Chapter Four: Penelope

I felt like my trip through Georgia was a great success. I learned so much about the history and culture of the area. My understanding of Jack’s life from growing up in Boston to going away to military school and then to college was rich with detail. However, I still had no notion of what Jack’s life was like or where he lived after leaving Shellman. I had been corresponding with Penelope since the exhibit. She had told me Jack was in the Army during World War II. He lived for a short time in Athens after the war, when she was a baby. At some point after that Jack moved to New York and lived there for the rest of his life. I could tell Penelope had more to share. I also still held out hope that I would learn more about his art. The lure of finding out more about Jack’s life drew me to Santa Fe, New Mexico. 

I decided to take a Greyhound bus trip out to Santa Fe to meet Penelope and see her collection of Jack’s personal things. It was a two-day bus ride from Tallahassee to reach Albuquerque. The itinerary included a layover of several hours in New Orleans. 

I arrived at the New Orleans bus station around six o’clock in the morning. The sun was just peaking out over the bay. The humid, briny air was beginning to warm up the sidewalk.  I walked about a mile from the station, through the French Quarter to Jackson Square. I found Café du Monde bustling with regulars. I sat down and ordered the usual fare. It was still as good as I remembered it. After nearly an hour of soaking up the coffee and charm, I wiped the last crumb of powdered sugar from my beard and settled my tab.

Sunrise in the quarter-

Jackson is sleeping off its hustlers and

Bums uncurl their legs from benches

Gypsy tarot fortune-tellers sit yawning

In lawn chairs searching their crystal balls

On card tables decorated with hand-painted signs

Street sweepers hose off Bourbon

Wash away what is left of the night before

Still leaking between the cobble stones

And teeth of storm drains

At Café du Monde the locals

Take their beignets and au lait before the

Trickle of tourists over-crowd them

A pair of Asian waitresses dressed like morning nurses

Crack pistachios in the corner between servings

Humidity is waking up now-

Neon signs burn the names of silent aching bars

No musicians around now-

They’ve retired- replaced by shirtless morning joggers

The liquor trucks line the alleys

Delivering tonight’s Rococo

Crates of onions and cabbages

Stack on the sidewalk unattended

A Great Dane walks alone down St. Charles

Trollies amble by on the heels of cyclists

And wrought iron laced balconies decorate

The long thin shadow of Katrina

I walked over to Canal Street and hailed a cab that took me over to Tulane University. With a little asking around, I found the building that housed the special collections archive. I ducked inside to escape the heat and sat on the carpet in the hallway for over an hour until the archives opened. 

Materials that belonged to the Southern States Art League, the last arts organization of which Jack was a member, were stored in the Archives Library at Tulane University.  When the doors were unlocked, I made my way to the front desk. After showing some identification I was able to fill out a document request form. Ten minutes later a cart holding all the boxes I had listed rolled up to the large wooden desk where I was seated. One by one I took each box off the cart and marked the documents I wished to scan.  It was a solemn affair, but still far more casual than my experience at the University of Georgia.

On April 8, 1940, a letter was sent to Jack from the Southern States Art League, asking him to verify that he accepted the conditions for exhibition of two of his works, a drawing entitled, “The Bridge” and the watercolor entitled, “Deserted House”. His work was chosen for the Eighteenth Circuit Exhibition. At the archives I found a single page in a file listed under his name. It was an artist bio sheet. In the files of several of his contemporaries, similar artist bio sheets were found. All of them were laminated and formatted similarly. These were probably text panels that accompanied the exhibit of the Southern States Art League.

Some familiar names were also included in that exhibition, including Jack’s first mentor at UGA, Professor Annie May Holliday; Reuben Gambrell, fellow UGA alumnus; Emma C. Wilkins; Edward Shorter; and Hattie Saussy. Another artist included in the exhibition was Seffen Thomas, a native of Bavaria, who was an accomplished sculptor in Atlanta.

