Disclaimer: I do not own any newsies. However, Angie IS my own personal
creation, from my own delusional mind. You would pay me the greatest
compliment if you would mention her (IN A GOOD WAY!) but please, ask.
PROLOGUE
If an outsider would see the scene, puzzlement would be the first reaction. In a world of superficial beauty and skinny models, anorexia and low-self esteem, the picture hanging in the modest townhouse on lower Manhattan would evoke wonderment.
The old painting, cracking with age and low quality paint, was still a masterpiece. The people portrayed looked so real on the life-sized portrait that you were scared they were actually standing there in front of you.
On the left, in the cracked gilded frame, was a handsome man, tall and broad shouldered, with sun-kissed blond hair and strong jaw. His smile was full of happiness, and his eyes were shining out at you with such love that any young girl, already smitten by the man's obvious charm, would have cause to blush.
His arm was around a woman standing at his right. You could tell from her stance that she had a great personality, full of life and fun and humor. He eyes, like her husbands, were full of adoration. He smile was one of complete contentment. But at first you would not notice these things. First you would notice that scar.
First you would notice that scar that ran from the woman's clear green eyes to her jaw. Then you would see the large nose, the slight overbite, the rather plum figure. You would see these things, and wonder, "What's a guy like that doing with a girl like her?" With interest, you would look at the small plague that was tacked underneath the frame.
Jack Kelly (1882 - 1968), with his wife, the beloved Angie March Kelly, (1884-1972). This is what was etched onto the faded bronze.
You would look again, more carefully this time. You would decide, perhaps, that the woman's face wasn't "so bad" - it was an altogether pleasant face, really. But still, you would argue with yourself...but still. That man looks like a heartbreaker. What did he see in a perfectly ordinary girl like that? He could have had anyone, you're sure. With a shrug, you would turn away.
Turning away, you would walk out of the Kelly Museum and into the bright sunshine of a New York City fall day. You would walk out, your heels clicking on the pavement, sucked into the hustle and bustle. You would walk out, and you would wonder.
PROLOGUE
If an outsider would see the scene, puzzlement would be the first reaction. In a world of superficial beauty and skinny models, anorexia and low-self esteem, the picture hanging in the modest townhouse on lower Manhattan would evoke wonderment.
The old painting, cracking with age and low quality paint, was still a masterpiece. The people portrayed looked so real on the life-sized portrait that you were scared they were actually standing there in front of you.
On the left, in the cracked gilded frame, was a handsome man, tall and broad shouldered, with sun-kissed blond hair and strong jaw. His smile was full of happiness, and his eyes were shining out at you with such love that any young girl, already smitten by the man's obvious charm, would have cause to blush.
His arm was around a woman standing at his right. You could tell from her stance that she had a great personality, full of life and fun and humor. He eyes, like her husbands, were full of adoration. He smile was one of complete contentment. But at first you would not notice these things. First you would notice that scar.
First you would notice that scar that ran from the woman's clear green eyes to her jaw. Then you would see the large nose, the slight overbite, the rather plum figure. You would see these things, and wonder, "What's a guy like that doing with a girl like her?" With interest, you would look at the small plague that was tacked underneath the frame.
Jack Kelly (1882 - 1968), with his wife, the beloved Angie March Kelly, (1884-1972). This is what was etched onto the faded bronze.
You would look again, more carefully this time. You would decide, perhaps, that the woman's face wasn't "so bad" - it was an altogether pleasant face, really. But still, you would argue with yourself...but still. That man looks like a heartbreaker. What did he see in a perfectly ordinary girl like that? He could have had anyone, you're sure. With a shrug, you would turn away.
Turning away, you would walk out of the Kelly Museum and into the bright sunshine of a New York City fall day. You would walk out, your heels clicking on the pavement, sucked into the hustle and bustle. You would walk out, and you would wonder.