O you whom the itch to write torments like a demon and
who would give all the mines of Peru for a grain
of reputation: abandon the vile herd of vulgar authors
who run after the other or who root in the dust of erudition,
abandon the fastidious savants whose works are like
the endless plains without end. Either don't write at all,
or take another way; be great in your writings,
as in your actions, show the world that is lofty, independent.
who would give all the mines of Peru for a grain
of reputation: abandon the vile herd of vulgar authors
who run after the other or who root in the dust of erudition,
abandon the fastidious savants whose works are like
the endless plains without end. Either don't write at all,
or take another way; be great in your writings,
as in your actions, show the world that is lofty, independent.
Julian Offray de la Mettrie,
Discourse of Happiness
Discourse of Happiness
IT'S NOT TOO LATE TO LEARN HOW TO PAINT
The circumstances of my birth set my character, and characteristics as I came into this world. My young, and I suspect naive mother must have been relieved as she was being wheeled out of the delivery room. She had just given birth to a tiny baby boy as she went into labor prematurely just shy of eight months.
Her life took an unexpected turn as I was born when she was being taken to her room. No one knew she was having twins. But there I was, a fighter from the beginning. In addition to the cord being wrapped around my neck, I weighed a slight three pounds, six ounces, a full pound less than my brother.
In addition to the obvious problems early births cause we were not much to look at. The sweetness that makes most new parents glow with pride at first sight of their issue is a bonding and loving scene under normal circumstances. We were the opposite as our parents were presented with two scrawny, wrinkled beings without eyelashes and other niceties, far too fragile to be held by anyone.
We were immediately whisked away to the preemie ward, and into incubators where we would live for the next three months. In 1945 the technical equipment for low weight babies was not terribly sophisticated. We were taped down with tubes and needles, then tortured further by light and sound that were unending.
No one including our parents could hold us. Cuddling and comfort had to be withdrawn to protect us from additional maladies. There was no night, only day. We both suffer from severe insomnia, a condition that has followed us throughout our lives. Being unaccustomed to darkness was foreign to us. For me, it created a sense of fear, and that fear would increase immensely due to a variety of causes. But it’s too early in my story to describe all of the experiences that life would hold.
We both have bad eyesight. Incubators were not new, though also not fully understood, as they were over-oxygenated which caused blindness in many preemies of our age. The day we got our first eye glasses was joyous and memorable.
The ironies of the beginning of my life define me. Though no one knew I was coming, I have presence. Poor eyesight has not interfered with my gift of ‘an eye.’ My small stature is merely physical. I defied the odds which continues to be the story of my life.
The first three months of my life were spent in an incubator – my first box - the object of containment that continues to define my artistic life. I was almost not born, and at the age of sixty four I still have a lifetime of work to accomplish.
And so these few small paragraphs begin the story of my life. Some of it will be funny and happy; much will be cruel, callous and damaging. I am assembled from disparate parts that fortunately, like my work, make me whole.
It is the magic I make that has saved me, and it is a tale worth telling. We live in a time when technology is rapidly erasing secrets we thought made us safe. Now we know that in some cases keeping secrets can destroy life, and yet the lack of secrets can destroy the human spirit and imagination.
THE HOSPITAL
BETRAYAL
THE MUSEUM
SNOW
THE RECTORY
VOLUNTEERS
SIN (OR BOX NO 2)
BASKETBALL
FIRST STUDIO (OR BOX NO 1)
DROWNING
THE SHOE FACTORY
AGAINST DOCTOR'S ORDERS
Father never came to visit me at the hospital. The day he walked into the Children's Ward was one of the rare moments when we looked at each other with a clear, but silent understanding of where the power lay.
I was stunned and frightened. This was my safe ground. It was the only place where he was not welcome, or I thought in charge. He was angry. I had no idea what he was about to do.
He came over to where I was sitting, picked me up and started to leave the ward. When a nurse asked him what he was doing, 'he told her he was taking me home.' She asked him if he was a relative. When he replied no, she informed him that he could not remove me from the hospital. He turned belligerent and abusive when the doctor-on-call tried to intervene.
When it became obvious that no one was going to stop him, the nurse told him she would go and get my clothes. He said that would not be necessary. To my surprise and shame he had removed my hospital gown and carried me to his car. My only piece of clothing was a thin pair of white underwear. I couldn't talk or move.
He carried me the short half block from the parking lot to our apartment. It was impossible for me to hide because the yards and porches were filled with playing children and lounging parents.
My mother was startled when he walked in with me. He put me down and I ran to my room. I heard him leave the apartment. Almost immediately my mother came into my room gave me fresh pajamas and put me to bed. She never said a word.
