By Chip Sharpe '68
My dad had several unusual and interesting friends. One, Herbert Lewis, was an amateur herpetologist who went with Dad to theosophist discussions out on West Market and occasionally stopped by our house. Mother seemed a bit disgusted that he was known to keep cages of snakes in his boarding-house room and she expressed annoyance at how much time Dad was spending with him.
Another, Preacher Smith, frequently invited Dad to share his pulpit. He had two sons. Samson was older than I. Levite was only 12, but had already been preaching for three years. Dad and I once went to see him at the new Greensboro Coliseum. The huge auditorium was packed. Levite started off smooth and confident and soon accelerated to insistent, almost strident. He pranced; he leapt; he proclaimed the Word as he coursed down and up the aisles and back to the stage again. He seemed buoyed by some heavenly strand, even as he was held to earth by the cash he collected in his hat. What a show!
I never met Vestry Arnbourg, but Dad spoke of him with such wonder that I feel my mental image of him may be quite accurate. He was one more Greensboro citizen who stopped in at Fordham's Drug Store, to visit with the friendly front-end folks: my dad, Jerry, Cynthia, and Mr. Clifton, the watch repairman.
Dad prepared a cherry-coke for Mr. Arnbourg to wash down his medication. In this first meeting, Dad began to learn his story. Subsequent encounters supplied the rest.
It was said that Mr. Arnbourg had worked as a chemist in a government-contract lab for a few short years following World War II. Dad once heard someone ask him, “Was that Westinghouse you worked for?” Mr. Arnbourg replied only, “No, it was not Westinghouse.”
What he was acclaimed for, however, was his sculptures. They were said to be profoundly astounding for their life-like vibrancy and attention to detail. There were reports of acquaintances of a subject remarking on not only the perfect portrayal of their friend’s demeanor, but also “the frayed patch on the elbow“ or the “stain just above the knee of the trousers”. The sculptor had seemed to capture minutiae as well as essences that this friend had exhibited when alive.
[I remember a photograph of one man, or rather of his sculptured likeness. Even in this newspaper photo, his face and posture were powerfully expressive: His shoulders slumped, one lower than the other, and his eyes were searching, even as his mouth sagged loosely in defeat. The accompanying article reported that, immediately after the sculpture had been commissioned, he had taken his life. Only his wallet and a hat were found, carefully placed on a trestle tie above the Yadkin River.]
Dad said Mr. Arnbourg had created a dozen or more of these sculptures in just a few years, but most had been sold, some for large sums. [If I recall correctly, the one I saw pictured in the paper had been purchased by Pilot Life.] Mr. Arnbourg retained only two of his creations, and he invited Dad to his home to see them.
Dad said neither was pleasant to behold, but each was “so strikingly lifelike that I felt I was looking at death itself.” One was of Mr. Arnbourg's deceased wife. Dad said that she was rotund, about the size of her husband, yet even so looked sickly, with fearful, sunken eyes, as she might have appeared at the time of her passing. The other statue was of a young girl, bone-thin, her torn dress barely hanging upon her jagged shoulders. Her hair, in places, seemed to be matted, and her eyes were empty, as though starved beyond any ability to express.
Dad had difficulty finding words to commend Mr. Arnbourg's artistry, fearing that his disappointment, finding no beauty in the works, would be revealed. He said he commented on the “fine craftsmanship” and asked Mr. Arnbourg how he had accomplished such realism. Mr. Arnbourg had muttered some general response that Dad could not remember and spoke no more about it.