After feverishly scanning all the documents I had to leave quickly to catch the next bus to Albuquerque. I hailed another cab on St. Charles and arrived at the bus station with just enough time to grab some lunch. As the bus drove further west, it became more and more packed with passengers. From Houston to Dallas to Amarillo, every seat was occupied. It was a grueling 18-hour-long odyssey. I learned to hold my body still enough to sleep for a few hours at a time.  I learned the pleasures of having earplugs.

East Texas

The land begins to stretch its legs

And flatten out into fields

Marred by vast distribution hubs

Further west is the oil country

Then factories and refineries

The rain boils into a mist

Stirred up and hanging above the

Asphalt ribbon that ties it all together

Not quite a wasteland but lonely enough

The dusk is swallowed by thick clouds

As the bus continued west, the summer heat gradually shifted from humid to arid.

Near Tucamcari

Mesas loom in the distance

Their sandy flat tops

Propping up the shifting

Blanket of clouds throwing

Shadows over them

The earth is bone and

Red-brown dust

Trailers huddle in clusters

Between cattle ranches

Like gatherings of stone

A dust devil materializes

In the middle of a junk yard

It picks up a black tarp

And whips it into the air

Above stacks of crushed cars

The tarp sails over the fence

And into the sand field

Slowly descending on a thicket

In the afternoon of the following day, I finally arrived at the Albuquerque airport. From there, I rented a car and drove up to Santa Fe. It was difficult to keep my bearings when I first arrived in Santa Fe. Every building was surfaced with pink stucco and molded to look like a pueblo. I finally stopped and ate a large dinner. I spent the night in a tiny hotel room with cheap Southwestern themed prints on the wall.

The next morning I met Penelope for breakfast in a quaint little neighborhood spot called Guadalupe Café. I arrived early, found a table on the patio and ordered a coffee. When Penelope arrived, she immediately insisted on switching tables three times to get just the right seat in the shade. She carried a pillow for her back in a thin canvas bag. My first impression of her was that she was quite eccentric, but very likable. We ate delicious food and talked about random things. I felt an instant kinship with her.

From the restaurant I followed Penelope back to her home. It was a gorgeous, two-story stucco house in a gated community. Art covered the walls, and sunlight bathed the large, open sitting room. Through the glass sliding doors at the back, I could see a lush garden of desert wildflowers and roses of every kind.

She showed me to the guest room downstairs, where I unpacked my things. While she ran around checking email, watering plants and getting changed, I took a shower and laid down for a nap.  I was still hung over from the bus ride. After a couple of hours getting re-organized and resting, it was time to leave again. She drove us downtown, where we spent the afternoon wandering through museums and galleries. We stopped in the city-square to see the Navajo peddlers. In the evening we attended a concert of Marimba music and ate gourmet pizza. By the time the evening was over, I was completely exhausted. I got the impression that this was how she lived her life, constantly moving from one excitement to another. I was amazed by her stamina and vitality.

On the morning of my second day in Santa Fe, Penelope cooked huge, fluffy frittatas. We sat under an umbrella in her garden and ate them with fruit and bread. She talked at length about her memories of childhood in Boston and of Jack, whom she visited often in New York. She brought out an old leather toiletry bag that was stuffed with Jack’s letters, ribbons and other memorabilia. We rummaged through all the treasures inside of it. I feverishly took notes on everything I could.

In utter contrast to the day before, it was a serene and peaceful time. There was stillness and calm. We talked through lunch and into the afternoon as we sat around her patio table.

Butterflies and hummingbirds

Light among the desert blooms

Sage grass and scarlet roses woven into braids

Violets dance on breezes

Holding open mouths limp with color

Calling nectar bees to kiss them

Penelope began by telling me what she knew about Jack’s life in the military.

