I recently moved and hung a piece of artwork directly across from my bed. Every day, it reminds me of the mystery I’ve wanted to unravel for the past 17 years. Maybe you can help me solve it?
The story begins with a pile of trash outside a home on Golden Gate Avenue in San Francisco’s Inner Richmond neighborhood. My beau, Rick, and I were taking a mid-morning stroll when I noticed an old hand-painted costume sketch leaning against a garbage can on the sidewalk. Though the frame looked cheap and its broken glass had caused damage to the drawing, I knew it wasn’t junk.
“This is something,” I told him.
Vintage hats in the pile also caught my eye. Rick, unwilling to be associated with my sidewalk salvage operation, walked ahead, leaving me to decide whether I was rescuing a piece of history or carrying home someone’s trash. I grabbed the sketch and ran to catch up.
“It’s garbage,” he said. “Put it back.”
To tease him, I held the sketch in front of my chest and began marching down the street. When we saw his buddy coming our way, Rick was mortified. However, his friend’s wife was intrigued with my find and went back to rummage through the hats.
Look, I’m no stranger to curbside rescue, although I usually try to do it when Rick isn’t around. I’ve hauled home a chair, nightstands and a few other castoffs from nice neighborhoods. But this was my first attempt at salvaging fine art—or whatever this turned out to be.
Back at home, I examined the piece from corner to corner. The actual rendering remained in good shape, depicting a puppet wearing a jaunty flowered hat, striped knee socks, shorts, suspenders and black slippers. The colors were rich, with ink, watercolor and thick touches of gouache.
While the heavy paper had yellowed, the broken glass caused the real damage, leaving a small tear and some wrinkling. There was also a water stain on the puppet’s shorts.
Convinced that the piece had no monetary value, I still believed that I held something special in my hands. A small, typed label taped to the bottom offered the biggest clue. The antiquated font read:
JOHN PRATT
sketch for
“PETROUSCHKA”
New York City Ballet
1947
When I pointed out the tag, Rick shook his head at me and left to play volleyball. That left me the rest of the afternoon to investigate.
Indeed, John Pratt wasn’t a name on a random scrap of paper. He was a well-known costume designer for Broadway shows and films, beginning in the 1930s. Down the rabbit hole I went.
Pratt created designs for Katherine Dunham, an influential dancer and choreographer who blended African and Caribbean styles into her work. In 1939, Pratt and Dunham wed, when interracial marriage was still illegal in many states. Their professional and personal partnership continued until his death in 1986.
I also discovered that the couple spent time in San Francisco for theatrical runs and Dunham’s performances on the nightclub circuit. Is that how the drawing made it to the West Coast?
The questions kept multiplying. Ah, this label. Who typed it? When was it placed on the sketch? Did they confuse the show, the year or the dance company?
The New York City Ballet didn’t exist under that name until 1948. Under both its previous and current names, I found no record of the company performing Petrushka, Stravinsky’s Russian ballet about a puppet.
My digging turned up a fresh thread. Pratt designed the costumes for Jerome Robbins’ show, Look, Ma, I’m Dancin’!, a 1948 Broadway musical that poked fun at the ballet world.
Robbins had his own tie to Petrouchka. In 1942, he danced the title role in Ballet Theatre’s production in New York.
This Petrouchka production didn’t match the sketch’s label at all. Different ballet company. Different year. And the ballet’s title varied in spelling from source to source.
Then I had a new thought. What if Petrouschka wasn’t pointing me toward a ballet company at all? What if it was connected to Look, Ma, I’m Dancin’!, a comedy filled with ballet references? Pratt designed the costumes before the show opened in early 1948.
The Petrouschka sketch could have belonged to this production. It would account for the Pratt-Petrouschka link, while leaving the New York City Ballet reference unresolved.
A treasure trove online cost me a couple more hours. I reviewed nearly 20 black-and-white photographs from the Broadway production of Look, Ma, I’m Dancin’! From what I saw, my Petrouschka character wasn’t among the costumes that made it on stage.
Later, I stumbled across a five-minute clip of Nancy Walker—yes, Rhoda Morgenstern’s mother—performing a song from Look, Ma, I’m Dancin’! on The Ed Sullivan Show. There she was, joking her way through a string of ballet references, including Petrushka. Suddenly, the Pratt-Petrouschka connection and the 1947 date on the label made more sense.
One more clue gave me confidence. In an auction archive, I came across a Pratt sketch that looked similar to mine, yet it featured a different character. I’d bet a ticket to the ballet that Pratt is my artist.
Another theory I’m pondering has to do with that house on Golden Gate Avenue. In 1955, Pratt and Dunham were “stuck” in San Francisco, according to an article on Project MUSE, a scholarly platform founded by Johns Hopkins University Press. Dunham wrote to benefactors asking for loans to keep her company’s tour going.
I wonder whether my sketch once hung in the home of a San Francisco supporter, perhaps one who lived on Golden Gate Avenue. Was Petrouschka presented as a gift, or did a patron purchase it to help Dunham’s company?
Years ago, after I had the sketch framed, my mother came to visit. My walls were filled with artwork, but she walked straight to the Pratt.
“It’s beautiful,” she said.
She never mentioned the torn paper, the wrinkles or the water stain. She only saw the art.
Rick, well, he’s never been swayed. He once called it “a kid’s drawing.”
The biggest mystery may no longer be what the sketch is. It’s where it has been. Who loved it? How did it survive for decades before ending up on a sidewalk headed for the landfill? If you remember this drawing hanging in a home on Golden Gate Avenue or elsewhere in San Francisco, I hope you’ll get in touch at ni***@********un.com.
