We had just loaded the last artworks into the van. This exhibition that had created intriguing conversations between Mary Curtis’s artworks across forty years, installed in several tiers: some suspended from the ceiling, turning in space; others hung on the walls, the way pictures usually are—some quite large; and the last rising from the floor, sculptures looking for all the world like display cakes, presented on pedestals. Across the gallery from each other, these artworks had dialogued for a month, largely in our absence. We knew them. Mary Curtis had made them. Others got to see them. Now we ducked inside the gallery one last time, went to the bathroom and prepared to hit the road. Except that when we came back out, the van was gone. Vaporized. The spot where it had been parked and locked was empty. We looked at each other—Alain, Mary Curtis, and I—as if to check: was this a consensual hallucination? Was one of us seeing what the others were not? If we walked over to that spot, would it still be gone—or might it reappear in a miraculous rewind of the scene we had so recently enacted, when we closed its sliding side door with a resounding material thwack! Now it was just air. Disappeared. With Mary Curtis’s artworks in it, and Alain’s wife Nancy’s catering oven—the means of her livelihood. We won't tell the whole saga here, but in brief, the police came, a report was filed, and we waited. Grew restless. Mary Curtis called a psychic friend. (We are in California, after all!) He said, "Sit on the earth and call the artworks back." Sound far-fetched? She did it. Each day at four in the afternoon, she went into the backyard and sat in the grass, silently intoning in the recesses of her consciousness “Siren, come back. Wedding Cake, come back. Koi, come back. Take Back Your Mink, come back. Interior Landscape, come back. I need you." (Mary Curtis's painting Take Back Your Mink flanked by two tondos and the sculpture Josephine) On Saturday night the phone rang. “Are you Mary Curtis Ratcliff?” “Yes.” “Are you missing some artworks?” The man identifies himself as Sir Frederick, and he tells her that a few days ago he saw a van pull up and throw a bunch of things out onto the sidewalk across the street. After they pulled away, he went over to inspect. He saw it was artwork, carefully wrapped and packaged, and brought it back to his place. On the wrapping, he says he found a business card with this phone number. Mary Curtis asks him to describe the pieces and he does. He gives us his phone number and address. We say we’ll be over this evening. As we drive, we realize we don’t know exactly where we are heading, what situation we are getting into. Will we be safe? We carry no weapons and would not know how to use them if we did. Unlike Alain, who is a Black Belt in karate, we are not martial artists. The address turns out to be a tunnel under an overpass, with a homeless encampment spilling from the sidewalk into the left lane. The address Sir Frederick has given us is just the other side of the tunnel and the encampment. It is an old Victorian, and we call his number to tell him we have arrived. He says, “Turn around. I’m back in the tunnel, waving at you.” Sure enough, we look back there and see a figure in the middle of the street, waving. We get back into our cars, turn them around and drive into the tunnel. There is not much light—just an occasional overhead bulb in the tunnel. Other figures are puttering vaguely in the distance. Things that people outside this cavernous world call “junk” are piled all around. Some of Mary Curtis’s artworks are stacked along the street. Sir Frederick brings me Mary Curtis’s large painting Take Back Your Mink, which I lift into the back of the pickup truck. But there is no trace of the sculptures. The Wedding Cake, with its 52 mauve lilies, is nowhere to be seen. “Those things were thrown out of the van and smashed on the sidewalk,” he says. “The garbage men came on Wednesday and just cleared them away.” Mary Curtis is crestfallen but keeps her chagrin to herself. Later, she will make a new version of one of her sculptures, a kinetic piece depicting jellyfish, for his camper van. The next task is to find Alain’s cargo van, which he had generously driven down to the Bay Area from the foothills of the Sierras twice now—once to help us install and again to help us de-install the show. Alain is French, a fellow artist and fearless friend, who is used to scaling heights—notably dangerous sculptures and redwood trees—so a tall ladder holds no terror. Mary Curtis’s hanging sculptures were a piece of cake—no pun intended. We set out early the next mornings to scout the streets of Oakland, looking for the van. On the second day, my phone rings: “Are you Peter Samis?” “Yes.” “This is the Oakland Police. We’ve found your friend’s van.” It is just three blocks away. Damaged and out of gas, but in working condition. Alain's van, slightly the worse for wear, found double-parked on the streets of Oakland We get it gassed up and back to Alain. The damage has now been fixed up. Our last challenge is to restore Nancy’s catering oven, the means of her livelihood. It was no longer in the van. We’ve tried many leads, from eBay, Craigslist and Facebook Marketplace to scouting the streets, canvassing the restaurants, posting a reward, etc. No luck. Here's what it looks like—and how much it costs! I know that for normal humans like us, this price may seem incredible—but if you're catering a large event like a wedding, especially without benefit of a full kitchen, this oven is a lifesaver. And it has been an essential help in how Nancy and Alain earn their living, even as Alain continues to create his art. This is a special kind of oven: it slow-cooks, it keeps food warm and moist, it even smokes meats using cherry or apple wood chips, and all on 110 volts. That means Nancy can cater an event or a wedding far from a kitchen, even out in semi-wilderness, as long as there is a power hook-up. She can prepare one large dish (for instance, Spicy Prawns and Olive Oil Poached Salmon with Fresh Dill or Italian Roasted Vegetables with Olive Oil, Garlic, and Rosemary), or she can cook 80–100 separate portions on trays inside. Nancy has served meals up and down the coast and across the breadth of the state, from Monterey to Lake Tahoe, many of them in exotic (or shall we say non-urban) locations! I’m including a few pictures of her other delicacies, many not prepared in the oven, to give a sense of her range and virtuosity. We want to get Nancy and Alain back in business, as she has engagements coming up later this summer, so we are reaching out to you, our friends and friends of friends, in hopes you might be willing to help out. Nancy has offered a series of generous benefits at various giving levels: $1,000: Nancy and Alain will come and personally prepare a gourmet dinner for six at your home $500: Nancy and Alain will bring you a drop-off dinner for four. $250: Nancy and Alain will bring you a drop-off dinner for two. $100: Nancy will send you two of her favorite recipes. $50: Nancy will send you one favorite recipe. If you are as relieved as we are that Mary Curtis recovered her artworks (most of them, at least—the three cake sculptures were lost) and that Alain recovered and was able to restore his van, perhaps you can join us in helping to restore Nancy’s own creative vocation: slow cooking and healthy eating to mark special moments in people’s lives. We are reaching out to you, our community, in hopes you might be willing to help out, and spread the word. Many thanks. Peter and Mary Curtis
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