According to Penelope, “Jack went up for the draft. I know Jack did not want to go. And his ulcers disqualified him. But, my grandfather insisted that it happen. The story that I have in my mind is that my grandfather contacted the local senator and got the deferment reversed, had them intervene and override the deferment so that Jack would go into the Army.” Ulcers also plagued Roy throughout his life. As he aged he had to have surgeries for them.

It is possible that Roy wanted Jack to join the military as a way of serving his country. Perhaps joining the military seemed a logical step after going to military school and graduating from college. Maybe the fact that Jack quit his teaching appointment after only one year was another determining factor. It is known that Roy managed a trust that was set up in Jack’s name by the Forster family. Perhaps Roy even threatened to withhold the money from the trust unless Jack agreed to serve. Whatever the motivation, Jack did serve in the military until 1946.

According to Jack’s service records, he served for a little over five years in various low-level supervisory roles. Indeed, from Penelope’s testimony, along with his Veterans Administration (VA) disability record and letters found in his personal effects, he spent much of his time in the hospital recovering from his ulcers. Camp Plauche, New Orleans, is where he served most, if not all, during his time in the military. When he did have furlough he probably spent it at home in Boston or traveling to New York. To be in the service for five years, during wartime, starting with the rank of 2^nd Lieutenant and only rising to the rank of Captain, he certainly did not serve overseas or see any battle. He was also, most likely, not a very motivated officer.

What wicked devices we employ to temper the gears of our emotions.

This contraption twists my mouth into a smile.

This harness directs my hand to wave goodbye.

One of the items found in the toiletry bag was a postcard dated August 10, 1944. It reads:

Dear Mr. Adams- I got your check and letter in Hollywood and I thank you very much. You may take plenty of time for the decision concerning Stakim as the gallery is closed anyhow during the month of August. And Stakim is not for sale, except to you. I wish you could see my show of Klee from Los Angeles Private Collections here—it is one of the most important I ever had and I am sure you would enjoy it. 

Very sincerely yours,

Karl Nierendorf (from Hollywood, CA)

Karl Nierendorf Gallery, 53 East 57^th Street, New York              

Stakim is the title of an abstract geometric painting by Paul Klee. It is oil on plaster and dated 1928. Jack obviously did not buy the piece. It is now in the collection of the Art Institute of Chicago.

This note suggests that whether or not Jack was creating art during this time, he had developed an interest in collecting it. It is also evidence that Jack must have traveled to New York several times throughout his years in the service.

Two very long letters from a friend and fellow officer were found among Jack’s personal effects. The first letter is dated 1944 and is addressed from Major JS Griffin, Fort Devens, MA, to Captain Denzil R. Adams, CO Mess Detail, Camp Plauche, New Orleans 12, LA. There are wonderful details about life on base. At the Officer’s Club Griffin watched Arsenic and Old Lace with some friends. He also discussed the training missions in which he participated.  He wrote, “We just got back off bivouac last week and I refuse to see how you used to be so delighted with field work.”

Griffin wrote about a radio DJ named Ol’ Kid who played swing jazz. “I have now dialed to Ol’ Kid from the Black Hawk who is sending with ‘The Very Thought of You’ and ‘Crazy Rhythm’. I can see the swing in music now is not to ‘swing’ but is to his style and others as Geo. Duffy, Geo. Hamilton, Henry King and all the others are being styled like that – so you should be ‘Out of This World’ – well, I kinda like it too.”

Griffin also mentioned a trip to New York he took on furlough. He wrote, “Then we heard Perry Como at the Paramount- boy! He can sure sing for my money especially when he sings ‘Goodbye Sue’ and ‘Sposin’’. What I like about him too is that he’s a man and darn good to look at.  Also got to hear Les Brown at the Café Rouge and Tony Pastor at the New Yorker.”

Swing is the

Expansion and contraction of time

The tension and friction and life force

That brings jazz into being

An unfortunate sign of the times, Griffin shares his dislike for African-American soldiers serving on base. He writes, “And quite naturally it TOUCHES me (in the wrong spot) to see their white faces up here cater to the nigs and the white barbers cutting their hair. They say though, that one grows immune to most anything over a period of time.”

