October 12th, National Gallery of Art, Constitution Avenue, NW, Washington D.C., from 3:00 pm - 3:15 pm, approximately.

Photographs by Larry Cohen

In 7th grade, us-teenagers got on a school-bus, and drove down 1-95 towards Washington D.C. to visit the National Gallery of Art.  As our bright yellow clunker flew down the freeway, I looked out the window, and observed the strip-malls, the IHops’, and Howard Johnsons; sometimes I’d spot a Surf-and-Turf place on a newly tarred parking lot. There were beauty salons with neon signs, the long blurring of trees, and the pit stops for truckers; Exxon Mobile stations, vending machines, and cheap sandwiches could be accessed easily along our route. Everyone sped along fast, and I wondered about adventures on the highway.  America, at that time, romanticized life on the road.  It was a wide encompassing myth across our land. What I saw streaming past me was fascinating and ugly.

At twelve years old, I still had not seen real paintings. Picture books were the mainstay in public school art classes for learning about famous male artists. In those days Picasso, and DeVinci were godlike figures. As we’d gotten closer to our destination, I felt butterflies in my stomach. This was going to be the very first time I would see real art. When we pulled up near the curb of the museum, I was awed by the building’s resemblance to Greek architecture.  Beginning in elementary school, we’d learned about the ancient Greeks and their mythological tales.  Their stories revealed dramatic power struggles between “gods” and mere mortals. How things were played out between them had seemed rather convoluted, and illogical with their twisted paths of hubris, obsessive love, and fateful mistakes.  In seventh grade, I wondered if the museum had any pictures depicting such drama!

Arriving in D.C. with Larry that afternoon, I briefly recalled my excitement as a pre-teen. I felt a restless anticipation as we paid the meter, and walked towards the National Gallery.  Larry waited back with his camera, while I climbed the stairs, moved a “Welcome” sandwich-sign off to the side, and began to lay down my cape.  Before I could get down to kneel, a Black security guard had already arrived on the scene.

“Get off of the steps.” he said.

“Would you read my cape please?”  I replied.

“No! You need to get off of the steps now,” lifting my cape off the ground. 

“We’ve got a protester here on the steps.” he radioed other cops.

“It’s not a protest!  Get your hands off my cape,” I said. Here we go again, I thought.

As I stood up, he pressed the cape against me.

He was angry and I was angry. We stared at each other.

I started bundling up my black mantel, and I walked towards the sidewalk. 

There was quiet and then….

“Looks like it’s good embroidery.”  he said. 

I remained tight-lipped. I had been jolted by his encounter, and I’d become stiff.

When I reached the bottom of the steps, I needed to re-fold my cape back into a shape that would fit into my carrying bag, so I splayed it out and began to do just that. I felt deep disappointment in my gut, and the cop grew small in my mind.   I wanted to make him insignificant.

Then he asked me, “What is this about?”

I said with anger, “It’s too late now.”

Our encounter was like race-horses out of the gate, I didn’t have the power to recoil the tensions that flew out from his initial aggressive posturing.

He said, “Okay… whatever.”   Then he said, “Have a nice day.”

I ignored him completely and marched along.

Larry and I walked towards the car, and I was very mad.  I felt like a child. I was mad at the world and I was even mad at myself.  He hadn’t given me a chance to kneel. Not. Three. Minutes. Yet, I had also made a choice when he mentioned my hand - embroidered work, and when he asked me what the cape was about. I was caught up inside with something I didn’t want to admit.  I felt paralyzed by confusion, and helplessness.  

How could I possibly tell him what I was already telling-with-my-cape.  This was a work of art, not a banner. Describing my work would mean giving him a summation, making it into a slogan, a sound bite experience, so that it would be put into a box. Forgotten.

Larry and I walked back to the car, dropped down into our seats, and discussed going to the Supreme court.  While he was driving along and finding his way, tears flowed down my cheeks.  I felt the heat of shame come up from my center and I turned my head towards the window.  I did not want my photographer to see my vulnerable state. Larry continued driving, and I was gathering up, up, up towards my throat and pushing down with my feet.  My chest ached. I needed to muster up some courage and move forward.  I pushed the whole instance off to the side. That was that. The National Gallery would not get my cape, and I wouldn’t get the National Gallery.  More sadly, the Black police officer and I had lost any possible connection. I felt my pride, my shame, some sadness, then questions arose in my mind. Greek myths had revealed human folly, and I was distinctly aware of how much misunderstanding had just passed in this moment. Even with the best of intentions, it was so easy for hostility to arise within mere seconds. Recognizing this, and without any answers, I sighed a long exhalation out through the window.