A few days ago, by the solemn banks of Lake Arrowhead where the common life holds greater purchase than the consternations of high culture, I met with David Schoffman to smooth over our differences. We were joined in our Edenic retreat by DCA Fine Art’s governors of grace, Delia Cabral and Kristina Ramsay.
Amidst the nearly deafening arpeggios of the black-necked stilts and the low whistle of the abundant whimbrel, we navigated the estuaries of our disenchantments and reached something resembling a détente.
Kristina, who in her charcoal Barcelona resembled Mérimée's fiery Carmen, was stinging in her rebukes. “We are not at all interested in the bony roots of your infantile spat,” she roared with Antigonean resolve, “you are rotted by the shadows of memory, ruined by pride and disfigured by the phosphorescence of your piffling differences! Have pity and quiet the pendulum of your mutual denunciations! There is a dark cloud swelling over the gallery, discord leads only to the culverts of disaster.”
Properly chastened, our spirits plunged as if hurled from a tower. As we watched the Dipper rise over the glassy lake we shook hands with the weak grip of children. We muttered our apologies with the commonplaces of strangers.
I saw Schoffman’s eyes well up with tears.
I earnestly love that man.
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