This was a little article I wrote for the SMCC newspaper The Pine Burr. The ending is a bit abrupt, but that was because it was running so long. My editor made me cut it down a bit and I had a deadline, so that was the best I could do. So enjoy!

A Most Remarkable Weekend in Birmingham
by Taylor Meyers


Last weekend, my roommate/best friend Jessica Holliday, her mother, and I went on a pilgrimage to Birmingham, Alabama. Our purpose was to see the Leonardo da Vinci exhibit featured at the Birmingham Museum of Art. I myself had never been to Birmingham before and was simply elated of the fact that I would be visiting a new city. Little did I suspect that Birmingham held more than just a museums and shops—it held a history and culture that was all its own.

Once we actually got to Birmingham (after a near sanity-shattering five hour car drive) we managed to get checked into our hotel. Happily, it was smack-dab in the middle of Birmingham, and only a few streets away from the museum—and much to our pleasure, a comfortable walking distance. The hotel itself was the Tutwiler, a hotel built in 1914 that has been preserved for generations and is now in the National Historic Hotel Registry. The outside’s architecture exuded the fine Southern Gothic days that were personified by steely black cars, refined men in black business suits, and women who never went out without their stocking and pumps. The interior was laden with the trappings of old-southern sophistication and elegance: wall-to-wall Persian carpeting, marble-floored bathrooms, gold filigree light fixtures, the works. The hotel seemed to be a placed that jumped off the page of a Tennessee Williams play or a William Faulkner novel. Needless to say, that night’s sleep was the best I've gotten in quite awhile.

The next morning, we left the hotel early so we could beat the crowd to the exhibit. The morning was crisp and cool, with a brisk wind that reminded all of us that fall had finally hit the South. Inside the museum however, it was dim and warm—a safe and nurturing feeling. We were directed by the slightly overweight security to the upstairs level where the exhibit was being held. After receiving magnifying glasses (given to us with the simple advice, “You’re gonna need it.”) we entered double-doors into a cool, dark room that held the works of The Great Master.

Imagine walking in to a dimly-lit room, and the first thing your still-adjusting eyes behold is a small scrap of paper—no larger than a dinner napkin—illuminated by a soft light. Upon this paper is, at first glance, what appears to be an unremarkable sketch of a woman’s face. But as you look closer, and your eyes finally adjust to the meticulously dimmed lights, you can begin to see the complex hatching and cross-hatching charcoal marks that make up shadows on the woman’s eyes, cheeks, and hair. Yes, at first glance this seemingly insignificant piece of paper may seem completely ordinary—but given second thought, it turns into a scrap of history and human progression incarnate. This is what it feels like to walk into a room filled with sketches by the great master himself, Leonardo da Vinci.

Every drawing was unremarkable at first glance. Well, as unremarkable as a drawing by Leonardo da Vinci can be! As my friend and I squeezed in closer to the glass covers, we began to see the complexity hidden in the simplicity of da Vinci’s work. Everything, no matter how small or insignificant was painstakingly detailed: eyes, hair, muscles, shadows, and the like. All of the sketches were drawn to be used in some of his later works. One, for example, was of a young woman with large, light eyes and curly hair. This young woman would later be transformed into an angel for the painting “The Virgin on the Rocks.”

Some of the most interesting were of horses. He sketched the hindquarters, forequarters, legs, and hooves of the beast so that he could use them later to build a giant, bronze horse called “Il Caravallo.” Legend has it that the only reason da Vinci wanted to build “Il Caravallo” was to spite his rival Michelangelo, who once said that da Vinci lacked the artistic ability to build statues. Although he did later build it, “Il Caravallo” was later scrapped and melted down for weaponry. This account of history made Jess and I muse upon how much art and history has been destroyed by man over time—and how distressing it is to know that we will never see said art.

Also featured in the exhibit was da Vinci’s sketch book, The Codex of Flight, which was his study of birds and how they moved and flew. The book showed that not only was da Vinci a master artist, but a leading pioneer in the study of flight. He was a leader of thought on the theory of headwinds and tailwinds as well as flight patterns. This codex would come into very important play when da Vinci was attempting to build his flying machine. The museum had an interactive computer program that allowed you to look through, translate, and read the codex. Translating the cryptic writing proved to be a difficult task for the researchers—da Vinci wrote both backwards and mirror-image.

After touring the museum, we continued our trek around Birmingham on foot. This proved to be a very smart move on our part. There happened to be and University of Alabama game going on that day and traffic was blocked off on most streets. The first place we visited was the civil right historic part of town. While there, we visited the 16th street church where in 1963 four little girls were killed in a bombing. Across the street from the church was the Civil Rights Museum, and across the street from that was Kelly Ingram Park, a park dedicated the civil rights movement.

