By Chip Sharpe '68
Dad came home to find us both in the living room; I was reading, and Mother was grading papers. He stood just inside our front door, and even before putting away his coat and hat, described his visit. Then he told us what others had told him about Mr. Arnbourg's sculptures: that they had the appearance of bronze but, when thumped, more the feel and sound of plaster; that no one claimed to know with what tools he worked; and that no sign of molding or chiseling or smoothing could be detected. Dad said that his own observations confirmed that Mr. Arnbourg did not wish to divulge how he accomplished such precise detail.
More than a year later, a curious ad appeared in the paper. The front page headline: Vice President Nixon's Car Attacked in Caracas; on the back, a quarter-page of block letters (no graphics) proclaimed that Vestry Arnbourg had contracted with the touring carnival, for an “undisclosed sum”, to produce a self-portrait by the date of the carnival's annual arrival in Greensboro. His sculpture would then be revealed to any carnival-goer paying the extra $3 charge to step inside the cargo-container in which he would have created his latest work. This seemed oddly low-class for a renowned artist, even if the admission was three times the cost of the girlie show.
The presence of the closed-up cargo-container at the fairgrounds garnered at least two more mentions in the paper. In the weeks from late May, when it arrived, until early August, when we read the most recent report, no one had been seen entering or leaving the railroad-car size, steel structure. In June, the carnival had sent an advance tent and erected it to shade and enclose the unopened container.
Dad and I did not go the first day of the fair. I agreed with him that it'd be better to avoid the mobs and wait and go mid-week. Mother did not wish to attend.
The bundle of newspapers that I had to deliver that afternoon did not arrive until almost 4:30. Even so, before rolling and banding them, I looked over the front page of the Greensboro Record. Bottom left, just below the two-column inches about sit-ins at an Oklahoma City lunch counter, was a picture that, to me, resembled what Lincoln, in his memorial, would look like with a sheet over him and his chair.
The picture caption had one word in bold print: “Bamboozled?” The text reported that, when Arnbourg's “studio” was opened at 8 a.m., he was nowhere to be found and that the only items remaining were a massive and rigid rendition of a canvas drop cloth draped to the floor over some indiscernible lump and a 2-foot by 3-foot workbench with two empty glass vials.
By the time I was done with my paper route and washed up, Dad was on the porch. As I hurried to the front to unhook the screen door, I saw Herbert Lewis drive away. Dad said the Drug Store had been too busy to close on time and that Mr. Lewis, who was hanging around the front counter, gave him a ride home to save him the walk.
Before sitting down to supper, Dad told us he'd heard lots of talk about Mr. Arnbourg's newest sculpture. Some folks had been to the carnival and wanted to tell what they'd seen. Others wanted to talk about what they'd heard. Some were amused and chuckling. Some were angry, feeling that Mr. Arnbourg was making fun of them and other poor carnival-goers. Some were simply disappointed. Dad seemed not to have any particular feeling about it, one way or the other, though I suspected he appreciated the cleverness of the surprise.
The Daily News arrived the next morning with the best part of the story. Someone, unnamed, had discovered that the “canvas“ drape could be moved slightly and that it was attached to something beneath it at only one point. Before anyone could stop him, and enlisting the aid of some other men, he had broken away that connection by chiseling around it and wrenching the hard enclosure up and down and back and forth. When they lifted this cover up and away, the sculpture that had been expected could then be seen.
Dad arranged for Jerry to cover the front-end for two hours so that he and I could go out to the fairgrounds. We had no interest in cotton candy or in any of the other sideshows. Dad bought me a hot dog, and I agreed to postpone rides until after we had seen Mr. Arnbourg’s sculpture.
This was the first time I'd seen one of his sculptures, not counting that photo of the businessman. Here sat a life-size, balding man in a large, high-armed chair. In one hand he held a pair of eyeglasses; the other hand gripped what appeared to represent a piece of torn cloth. His suit coat was open, his vest buttoned. The knot of his tie was almost perfectly centered. I wanted to reach for a touch of his trousers or his coat — they looked so real.
“It really does look exactly like him.” My dad was moving to another angle of view.
“So, this is Mr. Arnbourg?” I asked.
“This is what he was calling his self-portrait,” Dad replied. He continued looking, softly and fondly at the unmoving figure. I watched him for several moments before looking again at Mr. Arnbourg.
The light from behind me made tiny shadows of the pockmarks on one cheek and revealed slight stubble, like new beard growth. I marveled at the detail and admired his willingness to show his imperfections. The eyes seemed to be looking above my head, but softly, not focused. The face seemed relaxed, almost smiling. If Mother had seen it, I think she would have said, “He looks smug.”
The line for the roller coaster was too long. That was okay with me; I wasn't sure I'd be able to hold down the hot dog. The train was a kiddie-ride, not worth a quarter, but I like trains and I watched it for a while. The Ferris wheel was the best: not exciting, but I liked the view. I thought, but for the haze, I could have seen all the way into Tennessee.
