A Tragedy Treasured

The high-pitched chime of the thrift store's entryway sensor marked the start of my typical Saturday morning. Row after row of beautiful clothing stretched before me, donated by LA's upper class after being worn just once or twice. Typical of Pavlov conditioning, I felt a surge of dopamine as I entered one of the few places in LA that didn’t require me to create a façade. Ironic, since the treasures I found here played a major role in my ability to maintain said façade. None of my daddy's-money peers at Los Angeles' Escuela de Arte had figured out that I was a scholarship-dependent kid from poverty-stricken Mendota. Spending $10 here each weekend had allowed me to maintain the desired persona of a vintage-loving wall flower: looking the part while not interacting with anyone enough to let my secret slip. I was careful to keep most conversations focused on critiquing my oil paintings, redirecting anytime personal details began surfacing. The last thing I wanted was for someone to find out about my sob story- a druggie dad who walked out when I was 10 and left my mother and I to scrape by in our 1-bedroom condo resembling Rio de Genaro shanties. Artists had to reach a certain level of fame before tragic back stories were considered interesting.

Today's goal was to find some acceptable winter clothing for the coming months. Mendota's Goodwill jackets offered warmth, but LA thrift stores were full of designer articles for just a few bucks. Fingering through racks of Michael Kors, Burberry, and Valentino it was sometimes hard to believe what people here just throw out. I planned to sell most of these pieces online after the semester ended and stood to make a pretty penny. Rich people are so lazy. I decided on a Rag & Bone Bomber and made my way to the miscellaneous section, which held everything from books to couches. I enjoyed reading and introvert activities fed well into my wall-flower persona.

Pulling out a few books, I read the inside flap and decided against them. Then my eyes landed on a slender black spine without words. I felt a smile spread across my lips as I reached for it, delighted that I would get to wrap up my shopping by reading the journal entries of some ritzy teen's tragic saga. These absently discarded diaries filled with angst about a confiscated iPad or imperfect sweet 16 car never failed to provide a good laugh.

I lifted the worn moleskin cover and was shocked at what lie before me. Instead of paragraphs referencing teenage love, there was a stunning watercolor sketch of blooming cactus flowers. Page after page of beautifully blended paintings filled the book, each brushstroke distinctly skillful. Watercolor was something I admired wholeheartedly but lacked the patience for. With oil painting mistakes could be corrected before the paint had even dried, or simply painted over. Watercolor was far less forgiving, often causing the artist to start over completely. Yet not a single sketch in this journal seemed incomplete or unworthy. In fact, the bottom right corner of every single page bore the typical finishing touch: its creator's signature.

Unable to quell my curiosity, I pulled out my phone and Google image searched the signature before me. There was something familiar about this artist’s style. When the results loaded, I gasped, nearly dropping my phone. The signature on those watercolors belonged to Jamie Malinois, an up-and-coming LA artist who died tragically last summer after her estranged boyfriend strangled her and set fire to her downtown loft. A professor had discussed her work briefly at the beginning of the semester while exploring local talents. I remembered that discussion also including a speech about how tragedy often led to fame and fortune for artists and their widowers. Jamie's work had been considered valuable prior to her murder, but was now nearly priceless. The fact that a good majority of her art was charred beyond salvage in the fire only increased the value of surviving paintings. Whoever donated this Moleskin clearly had no idea what they possessed. Typical rich people.

Carrying the journal to the registered I tried my best to maintain a poker face while handing the cashier a few wrinkled bills. Had I truly just become the owner of a famously dead artist’s sketch book for $3!? I watched the little black book be placed into a paper sack with my now-unimportant jacket and stepped out into the busy LA street, September sun beating down on polluted pavement. Now came the hard part, figuring out how to get this artifact into the right hands. Paying hands.

In cartoon-esque lightbulb fashion I remembered the Downtown Museum of Modern Art still had a curated exhibit of pieces Malinois' parents had allowed to be showcased. A museum with whom one of my favorite professors was well acquainted.

I kept Jamie's sketch book in my sight the remainder of the weekend, even sleeping with it tucked under my pillow. My dorm mate probably assumed it was a diary which humored me as I thought of all the secrets I had read at the thrift store in previous visits. This probably further solidified my desired persona at school. Monday morning, I made my way to Professor Lutwig's desk after class dismissed. Growing interest spread across her face as I inquired about arranging to meet with the museum’s art curator. She was kind-hearted and genuine and was conveniently the only person I trusted in this city. Her jaw dropped as I pulled the little black book from my satchel and opened to the cactus flower sketch that had sparked my discovery. Lutwig agreed to arrange a meeting with the curator immediately but cautioned me to keep this knowledge between us. "I honestly don't know how much that journal is worth, but I imagine it’s extremely valuable. There are other scholarship students here from less-than-stellar backgrounds who may try to steal it if they find out."

Taken aback by her mention of my true origin story I nodded in remembrance of the file professors receive on each student in their class. I carefully slipped the Moleskin back into my bag and rushed to my next class. After lunch Professor Lutwig found me in the hall, explaining that I was to go to the museum directly after school. "Tell the greeter I sent you and that you have a meeting with Francis Toussaint." The three remaining classes seemed to drag on and I practically ran to the bus stop after the final bell dismissed us. Four stops later I stood before a modern building made of black glass and marble walls. A fountain ran down the middle of stone steps with a plaque that read Downtown Museum of Modern Art.

I repeated Lutwig's instructions to a slender model of a receptionist and was asked to have a seat while she called the curator. I wondered briefly if she was another small-town beauty who came to LA with a head full of movie-star dreams. A few moments later a tall, broadly built man with ice blue eyes stood before me, wearing one of the most expensive suits I had ever seen. He excitedly shook my hand, introducing himself as Mr. Toussaint and led me into a large conference room. Seated at a beautiful 10-foot-long Driftwood and epoxy table I repeated what I had told my professor that morning. The same eye-widening, jaw dropping reaction presented on Mr. Toussaint’s face, accompanied by an "Oh my word," when I presented the journal.

Clearly trying, and failing, to hide his excitement, the curator asked me to remain seated while he made a few calls. I was left alone with Jamie Malinois sketch book for possibly the last time and spent precious few minutes gently paging through her watercolors once more. Mr. Toussaint returned almost as quickly as he had left the room. This time, he held in his hand a long rectangular piece of watermarked paper. "The museum would be honored if you would allow us to gain possession of this artifact. Please let me know if this amount would be adequate compensation for you."

Only as he outstretched his hand did I realize the piece of paper was a check. Doing my best to don a flat affect before my hand touched the bank note, I could not stifle the feeling of disbelief as my eyes landed upon the numbers before me. After paying $3 for this little black book at a thrift store, I was being offered $20,000! Hoping the curator saw it as me considering the museum's offer, I sat in stunned silence for a few moments. This check was worth almost as much as my mother would bring home from her waitressing job in an entire year.

Mr. Toussaint finally broke the air of anticipation in the room. "Would this amount suffice for compensation in exchange for Miss Malinois' final sketches?"

All I could manage to utter was a smile and a quiet, "sure." Mr. Toussaint exclaimed joyously and retrieved a stack of papers. The next hour or so was spent going over the bill of sale and being shown the Malinois Exhibit, where my thrift store find would now call home. Soon I was standing before the bus stop yet again, still in disbelief that I now had a check for $20,000 in my satchel. I guess it is true what they say about one man's trash being another's treasure.