While idling in Kelly Ingram Park, suddenly we were approached by an older black man that we would later learn was named Andrew. Softly he looked at us with smiling eyes and said, “Excuse me ladies, can I tell you what ya’ll have missed?” in a gentle voice. We looked at each other, and then back at the hunched but confident figure and nodded at him, and with this affirmation Andrew smiled and began to speak. He started to weave us a tapestry of the human history behind the park and its significance in the civil rights movement in Birmingham. As he spoke, Andrew’s gentle voice got louder, stronger, and sure with conviction. He explained the symbolism behind the several statues and sculptures in the park. It was once a whites-only park and a black person could get arrested for even walking through it, he told us. That was until three local preachers got down on their knees and prayed for equality in the South. This simple act of faith and defiance made the park a stepping-stone for demonstrations and protest all throughout the civil rights movement. Andrew told us his own personal story as well: as a child, he saw his neighborhood friends march in protest against the National Guard and police force. He saw friends arrested, hosed, and attacked by dogs during demonstrations in the park. He later became homeless and lived in the park until a local preacher approached him, helped him find a job, a home, and ultimately a sense of purpose in the world. Andrew told us, with a huge smile on his face, that he now spent his weekends telling strangers both his story and the story of the thousands who cannot speak today—the story of the black southerners that struggled through and overcame in the old South.

Andrew’s story was absolutely riveting. The three of us stood there for an hour, hanging on to this man’s every word. His story, his life, and what he lived through was simply captivating. He left us with one simple request: “When ya’ll leave me here, I want ya’ll to do one thing if nothin’ else…” He raised a long finger and pointed it to the center of the park where four fountains stood, immortalizing the four little girls who lost their lives in the bombing. He looked deep into our eyes and continued, “I want ya’ll to go over there, stand in the center of those four fountains…and just listen. Just listen. ‘Cause each fountain sounds different…’cause each of them little girls was different. Ain’t no one of them fountains sound the same…” He paused for a long moment, but never took his eyes of any of us. “I want ya’ll to read them words that’s wrote on the ground too…and just think about it…and if ya’ll don’t take away nothin’ else that I said today, at least take away them words.” And with that, he smiled a huge grin and shook all our hands and walked away.

As we left Kelly Ingram Park, we were emotionally charged and ready for something new. We eventually found our way to the McWane Science Center, a recreational science museum and IMAX theatre. After tooling around in the gift shop for a bit, we all made our way over to entertainment center of Birmingham. There we found a multi-color array of clothing shops, clubs, restaurants, and even tattoo parlors. After retrieving some much-needed Starbucks, we wandered into a shop called TriBeCa where we picked up a few beautiful items of clothing. Even the most menial task such as shopping seemed exotic and glamorous in this part of Birmingham. It didn’t seem as if we were even in the South anymore—it was like we were poles apart in some New York City village. Of course, that was probably all due to the fact that the entire city was novelty to me.

That night, we returned to the hotel and prepared ourselves for a night out on the town. Our plans were to attend the Alabama Theatre, the first motion picture and stage theatre to be built in Birmingham. They often showed old silent films and classic films at night and mixed them with onstage acting. That particular night, in the spirit of Halloween, the Alabama was showing the 1927 silent film “The Phantom of the Opera,” starring Lon Chaney and Mary Philbin. When we arrived at the theatre, there were several people dressed to the nines in elaborate costumes. One man greeted us outside the theatre dressed as the superhero The Phantom, another man had transformed into the invisible man by wrapping himself head to toe in gauze, and another fan had come as the dreaded Phantom himself. As we entered the theatre a porter greeted us with an eerie smile that would have rivaled Vincent Price. “Good evening ladies,” he said in a soft voice, tinged with a British accent. “Welcome to the Alabama Theatre. Be warned…the Phantom is in the theatre tonight. So please, keep one hand above your head at all times to avoid his noose!” This warning in mind, we looked at each other warily and entered the theatre lobby.

The theatre managed to mix classic theatre and performance art together to create a splendid showcase for the audience. For the introduction, two men dressed as Death strode in solemnly, holding candelabras. They then stood at the corners of the stage and awaited their four other companions, who wheeled in a large coffin. Suddenly, the coffin creaked open and out stepped a man dressed in dark clothing and a swathe cape. As he arose from the coffin, a huge organ ascended from a trap door in the stage and he strode over to it and began to play. For and hour and a half, he provided the music for the silent film, playing nonstop and incredibly well. After it was over, he bowed deeply to the audience and strode offstage with an actor dressed as the Red Death. And sadly, the show was over.

That night, we returned to our hotel feeling very happy and very cultured. We were all sad to be leaving the next morning. As we began our drive back to Mississippi, we were weary with lack of sleep and the excitement of the day before. It seems strange that a city that is so close to home can still be so different and exciting. Birmingham, to a complete stranger like me, seemed like a city teeming rich with culture and tradition—all of which were fun to be a part of for a weekend.