17224: (Hermantin)Palm Beach Post-Baby, you're one of a kind (fwd)

[Bob Corbett <corbetre@webster.edu>]

From: leonie hermantin <lhermantin@hotmail.com>

Sunday, November  9

Baby, you're one of a kind


By Stacey Singer, Special to The Palm Beach Post
Sunday, November 9, 2003



Remember the scene in Close Encounters where Richard Dreyfuss obsessively
sculpts mashed potatoes into Devil's Tower?

That's how "the nesting instinct" hit me.

I was six months' pregnant when I peered into the designated baby room and
became gripped with panic. Behind that door was a museum of my husband's
former bachelorhood: Beige walls. Assorted computer components. Beige
carpeting. Baseball souvenir cups. Beige vertical blinds. A beer-can
collection. And did I mention the beige?

There were only 14 Saturdays until my due date. What if the baby came early?
Would I set his bassinet between the printer and the Oktoberfest steins? My
mission was clear: The husband's stuff had to go -- and go now. I made a
honey-do list, thrust it into his hand and waddled off with my clipboard.

The look in my husband's eyes said, "Straitjacket?" I ignored him and
started measuring the walls and window.

We needed a theme. The baby's nursery had to be happy, stimulating and,
above all, unique. Tropical fish? A jungle? Sea turtles? A beach scene?
Devil's Tower?

I looked at stencils in Home Depot, flipped through wallpaper samples,
magazines, catalogs. Nothing appealed. I finally decided I would paint a
mural myself. I wanted a coral reef, with water halfway up the wall and
light bouncing through in glorious rays.

My sketches, alas, did not match my imagination.

Eyeing my alien artwork, my husband gently helped me put down the proverbial
potato masher. He showed me the half-painted butterfly mailbox sitting in
the guest room -- an art project I had started two years earlier. Perhaps
hiring an artist might speed things along, he suggested. Talk about a Close
Encounter.

But where to start? Something led me to start a conversation with Katie
Barr, owner of the Haitian Art Collection in Delray Beach. The gallery's
vibrant colors came close to my ideal. By sheer luck, one of her artists
accepted commissioned work, she said. He specialized in lush jungle scenes,
and he might be willing to try a coral reef.

Louis Rosemond, a Haitian-born artist, had trained in France and produced
Rousseau-like scenes of tropical paradise. Barr estimated that he could
probably craft a simple child's mural in a few weeks. "Make him an offer."

Rosemond had once painted an Eden scene that hung in the Paris Metro. Surely
he would not be willing to work for a price we could afford. I put pencil to
paper and figured out that my total budget for everything the baby would
need -- crib, rocking chair, dresser, changing table, linens, new flooring
and drapes -- was $2,500. That figure would also have to include the mural.

I began to despair of achieving my dream nursery. The changing table I
coveted, which included cute little baskets with matching liners, cost $450
alone.

But soon despair morphed into bargaining. What if we made do with our beige
blinds and carpeting? Bought a used changing table? By whittling expenses, I
thought I could squeeze together about $800 for a mural. I called Barr at
the Haitian Art Collection, and she said she'd arrange a meeting. My heart
sank when she said $1,500 would probably be Rosemond's minimum price for a
wall our size.

Then luck intervened. By coincidence, my husband was about to sell his old
Ford Bronco, valued at $1,200. When the artist arrived at our house, he saw
the truck, and his eyes brightened. He needed something like that to
transport his paintings, he said. In addition, he would need gas money,
paint-supply money and lunch each day. He had never painted a coral reef but
would gladly paint us a jungle scene. "I can start on Monday," he said. We
had a deal.

The next round of negotiations involved my sainted husband, who suddenly had
to remove 12 years' worth of accumulated guy stuff in one short weekend. He
agreed to do his best, but by Monday, he had only managed to clear a narrow
space about three feet deep along the wall.

Hardly ideal working conditions. But Rosemond did not complain. He merely
asked for more lighting. Extension cords and lamps were procured. Lunch was
served, and the artist began his work.

What Rosemond did with that blank wall was simply amazing. He started with a
base coat of light blue paint, and then spent several hours sketching. I
could see penciled-in elephants, giraffes, birds, a waterfall. For the next
three weeks, a few hours a day, he would select one shade of paint, leaving
behind a monochromatic patch of shadows or highlights.

My husband and I would return from work, turn on the lights, and wonder if
we had made a terrible mistake. One day, there were only brown smears.
Another day, mauve smears. The next, green, and so on. It wasn't until the
very last days that details began to emerge suggesting something wonderful.

A baby giraffe suckled its mother, who sipped from a stream. A tiger guarded
the door. A zebra watched over what would become our reading corner. High in
the jungle trees, parrots and cockatoos congregated alongside a waterfall.

The mural was finished, but it did not truly come to life until my husband
finished his excavation, and the baby furniture arrived. In the final weeks
before my due date, I would serenely rock in my chair, patting my belly,
wondering how this amazing work of art would affect my equally amazing baby
boy. Would he grow to love art? Animals? Storytelling?

It has been a joy to watch. As a newborn, James' soft-focus eyes sought out
the zebra as he nursed. At 8 months old, he stood in his crib, pointing. My
husband picked him up. "Lion," he told him. "That's a lion."

James' first word was bird, which he uttered proudly while pointing to one
of Rosemond's red parrots.

The mural has made James' room a favorite place for all three of us to sit,
chat and play together. Visiting friends feel pulled to its colors as well.
What once seemed an obsessive, frivolous expense now feels as central to our
home as its kitchen or fireplace.

Devil's Tower just wouldn't have been the same.

stacey_singer@pbpost.com

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