I was riding the Pacific Heights bus toward Ward Avenue when I saw the smoke. As we neared the source, I could see it was coming from the Honolulu Museum of Art. Hitting the exit button, I sprinted out the door and over to the gathering crowd.
The docents all wear name badges. Spotting one, I tapped him on the shoulder.
“How bad is it?” I asked.
He turned to me. “How bad? It’s a fire, man. You can see it’s not too good.”
Not gleaning much from his answer, I moved through the crowd to get closer to the museum entrance. Docents were directing visitors down the stairs. I asked a woman just coming out how bad the fire looked.
“Oh, I think it’s mostly smoke,” she said. “This feels more like a precaution.”
Just then there was the sound of a loud explosion from somewhere upstairs.
The noise shifted me into panic mode. I stepped forward to speak to one of the docents directing traffic.
“I have to get in there,” I said.
She looked me up and down. “Are you crazy, Brah? No one’s going in there. Everybody is getting out. You heard that explosion, or what?”
I nodded. “I’m sorry,” I said, pushing past her. “But I have to get inside.”
And with that, I broke through the crowd and ran up the entrance stairs. Several of the docents shouted at me, but I wasn’t about to let words alone stop me. They’d have to tackle me and physically restrain me if they thought they were going to prevent me from getting in.
Pushing against the stream of people exiting, now in much more of a panic mode, I could see fire flickering through some of the upstairs windows across the courtyard.
Finally coming to the main staircase, I took the steps up two at a time, then ran down the now deserted hallway.
I arrived breathless at the doorway to what they called the “American Wing.” There was no fire here, but thick smoke flooded the area. From somewhere behind me I heard someone running. I assumed it was a docent and or the security guard coming after me.
Taking a deep breath, I dove into the smoke. Being pretty sure of the location from my last visit, I ran through the acrid fog toward the back of the back wall of the display area.
It was difficult to see, so as I neared the place where I remembered it was, I bent over as I slowed my run, trying to either spot the piece or the placard identifying it.
I stopped. There it was. Desperate for a breath, I tried to take one, but I sucked in a lot of smoke. Coughing, my eyes watering so much my vision began to blur, I fought to read the placard: Etched Ceramic Cube, 20th Century, Anonymous.”
I picked up the cube and turned to run back the way I’d come. A guard, a towel covering his nose and mouth, held up his hand for me to stop.
Doing my best while coughing, I yelled, “This is mine. This is my piece.”
The guard lowered the towel. “Drop it!” he yelled. “That’s museum property.”
“It’s mine,” I yelled back.
Now the race was on. I sidestepped the guard and dashed back toward the exit. I may be old, but with the adrenaline pumping, I felt like Jessie Owens.
I made it back into the long hallway, but I didn’t slow down. Coughing and wheezing, my eyes and nose spouting tears and mucous, I hurried down the steps.
“Stop right there,” another security guard said, attempting to block my progress.”
Like Walter Payton running for daylight, I juke-stepped him to the right and ran around his left side. The museum exit was clear now, all outside. As I reached the exit and ran down to the front lawn, cube wrapped in my right arm, a docent yelled, “Hey hey hey, stop,” running over to stop me. Several others joined her in a defensive line. I did stop, then leaned over and laid the ceramic cube on the ground.
The guard I’d passed at the bottom of the stairs had caught up to me. Grabbing me by the shoulder, he yanked me upright.
“Bruddah, when I tell you for stop, you stop. Understand?” He shook me by the shoulder.
I was breathing a little easier now. “But it’s mine. This cube is mine. I had to save it.”
“Yours? One of the docents said, stepping forward. “My area is the American wing. I know that cube. What do you mean it’s yours?”
“I donated it to you guys. I made this. It was in the Hawaii Craftsmen’s Show. The museum asked if I’d like to donate it. I gave it to you folks.”
The same docent said, “Hah! You’re lying. The placard for that cube says Anonymous. You do know what that means, don’t you?”
“Eh,” I said, feeling some annoyance at this point. “I’m an English major. I know what anonymous means.”
“Well,” she said, “if you know what it means, then why are you trying to claim you made it?”
“Because it is,” I said, shaking the guard’s hand from my shoulder. “Every time I come to this museum, I tell you folks that I made this cube. And I always get the same assurance that you’ll change the placard. But you never do. I ever talked to the director of the museum about it.”
The woman, as well as the rest of the defensive line of docents, were staring at me, all of them seething expressions of disbelief.
She said, “So you’ve talked to Dr. Yamada about this being your piece, huh?”
“Yes, I have.”
“Dr. Yamada,” the woman yelled looking past me and waving. I turned to see what she was waving at. “Dr. Yamada,” she yelled again, this time gesturing for the museum director to come over.
The elderly Japanese man walked over to us. “Yes?” he asked. “Is there a problem here?”
I’d only talked to Dr. Yamada on the phone, so neither one of us knew what the other looked like.
“Dr. Yamada,” the docent said, “this man claims that he’s talked to you about this cube,” she pointed to it. “He says he made it and donated it to the museum. But the placard for the piece says that the artist is anonymous.”
“Ah,” Dr. Yamada smiled, “you must be Dr. Lee.”
I smiled back. Now we were getting somewhere. I saw the surprised expressions on all the docent’s faces.
Dr. Yamada extended his hand. I shook it. Still smiling, he said, “Dr. Lee, I’m so sorry about not updating that placard. I promise you I will do it personally the first chance I get. There’s so much red tape we have to go through when something like this needs to be done.”
“Oh, well, that’s okay,” I said. “I’d appreciate that very much.”
“Dr. Lee,” said Dr. Yamada, “did you bring this out yourself?”
“Yeah,” interrupted the security guard. “He ran inside and took it. We tried for stop him, but he kept going.”
“I couldn’t let it burn,” I said. “It’s like my only claim to fame. It may be the only thing that’s left for me to be remembered by when I’m gone.”
I saw the security guard shake his head, a look of disgust on his face. Turning his attention elsewhere, he walked off.
The docent from the American wing, her face and attitude softened, said, “That cube is one of my favorite pieces up there. I’m glad you made the effort to save it, even though it looks like the fire won’t reach that wing. It probably would have come through unscathed.”
I nodded and thanked her and Dr. Yamada. He picked up the cube.
“Dr. Lee,” he said, “your piece is in my hands now. I promise you I’ll take good care of it, and I give you my word again that I will personally see to the updating of the placard.
Again I thanked him, then headed for the bus stop to continue my ride home. My claim to fame. Something to remember me by.
Lanning Lee 