I would like to think that Jack was immune to the tendencies toward racism that were so outwardly present in his time, but Jack was as much a product of his place and time as he was by trying to escape it. There is no evidence one way or the other as to whether Jack shared this viewpoint with Major Griffith. I would not be surprised if he did, though I secretly hope that he did not.

Perhaps the most compelling passage is regarding Jack and his involvement with a couple of women. Griffin wrote, “Sure wish I could have been there to attend with you and that sweetheart you have fallen for. Oh, yes, before leaving said camp, my dear fellow, who is the young lady you are courting nowadays? Someone said she worked there at Camp. Well, son you better mash the accelerator down on the love wagon, if you haven’t, you’ll be an old man ‘ere many moons and stomachs are gone. And have you been meddling in Marry Murray’s marriage matters again, or do you remember the name? Boy, if old age doesn’t catch you, wait till after the war to get married so you can be sure to stay with her.”

The second letter is addressed from Lt Col, J.S. Griffin, San Francisco, CA, 1 November 1945, to Capt. Denzil R. Adams Jr., HQ 22-5, Camp Plauche, New Orleans 12, LA. The letter includes a newspaper clipping from The Times-Picayune New Orleans. It shows an advertisement for Carl Ravazza and his orchestra opening at the Blue Room.

In the intervening months Griffin had taken a tour in Europe and received a promotion. He writes of his experience, “You would have gone crazy over it except for the 4 months in Belgium where we caught hell. Can’t say that the rations would have gone so well with ulcers as we have all had to lose them from time to time. Just before I begin the questions I’d rather tell you about a few things. After we sweated out the mud in Utah Beach we were ordered to Antwerp, Belgium. On Christmas night and New Years were about 15 feet underground between raids. We really had real hectic nights, which I’m sure you aren’t interested in here. But I distinctly recall how I wondered if you could by any chance be listening to Old Kid! Boy I’d sure love to hear him give out with ‘Nothing Like You’ or just anything for that matter. Of course I’d take Perry Como every day.”

On his tour, Griffin encountered many new experiences that seemed to open up his world. “We moved to Marseille, the cross-roads of the universe. There was every kind of uniform and people there from Abyssinians to Zulu and from Moroccans to monkeys. It made the French Quarter look like the acme of cleanliness and sanitation.”

In the letter there is further evidence that ulcers indeed, chronically plagued Jack. Griffin continued, “I ran into Reddix (from Plauche). Left there in July. Said the last he heard of you, you were in the hospital (again? –Damn!). And didn’t come back to Plauche. You should stay out of the Stable on St. Charles. You don’t know how nice it’d be though to have a Scotch and soda at the Stable or even the Blue Room with you.”

Toward the end of his letter, Griffin again brings up Jack’s relationship status. “Jack, are you married yet? Let me know. You’re reaching 30, you know. Have you been to New York lately?”

While these letters provide a glimpse into Jack’s life, they are also a compelling firsthand account of life during World War II from an officer’s perspective. Griffin was an officer in the Quarter Master Battalion, which supplied transportation and “organic” supply loads to infantry divisions. The reference to Utah Beach suggests he was involved in the Invasion of Normandy.

The atomic bomb attacks by the United States on Japan, effectively ending World War II, occurred on August 6 (Hiroshima), and August 9 (Nagasaki), 1945.

You are frozen there

Crazed and drooling

Ash-white face gaping open

Sockets as black as earth’s core

Every tendon cinched like wound cable

Is this the posture of oblivion?

Jack did not leave the Army until March 21, 1946. This was probably because he had to earn enough service points to qualify for honorable discharge. Points were accumulated based on amount of time in the service, rank achieved and the performance of certain duties. Given the details of Jack’s record, it probably took him that many years to qualify.