MADAM ALEXANDER
My Madam Alexander doll was my most prized possession. She was a gift from my Aunt Ceil when I was about seven years old. I kept her in my treasure chest- a round, ten gallon soapbox with the label removed. I kept the box in my closet with books carefully arranged on the lid, so I would know if anyone had played with her without my permission or supervision.
The doll's wardrobe was remarkable by any standard. It included beautifully tailored tweed suits and wool jackets with stand-up collars, and skirts both long and short. For dress, she had a full-length coat of red velvet with fur collar, cuffs and matching muff. She had a skating outfit with a fitted jacket and a circle skirt of dark green felt. For play she wore a snowsuit of red and green plaid wool gathered at the ankles and cuffs with a hood trimmed in rabbit.
She had sweet summer dresses made of soft, pale baby checks and aprons of white dotted Swiss. For dress-up play she had sassy flared shorts and matching sleeveless camp shirts in forties style floral or natural linen. For shopping she wore a tailored skirt of mattress ticking, and a tuck-in-blouse of white poplin.
Her clothes were not store-bought. They were of a quality that was not available in any toy store. A neighbor lovingly made them from scraps, pieces of fabric that would have been considered throwaways by a lesser talent.
I envied the quality and style of her clothes. They were sophisticated and smart. She was my role model for how I wanted to act and dress when I grew up.
THE DOLL HOSPITAL
Sometimes my dolls would have to be taken to the doll hospital to mend a tear or have a seam re-sewn. When my Madam Alexander doll needed attention I would carefully place her in a bag, along with several changes of clothing. The doll doctor loved seeing her outfits, and marveled at their style and craftsmanship.
The two of us would take the bus down Chouteau Avenue then transfer to the streetcar that went across the Grand Avenue viaduct. I would hold my breathe and my doll, when the back of the car swayed precariously as it maneuvered the turnout built to alleviate bridge traffic.
The St. Louis Doll Hospital was on the second floor of an old office building across from Woolworths. It was a magical place crammed with every type of doll and doll-part imaginable. The room and its contents thick with layers of forgotten or abandoned dolls and stuffed animals had an appealing patina from decades of dust and grime.
The shelves were lined with boxes of glass eyes, springs, heads, arms and legs made of porcelain, wood, tin and man-made composites. Torsos of leather, fabric, rubber and plastic in various states of disrepair were stacked like cordwood. The collection of expensive dolls, clearly not played with and affordable only by the adult collector held little interest for me.
The shop owner took his customers, as well as his patients seriously. The time we spent together never felt rushed, and he seemed genuine in his affection for his craft.
If the repairs were simple, I was allowed to watch him work. His hands were deft and gentle. His concentration was not broken as he reached for the proper tool or part without looking up.
I didn't mind if my doll had to stay in the hospital for a more complicated repair, because it meant I would be making a return visit within a weeks time.
I think of him and his work with great tenderness, and true nostalgia.
A COMMON LANGUAGE
It seems fitting to write a story about my friendship with Joseph Goldyne. My interest in works of art, museums and the making of art began at a very early age. Even before I could talk, I was selecting and arranging objects. And I'm sure, rejecting some as well. I'm also equally sure that Joseph began his artistic life in a similar manner, for neither of us is able to accept the world simply as we find it.
It's a matter of small importance that we were educated in ways that couldn't me more different. What is valued by both of us is what we learned, not how we learned it.
We share a common language, a manner of thinking and seeing so natural and comfortable that words are frequently unnecessary. The verbiage comes after a moment of indefinable space that exists between what we see, and what we have to say.
The power of this space cannot be precisely defined. It is magic, silent and intense hovering like a scent, disappearing at the very moment of recognition.
We enjoy a mutual admiration and respect for each others' work, but the greatest quality we share is a critical eye. We are, I think, good teachers for one another. Demanding but loving, always pushing for more, and not apologizing for doing so.
Our common language includes all of the senses. It is the language of aestheticism n. 1. The pursuit of the beautiful. 2 a. The belief that beauty is the basic principle from which all other principals are derived. b. A doctrine whereby art and artists are thought to have no obligation or responsibility other than that of striving for beauty.
Looking over the many notes, e-mails, drawings, cartoons, words of praise and condolence, books and gifts he has sent me for nearly three decades, I see things that were not visible before. It recalls the sensation of visiting a favorite painting, enjoying the reunion, then discovering the pleasure of a detail revealing itself for the first time.
A good friend is like that.
LEAVING
My mother always relied on me for support, but the night my father left it should have been between just the two of them. Things had been bad since the third child was born, and now there were six. I was just ten years old.
