“This really is a nice coincidence,” Sally said, when she puffed in a few minutes later. “They’ve only been up a couple of times since I’ve been living here. Once there was a big exhibit of the whole collection, and occasionally individual paintings get included here or there if they fit with other shows. Religious art, Venetian painters, depictions of the afterlife, that kind of thing. You’ve never seen any of this stuff, have you?”
No, I hadn’t. It’s a truth universally acknowledged （at least within our family） that I have zero feelings about art, despite Lewyn’s occasional efforts to enlighten and entice me. I followed Sally up the stairs, not exactly unhappy to be here but still braced for a less than pleasurable activity. The paintings were part of a large exhibition called, quite simply, “Gifted to Cornell,” a hodgepodge of everything from primitive objects to a shiny blue Koons balloon dog, big as a garden shed. The only common denominator was that they’d been donated by grateful alumni （or perhaps, like Hermann and Selda Oppenheimer, in anticipation of future alumni）。 Sally found the relevant canvases in an alcove off one of the larger rooms, with a dedicatory plaque of its own:
From the Oppenheimer collection, gifted to Cornell in 1970 by Selda and Hermann Oppenheimer with additional gifts in 1999 by Solomon Oppenheimer ’75 （P: Lewyn Oppenheimer ’04, P: Sally Oppenheimer ’04）
The collection comprised thirty-one paintings by Old Masters from northern Europe, fourteenth through nineteenth centuries. Artists included Joos van Cleve, Hans Burgkmair, Lucas van Leyden, Rogier van der Weyden, and Hans Baldung Grien.
“I guess they don’t care that Lewyn didn’t graduate from Cornell,” Sally observed. She was inclining toward a painting whose label read: Bartholomeus van der Helst, Boy with a Spoon, 1643. “I suppose it doesn’t matter, from a development perspective.”
“No,” I said. “I guess not. Is your class still considered 2004?”
Mom and I had driven up in 2012 to watch Sally get her degree.
“Apparently so. I can’t say I’m all that involved with either class.”
We spent a couple of minutes looking at the four paintings. As usual, when faced with art—presented, usually, by Lewyn, but also on class trips to museums—I had no idea what I was supposed to be looking at. These paintings were “good,” obviously, or they wouldn’t be in a museum; beyond that I was clueless.
“It’s very … dark,” I said, in conclusion.
Sally laughed. “Phoebe, I feel exactly the same. C’mon, I want to show you some stuff.”
Outside, my sister pointed out the pillared, classical pile across the quad. “I spent a lot of time there, after I reenrolled. I still had no big academic interest in anything particular, but there was this professor there, in women’s studies, who urged me to be part of that program, so that’s where I ended up. I had the business by then, and I was working all the time, but they were very accommodating. It was a good department for someone without a vocation,” she said thoughtfully. “I mean, I had a vocation. I have a vocation. But academically, no. Not like Harrison, or, I guess, Lewyn. Eventually.” She looked again at Goldwin Smith Hall. “MJ Loftig, her name was. I think she’s at Columbia now.”
“How come you dropped out?” I asked. “Or … took a leave, or whatever?”
“Oh, well, I was living in the house on East Seneca, with the woman whose business I took over. Her name was Harriet Greene. I was working for her and getting to know the business, and it was just so much more interesting than anything I was studying here. And also she wasn’t very well, and didn’t have any family.”
“So she was like your mentor.”
“Kind of. She was a very crotchety person, but fond of me. I think she saw me as a fellow traveler. There aren’t that many people who do what we do, and actually like it.”