There is something invigorating in Nan Freeman’s story about the origins of her fascination with Greek sculpture, to the study of which she has dedicated a large part of her life. Nan comes from a small town in Texas. When she was a little girl, her older brother once asked her and her friends from the neighborhood whether they had heard of Venus of Milo, and, as they had not, he proceeded with an enthusiastic analysis of the statue and its role in the development of Western civilization. His presentation caught on, and the children kept repeating it to one another. Eventually, after a couple of months and some superficial modifications, the question-and-answer exercise had acquired a succinct and lasting form. The initiated would ask: “Have you ever heard of Kabaki de Vuki?” Nobody, of course, had. The initiated would then declare triumphantly: “Kabaki de Vuki is the epitome of Western civilization!” And this exotic transfiguration has survived to this very day. Nan Freeman now teaches art history at Wellesley College, she paints, exhibits her paintings, etc. Kabaki de Vuki surfaces in her work from time to time.

Addendum I (June 18, 1983)

So infinitesimal did I find the knowledge of Art, west of the Rocky Mountains, that an art patron—one who in his day had been a miner—actually sued the railroad company for damages because the plaster cast of Venus of Milo, which he had imported from Paris, had been delivered minus the arms. And, what is more surprising still, he gained his case and the damages.

From Oscar Wilde’s “Impressions of America,” The Artist as Critic: Critical Writings of Oscar Wilde, New York: Random House, 1968, p. 10.

Addendum II (June 22, 1983)

Since childhood Nan Freeman wanted to have a cast of Venus of Milo in her home. A couple of years ago she saw an advertisement for a store that made and distributed statuary of all kinds. She called the store and inquired about Venus of Milo. They had it in stock. “Which size do you want?” Nan asked what the options were. “Small, medium, and large.” She thought that medium would be fine. But she was presently confronted with another choice: “Which color do you need?” The colors they carried were gold, patina, white, and natural. The last possibility appeared most enticing. And finally, the person from the store asked: “Which finish do you want?” Nan was puzzled again. “We’ve got two finishes—interior and exterior.” At that point she said that she would need more time to think it over. And she had never called them back.

Addendum III (December 16, 1983)

Nearly a month ago I went to a Cambridge store with a firm decision to buy a plaster cast of Venus of Milo, which had beckoned at me invitingly from the store window whenever I would pass by. It stood on a plaster cast of a stout Ionic column covered with dust, fingerprints, and flies. When the storekeeper finally extricated the cast from the narrow space in the window and smiled triumphantly on account of my superior taste, I decided to buy the Ionic column instead. Poor Venus of Milo was quite indigestible from close up, as the old cast had obviously undergone a radical transformation since it was first taken a century or so ago. The column now serves as the telephone stand in my apartment—a lasting tribute to Nan Freeman’s childhood.

Addendum IV (December 27, 1983)

Soon after I bought the Ionic column, which appeared somewhat displaced and lonely in my small apartment, I went back to the same store and bought the second such column from the window. Luckily for me, they had only two identical casts. I brought it home with a misconceived idea of using it as a pedestal for an equally ridiculous sculpture. Everything I had seen in my subsequent searches turned out to be entirely inappropriate for such a lofty post, and I thus halfheartedly decided to let my second Ionic column stand by itself in expectation of unforeseen events. As my books kept littering the floor of the apartment, I started putting them on top of the column. Yesterday I noticed that the tottering pile of books that had formed meanwhile in fact offered a solution to both problems, as it suggested a trace of meaning: a monument to the still equilibrating, although severely endangered, civilization rooted in ancient Greece. I should add that most of these books come from East Europe and the Soviet Union—the last stronghold of the Enlightenment. But today even that idea seems too self-conscious, or simply threadbare, and I am again reasonably sure that I will not be able to rest until I find an acceptable cast of Venus of Milo. I will resist this temptation as long as I can, though.

Addendum V (December 23, 1986)

Recently I noticed that my two Ionic columns had become too musty for comfort. They sorely needed repainting even before I got them. As soon as that thought congealed in my mind, I grabbed my coat and went out to buy a can of white paint and a brush. I practically ran back home, as though the two columns were in mortal danger without a fresh coat of paint. My feverish job accomplished, I realized that they are destined to remain unadorned. Venus of Milo be damned. I even removed all the books from one of the columns, with a firm decision never to place them there again. The pristine serenity of the Ionic columns—radiant in their unadulterated whiteness, elegant and firm in their futility, supporting nothing and expecting nothing to support for all eternity—has had a calming effect on my soul ever since.