She was already in bed, and I was with her, a familiar ritual when she was upset or worried. I knew something was wrong but thought it was due to their usual disagreements.
When he came into their room she told him he had to leave for good. I couldn't believe it was really happening, and pretended to be asleep, but I had heard everything. He pleaded and cried and begged for another chance. She was silent until he finally left, sad and defeated.
She put her arm around me, and said she was sorry. I didn't move. I felt as if I wasn't breathing. The terrible sorrow that overwhelmed both of us was unbearable.
For months after he left, he begged me to talk mom into letting him come back home. He was convinced that I had the power to change her mind. He never believed I really tried, and forever after accused me of taking his place.
After he died, the hospital game me the contents of his wallet. It held his driver's license, two twenty-dollar bills, and a tattered baby photograph of me and my twin brother.
BEAUTY
Our house on Michigan Avenue was ugly and cold. Not just visually cold, but physically cold as well. The unheated second floor had three large bedrooms where all six children slept. For many years there was no interior access to the living room, kitchen, bathroom or mom's bedroom located on the first floor. We soon gave up any expectations of comfort, and shortly after moving in we abandoned the bathroom on our floor.
Eventually we also stopped using the third bedroom (the original kitchen) because our plan to relegate the youngest siblings to the least desirable of rooms became unenforceable. Nightmares or scary noises would bring the little kids scrambling into the beds of the older kids, so we re-arranged the two most comfortable rooms to accommodate all six of us.
For me and my two sisters I commandeered the best space in a railroad flat - the front room. It was a large square room with a high ceiling, double windows facing the street, and a single window overlooking the gangway. We each camped out in a corner to provide a bit of privacy, but this made the room even more cavernous and empty. We rarely used the space for playing or hanging-about, because the winters were bitter and the summers unbearably hot and muggy.
The situation did however, offer me the luxury of space. My corner, newly furnished with a small bed, side table and a lamp became nest-like due to both its containment and my accumulations. My objects and treasures could now come out of the soapbox.
The tabletop became my canvas as I arranged, and re-arranged my collections. I quickly discovered that if I could look at a few square inches of beauty I could block out acres of ugliness.
The objects I saved were modest - art postcards, bits of ribbon and wrapping paper, rocks, twigs, leaves and small boxes. Seashells were not yet common, or easily available. The few I managed to acquire were reminders of the exotic and faraway worlds that I did not as yet have access to.
My love of beauty saved my life. It taught me how to make art, and consoled me in times of trouble. The still lives I created on my bedside table were sacred. The sense of order, and the relationship of one object to another were crucial to my sense of well being.
I was convinced that no one could achieve that perfection better than myself. With my siblings, fear more then respect or understanding protected my first installations.
I knew instinctively that a great collector must, by necessity be an aesthetic tyrant.
PIECE WORK
When I was six years old my Grammy broke the law in order to try and give my mother an income. The Union had been long in coming to the shoe factory where Grammy spent her adult life. Working conditions and benefits improved after the Union came to power, but at the same time it became illegal to do piecework at home, or use children as laborers.
Neither the Union or the bosses intimidated Grammy, so she simply hid the 'uppers' under her coat, and brought them to our home so mom could have a little financial independence.
Mom, who was never speedy at anything was ill suited for piece work so she quickly turned the job over to me and Michael. Depending upon the degree of difficulty we could make from one cent to five cents per upper. The only way to make the work profitable was to be fast. Michael ran more at Mom's speed and was quickly removed from duty. I however went for the bait. Admiration, money and control were within my reach.
For the next several years I spent my evenings after supper, lacing and stitching the decorations on women's fancy shoes. At my best, I was able to do several hundred pair a night, and earned what would be considered a fair sum of money for the time. My Gram was proud of me as a wage earner and worker, and I was proud of her respect.
The shoes were impossibly beautiful. I enjoyed the smell of the leather, and the feel of the lacing as I ran my fingers over the rise of a pattern. The rough side of the skin allowed my fingers to hold the piece comfortably, while I worked the decoration onto the smooth, well shaped crown.
I admired the look of a graceful high heel, and the elegance and sophistication it conveyed. I could picture the woman who would purchase these shoes and daydream about the rest of her ensemble.
My work helped me to acquire a vocabulary of terms and actions that would take me out of my hermetic surroundings. I wanted to be a worldly woman with beautiful shoes, who was accomplished, educated and independent.
THE TRASH CAN
Being forced to witness the abuse of a loved one must be the most brutal form of torture. The memory of Father's mistreatment of my brother causes a sadness in me that is indescribable.
