Reading the profile of Washington, DC art patron Peggy Cooper Cafritz in the August "O" Magazine made me feel like I've completely miscalculated the overall arc of my life. Or in plain-speak, nearly 25 years since my first full-time job, I find myself, in terms of accumulated wealth, property, or long-term financial security, without a pot to piss in nor a window to throw it out of.
I mean, there Cafritz stood in the entryway of her fabulous DC house, in front of an amazing piece of artwork, wearing a dress that probably cost more than everything in my entire closet, and looking like the cat that swallowed the canary, regally speaking. The article was about her passion for collecting artwork by African Americans, but what struck me most was her peppiness. She even made a point of mentioning that, at age 62, she was still available and looking for Mr. Right. This after having already divorced a guy from a wealthy family and having several children.
Don't get me wrong...I admire the hell out of Cafritz. As far as I know, she's always been a passionate champion of DC, and children, and the poor. But that article produced one of my increasingly rare moments of naked, quivering, unabashed envy. Wealth, taste, class, grown children who will likely produce adorable grandchildren in the very near future...girlfriend has it made in the shade sipping frosty lemonade.
I mean, if you have to be be a "woman of a certain age," Cafritz is, to borrow an LL Cool J lyric, "Doin' it, and doin' it, and doin' it well."
As pour moi, there are moments when I think my major retirement decision will focus on whether to place my cardboard box over a heating grate or next to a bakery's exhaust fan. Looking back, I suppose I've always wanted enough money to travel as much as I wanted whenever I wanted, and to buy as many shoes and clothes as my heart desired, and to eat at really fabulous restaurants five days out of seven. Oh, and I always wanted enough money to share with friends and family, to make sure that nobody I care about ever had to struggle. But I've never really planned on being an extremely financially comfortable, sophisticated black woman living in a fabulous house, playing urbane urban hostess and surrounding myself with amazing artwork. Reading about Ms. Peggy, I was all, like, "Shit! This chick has hijacked the future I didn't even realize I deserved to have!!!!"
So I was literally stunned earlier today to learn, while reading the October "O," that Peggy Cooper Cafritz's beautiful home with all of that amazing artwork was completely destroyed in a fire shortly after being featured in the magazine. Now, I'm not exactly crying her a river, because I'm guessing she has a few other cribs she can chill in, as well as scads of wealthy friends with spare houses. Hell, for what Cafritz had the artwork in that house insured for alone, she could probably rebuild from the ground up.
But for me, the news was yet another art-inspired thump upside the old pumpkin from the Universe. It reminded me that envy is a waste of time, because anybody's life can be reduced to rubble in a heartbeat, no matter how rich they are. And I'm sure that as much as Cafritz may still be grieving the loss of that beautiful house and all its contents, she's also probably extremely grateful to be alive, and that no one was injured or killed.
Like I noted yesterday, every time you wake up on top of the ground instead of underneath it, there's hope. There's reason to believe tomorrow could be better. Besides, a great work of art never dies, as long as it can be envisioned in the mind's eye.
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