By tradition, mayoral elections were not partisan, but tribalism had long since infiltrated every aspect of American life, and the gulf between Arch, with his GOP ties and conservative rhetoric, and Democrat operators like Clem Cardwell and the outspokenly liberal upstart councilwoman Marylou Greene could not be ignored. Davidson County tilted to the left, but not so far that a conservative couldn’t win over the more independent-minded voters. All Arch had to do was sit back, let Clement and Greene rip each other apart fighting over the Democratic base, wait for the smoke to clear, and step forward as the voice of reason and moderation, free of ties to the Clintons. His charm would offset his inexperience. People were sick of politicians anyway. They were ready to get behind a charismatic businessman with a smart, beautiful wife and a fortune in the bank, to prove he knew what he was doing—never mind that he’d been born with money and married even more of it.

Fair bet, I thought. What did I know anyway? I was too busy painting to pay much attention. Ironically, the portrait I’d made of my mother, borne of the deepest pain I’d ever experienced, had turned my work into just another thing people with means felt compelled to acquire; in short order, a Charles Boykin of the wife or the kids became another status symbol, like Spode china or a BMW or a Yeatman class ring.

I hadn’t spent much time with children until I’d started painting them for a living. I was struck by how much more complex they could be than they seemed from a distance. The girl who compulsively scratched at scabs on her knees and arms. The restless boy with the hovering mother who corrected his every gesture. Nary a father was to be seen; in this milieu, even the working mothers appeared to be responsible for all of their children’s appointments and obligations.