Scenes from the Cutting Room Floor: The Best Conversations & A Little Magic

With documentary film, as with feature film and television, there is what is called the shoot ratio – which is what you filmed versus what actually ends up in the finished film. There is always more film or video shot than what the audience eventually sees. A rule of thumb for documentaries runs around 20:1 – twenty hours of footage for each finished hour, although it can be higher or lower, depending upon a lot of variables, including budget.

So it is with this book. Some of the stories that took place during the Storyboard years will inevitably end up ‘on the cutting room floor,’ as they say.

Like this one, for example, which will likely not make it into the final edit.

My mother died during the summer of 2017. At the time, I was consulting on films about Nasser and the making of modern Egypt; the challenges to ordinary residents of San Francisco created by tech moguls and the so-called “sharing economy;” and a charming short film on the life stories of the cosmos and stars as told through through a fusion of science and contemporary dance.

While my head was distracted by these interesting projects, in the months after my mother’s death my heart was a simmering stew of mixed emotions. Moments of peaceful acceptance were periodically spiced with shards of regret and seasoned with fragments of conversations that popped into my head, often when least expected.

My mother had her favorite places in Asheville – Malaprop’s Bookstore and 5 Walnut Wine Bar among them. But I think her favorite of them all was Battery Park Book Exchange & Champagne Bar.

There, over a glass of wine and a cheeseboard, she and I would have long discussions about the affairs of the world, my kids and good adventures from days gone by. Although her short term memory was terrible! – as she often exclaimed in frustration – she was clear and sharp in her stories from decades past of her travels and the places we’d lived. We could (and did) talk for hours.

In her 95th year, however, she became a bit reticent about leaving her little garden apartment, even to visit her favorite places. Whenever I suggested going into town together, an awkward look would pass over her face and she would say, somewhat apologetically, “How about if we just stay here?”

And so, each week I would join her in the dining room at her retirement village for lunch or dinner, and listen once again to the stories. Often we were still talking long after everyone else had left. She loved that.

“We have the best conversations!” she would exclaim as I walked her back to her little garden flat – even if she had done most of the talking.

She’d usually call the next day to thank me for coming over and tell me how much she’d enjoyed our visit, often ending with the same happy words, “We have the best conversations!”

In February of her last year, I offered to take her out for a glass of wine in celebration of my late sister Karen’s life. She began automatically to demur, but when I suggested we go to Battery Park Book Exchange & Champagne Bar, she couldn’t resist. And so we celebrated Valentine’s Day and my sister there together in the usual way – a glass of wine, some cheese, and of course – stories.

“We have the best conversations!” she remarked happily on the drive back to her place in Black Mountain.

It was her last visit to the Book Exchange & Champagne Bar.

Some weeks later, she mentioned she would love one more trip there. A mischievous little girl smile of hopefulness and delight lit up her face at the very thought of it.

But somehow I didn’t have the time, or make the time. Precarious as she was, I wasn’t sure she could manage it.

After she died, it bothered me that I didn’t somehow work that out for her. Second guesses and regrets are part of the pain of dealing with death, but I’ve realized that trying to mentally outwit the sharper edges of remorse is often unproductive.

Instead, the best antidote to the relentless head-tricks and mind games we put ourselves through in the wake of loss might just be an unexpected little piece of magic.

And so it was that, a few months after she died, a painting in a dark corner of the old Wedge building in Asheville’s River Arts District caught my eye.

I was wandering around a friend’s studio during a reception showcasing her work on the theme of “Accidentally On Purpose.”

Mixed media artist Jacqui Fehl is a tiny, magical creature with large grey eyes and neverending long ropes of platinum & black dreads. She describes her paintings as “a blend of grunge, whimsy and outsider.”

Influenced by music, lyrics, feelings, and stories, Jacqui’s art is unpredictable – playful, colorful and humorous with an appealing edge of darkness. 

“It is a dance of layering on, removing, covering up and revealing. I like my work to be loose, a bit flawed and not too precise or perfect.”

That sounds a lot like my life, I thought, as I read her artist statement.

The painting in the dark corner wasn’t part of the show, but there was something very compelling about it. The colors, the mood of it – it had a storytelling aura and lovely intimacy about it. One of Jacqui’s colleagues at the gallery caught me staring at it.

“You like this one?” she asked.

“I do,” I replied, unable, for some reason, to take my eyes off it. I was curious about the random appearance of chairs throughout it.

Knowing that Jacqui always gives her paintings interesting titles, I asked her if she knew what Jacqui called it.

She picked it up from the easel and in the low light of dark corner, squinted at the writing on the back of it

“The Best Conversations,” she said.

I stood there, speechless. So she said it again, a little louder this time.

“It’s called ‘The Best Conversations!'”

A little magic, a little serendipity … remembering the many times my mother had said those exact words. My head flooded with delight – and relief. Finding this painting felt like forgiveness.

Accidentally on purpose, indeed….

Jacqui’s painting came home with me that night. I hung it in the little writing/breakfast room, the former old porch off my kitchen – one of the many places where my mother and I often had ‘the best conversations.’