) I bent down and covered the H with the white paint. I made big circles, over and over—soft round white curls, like a ghost, the ghost of something dead. Maybe Kendra is correct. Maybe I am an artist after all.

I know, Jen—this action lacked purpose, like throwing water into the sea. And the administrators will catch me for certain. Like a fool, I put the aerosol can back into my locker. When I return to Highsmith, the students finally will despise me for a reason that is legitimate. Now I never will be part of that community. The difference is, now it is a situation I choose for myself, not by other people. Will that make it easier? I think yes.

Nancy is going outside to smoke. I will join her—I must enjoy the peace while it lasts. This is the most strange Christmas. I hope yours is normal.

On MONDAY MORNING, JANUARY 7, in the main office at Highsmith,

Jean Delacroix, Department of Art,

answers questions for an audience that includes the principal, the police detective, and the insurance investigator.

Lord have mercy. More questions about this? You are as bad as Ms. Ames.

Well, to give Ms. Ames credit, her statement proved to have some value.

Detective, you've shown them my own statement by now? Yes, I've openly admitted it: The person who removed the paintings from the gym office was me. I moved the album to the art annex without telling anyone. In retrospect, this was poor judgment, I see that now. But it was a spontaneous instinct—to protect it.

You felt justified taking it without permission?

I did! We were keeping an
art treasure
in the gym office, even after I pointed out its value. After word got out about the paintings, the school was crawling with journalists, collectors, Darger devotees. And still, we decided to leave these paintings unprotected in the gym? I felt some individual responsibility to help keep the album safe. After all, I was the one who discovered it.

Jean, why didn't you talk to me about your concerns?

Dr. Stickman, I did speak to you. More than once. With all due respect, you brushed me off like I was griping about the broken kiln again. I figured it was easier to move the album without permission and then ask for forgiveness later. The fact that I had no problem walking out of the gym with it shows that
anybody
could have done the same thing.

But nobody else did. You did. And between the time you took it and the time it was returned, it was destroyed.

I can't explain that. All I know is—okay, yes, Ariel surely did hold the artwork in her hands, between the folds of a quilt, on the Friday afternoon when she came to ask for a ride. My plan was to take it home that night for safekeeping until the auction. But considering the snow, it didn't seem smart to take it outdoors and risk getting it wet. So I left it here and gave Ariel her ride.

And you waited until Monday to come back for it?

No, obviously I came back to school first thing on Saturday to get it, but by then the album had disappeared from my room. It was gone! I searched everywhere, frantic, but couldn't find it. And I couldn't
say
anything without looking responsible for losing it. I assumed it would turn up, that whoever had taken it from me would be caught right away. But the school reported it stolen so quickly—

“Stolen” seems like the appropriate word for what happened.

Maybe it seems so, but I'm asking you to consider
intention.
My plan was never to keep the album or sell it, only to protect it until it could be sold. Detective, when your men confiscated my own work, I panicked. I came clean and told you everything. But you didn't believe me. You seemed convinced I had stashed it someplace to sell at a later date. I gave you my keys so you could search my apartment and my car, but of course we never found it.

Well—not until it was returned.

Talk to the detective. Multiple sources will corroborate my story: I was nowhere near school the weekend of the auction. I may have made one bad decision, but trust me, I'm going to be cleared of any wrongdoing. How have I profited from any of this? I still haven't gotten my own work back! Granted, since I lied initially about my involvement, I understand why I'm getting these questions. But there's absolutely nothing more I can tell you.

Sir, we're just trying to understand what happened to the artwork.

I would love to know! I'm sick about it. Ask twenty members of the faculty, and you'll get twenty different answers about what's happened here and why. The only valuable thing this experience has helped me to understand is Darger's own work. Some art scholars maintain that it is impossible to fully appreciate a piece of art unless you consider the artist's childhood.

Childhood? We're not talking about anyone's childhood. We're talking about a serious crime.

In Darger's case, what's the difference? Just hear me out for a second, folks. Darger was born in Chicago in 1892, the son of a disabled tailor. When Henry was a toddler, his mother died, and his father put Henry's only sibling, a
baby sister
, up for adoption. Henry never saw the girl again. What do you make of that—a boy loses his baby sister and spends the rest of his life endlessly drawing pictures of these strong, heroic, beautiful little girls?

Frankly it seems a little weird to me.
Th
en again, I'm not an artist.

When Henry was eight, his father became too ill to care for him. He sent Henry to a Catholic home for orphaned boys, but the nuns threw him out for fighting and odd behavior. Here's where the story gets really dark: Against his will, Henry was moved to Lincoln, Illinois, several hours from Chicago, to an asylum for “feeble-minded” children. This was no school—it was a grueling work farm, where thousands of kids labored all day, under threats of violence.

Sounds terrible, Jean. Gentlemen, I think we are finished here . . .

Not long after Henry arrived, he got word that his father died. This left Henry an orphan, completely alone in the world—alone
except
for the long-lost baby sister. Or, the notion of her. The very possibility of her survival must have fed Henry's private daydreams. As long as her adventure story continued, Henry would never be totally alone. Henry remained at that asylum for seven long years. He was fifteen before he could make his escape and return to Chicago. At seventeen, he found work at a hospital—janitor, dishwasher—menial jobs he kept for nearly six decades, until he was too old to work.

And speaking of work, gentlemen . . .

How can our hearts not be touched by this picture of a sensitive kid like Henry Darger, locked up in a horrendous children's asylum? Can any of us understand the isolation, the helplessness that kid must have felt? Sometimes, when you lose your freedom, that's when your fiercest dreams are born—dreams that can feed your imagination for the rest of your life.

A fascinating art history lesson, Jean, but I'm sure everyone's time is valuable. We need to be clear: You're absolutely sure that the artwork was hidden in the annex when you left school that Friday?

Positive. And by the time I returned the next morning, it was gone. I'll swear to it under oath. I'll take a polygraph test, or do whatever it takes to prove
once and for all
that I am telling the truth. Otherwise, I'm done answering your questions. Listen, my time is valuable, too. Ever since I discovered those Darger paintings, I've been in constant contact with art experts around the country. I've got a story to tell—a story people want to hear. I've had speaking and writing invitations that will allow me to give up teaching altogether, so I can spend more time creating my own pieces.

Th
e quilts, you mean, sir.

My fiber art projects, yes. I was going to submit them for a show in Paris. It's too late for that now, of course. All I know, Dr. Stickman, is that I'll be leaving Highsmith at the end of the year. You'll be getting my official letter of resignation soon.