Nashville has always been proud of its reputation for good manners. You really notice it when you’ve been away. You stop for gas driving into town; the lady behind the counter calls you “hon” and wishes you a “blessed day.” Drivers slow down to let you in when you’re pulling onto the freeway. Strangers wave and nod when you make eye contact. The general kindness of the place works on you like a balm. You get the sense that things just go a little smoother, a little easier, a little less nastily here. This is what Arch meant by “the spirit of Nashville.”

But there’s a fine line between politeness and fraudulence. This became obvious during the brief runoff campaign, when the public air of mutual respect between Archer Creigh and Marylou Greene dissolved into a morass of ugliness.

I’d like to lay all the blame on Nick Averett—this was his specialty, after all. He didn’t normally run city election campaigns; he was a GOP operator who’d come to Nashville because he had seen the future and wanted to jump on Arch’s wagon to ensure that he’d be sitting up front when said wagon pulled into Washington, DC. His tactics were meant for bigger battles.

The night after the election, the television on behind me while I put the finishing touches on a portrait, I was surprised by the sound of Vanessa’s voice. I turned around to find her on the screen describing Marylou Greene as a “liberal Trojan horse.” She added a few remarks about health care and feminism, likening Greene to Hillary Clinton. Vanessa’s Southern charm—her soft accent thickened to a drawl, her hair a bit bigger and blonder, her dress a little more back-porch than boardroom—obscured the fact that she herself had much more in common with Hillary Clinton—or, for that matter, Marylou Greene—than with Laura or Barbara Bush.

The next day, listening to the radio as I drove across the river from East Nashville to Belle Meade, I heard a campaign spot with the voice of a woman speaking in exaggerated black dialect, questioning whether Marylou Greene was a Christian. The next morning, an article ran on the front page of the Tennessean with a photo of Marylou Greene surrounded by black preachers from North Nashville laying on hands.

When I met Arch for coffee in his office, he slid the paper across the table and let out a long sigh as I peered down at the photograph.

“Pitiful, right?” he said.

I could offer nothing more than a weary shrug.

“What’s the matter?” he said. “You don’t like the action?”

“I don’t mind the action,” I said. “I just don’t like the advertising.”

“Nick says it’s necessary. I can’t do any good for people if I don’t win.”