Artwork © Robert Fleming

 

Art Collections of the Ultra Rich, Some People I Know, and My Gram

I have friends who make all kinds of money.
            One of them throws parties at his house Uptown
                        off Exposition. His three-storied
spired turret that looks out at the park
            was constructed with wood from the demolished World’s Fair
in 1884. Another friend lives on the second floor
            of those two floor apartment buildings (the kind
                        you see around town with the porches)
and while he’s not rich in any way that matters,
            he’s got an 8-foot tall book case
that lines his entire dining room wall filled with literature
            I don’t even have time to think about reading,
                        and while I do so adore the rest of his decor,
if we’re talking price points, my friend
            with the Uptown castle has the more valuable collection.
He’s got an entry table the size of a cast-iron bathtub
            that was carved from the stump of a big, old oak,
                        and if that’s not blood-money, bro,
I want you to give me a house tour. I once went
            to the place where they make all the Tabasco Hot Sauce in the world,
                        and though you could just barely see the veranda
of that original McIlhenny house, the grounds
            around the island and their factory say enough:
that place is an old school, owner-operated regime
            with an extravagance you only ever hear about
                        in novels and movies, the terraced garden
leading up to the painted wood pagoda with
            their bronze statue of Buddha a real trip to see
in South Louisiana, and the wealth just keeps baffling:
            I watch all these videos on the internet about homes
                        and art shows and personal, antique collections,
and sometimes I find myself late in the night
            looking up these items and finding out who owns them,
and I’m never fucking surprised: they’re married
            to politicians, backed by the biggest polluters
                        on the planet, actors with too many allegations,
union busters, franchise owners paying ungodly cheap wages,
            and all of their descendants, cold blood buyers of Vietnamese
heirlooms and ornate glass plates belonging to
            a Dutch monarch from the sixteenth century,
                        collectors of ancestral gifts they were never gifted
in the first place. Some of these things weren’t even
            for sale, and yet they wrap the living rooms of Upper East Side
townhouses and dazzle buyers in Tallahassee cottages,
            these incredibly rare pieces I could only ever dream of seeing,
                        let alone having the chance to buy,
and it reminds me of what my Gram says when we talk
            on the little back porch of her condo
in Florida, draped in the tik tok of the windup clock
            she inherited from her Gram in South Carolina:
                        “What would you want to keep all that stuff for?
You’re just gonna die,” and I’m of two minds:
            I like all my little trinkets, my transom windows, and the table
my grandfather built for his mother before he died.
            But my Gram’s right: What if there’s a fire?
                        I live in a city with a history of floods and disasters.
It could all just float into the Gulf. It could turn to ash before my eyes.

 

Parker Logan is from Orlando, Florida and lives in New Orleans, Louisiana. His work has been featured in Split Lip Magazine, MEMEZINE, The Texas Review, and Oroboros. He is the editor of the multi-genre, monthly section of Defunkt Magazine, Field Notes.

Robert Fleming is a digital artist and visual poet from Lewes, DE. His books are White Noir, an Amazon best seller and Con-Way in 4 in 1 #4. Founding/contributing editor of Old Scratch Press and editor of Instant Noodles.