We were in the first grade when this cruelty began. Father would casually drop into class just at the moment a child was being scolded by the teacher. The offenses such as forgetting one's homework or daydreaming were minor offenses. Father however, could make them appear to be the acts of a monster child on the verge of self destruction.
My brother was a favorite target. Michael always knew what was coming, and he would go limp with resignation and fear. Father's contempt for him seemed to increase as it became apparent there was no avenue of escape. Father would pick him up, carry him to the trashcan, remove the swinging lid, lower him into the trashcan and put the lid back on.
No one spoke. Some children cried, but silently. We all knew that if we tried to interfere the punishment would be extended. He was unstoppable, and glowed with self-satisfied smugness. The child he removed from that trashcan reminded me of an exhausted infant with damp matted hair and eyes wet with tears.
Father only subjected the boys to these humiliations. Many of them fulfilled his prophesies and became as adults, what he had accused them of as children - weak, lazy, inferior losers, who would amount to nothing.
I hated that he tried to make me an accomplice. He wanted me as a witness, but he also wanted me to side with him by agreeing that Michael deserved to be punished.
There seemed to be no way out. The children were afraid, and the adults were invisible.
NOT EVEN WATER
We converted to Catholicism when I was five years old. Actually I think it would be more appropriate to say that we became Catholic, as I don't remember that we had any religious affiliation before we met Father.
After my baptismal ceremony the next major ritual was first communion. The tradition of dressing as a little bride was far more appealing than having my head dipped in water. My efforts to become pious and saintly seemed a fair price to pay for a dress and veil.
The fasting laws for receiving communion required a great deal of practice. Not eating past midnight wasn't punishing, as our eight o'clock bedtime was strictly enforced. Not taking even a sip of water in the morning before Mass was trickier than it sounded. My first problem was learning how to brush my teeth without swallowing any water. I took the restriction seriously, and had to really concentrate to make sure my body remained uncontaminated by even a drop of water.
The next privation was more difficult. Although I was small for my age I ate like a trencherman. Skipping breakfast was true agony as I found myself wondering if god really thought a hungry child was more virtuous than a happily fed one. The fasting eventually became easier as I found comfort and pleasure in the pageantry and ritual of Catholic life.
The first communion ceremony took place in late spring after months of religious instruction and rehearsal. My Grammy although vehemently anti-Catholic attended. It was as I recall the first and last time she came to service in our church.
The girls all in white, walked down the aisle single file, with hands folded and heads bowed. The boys followed, dressed in white short-sleeved shirts with navy trousers and neckties. We were quiet and reverent, and a little afraid. A bit of innocence faded as the ritual of communion moved us closer to adulthood, with the call to learn the rules and laws of the sacraments.
Before the reception with family and friends, six girls were chosen to be the angels who would guide the next group of communicants through this ritual. The angels were dressed in long pastel gowns, with angel wings made of tulle and lace, stiffened with wire.
Being a second grader, and an angel made life seem perfect.
THE PUZZLE
It feels strange to have never put the pieces together. In my family I thought I was the only one. My unique position made me believe I was protecting the others. I was sure I could control him - I was after all one of his favorites.
He formed his clique carefully, methodically. To our gang of eight, he appeared to hold no interest in any one else. We were the chosen ones. Other girls, their parents, even the nuns were envious. The power was intoxicating. He was charming, persuasive, and appealingly attentive.
The men in our lives - father, brothers, uncles, cousins and mere boys could not measure up. He showed them no kindness. He was obvious in his cruelty to males. It was, as it turned out, a ruse, a cover for his interest in girls.
His was not a quiet or easy relationship. We had to compete for his favor. A few of the girls pretended to fight, but they seemed to know that they were not really in the running. They were ringers he kept around for sport. The real competition was between five girls, with three having the edge, and two always out of favor. The order changed constantly.
It started before morning Mass. Who would get to help him dress for morning services? Who would share breakfast, lunch, dinner and sometimes ice cream at Velvet Freeze? Who sat in the back seat of the car, which three for the front seat and the prize - who would be next to him? Eight girls - who would be dropped off first? Who would be taken out of school to hang out at the rectory? Have Sunday dinner at his mother's house? Who would get to be in the starting line-up for basketball?
If one of us got to confident, he would simply change the ranking. Cool indifference often won, but he was smart so one had to play well. You could never be sure.
Children masquerading as women, the problem was he only wanted children. The good years were from five to twelve but only if you looked younger than you were.
Puberty was not attractive to him but he couldn't let go. Long after his interest waned he would fight off any boys who might be foolish enough to think we were now free.
Leaving him was the only way out. He could never truly leave us.
My sisters as it turns out had never been safe. He was clever enough not to behave toward me, as he behaved toward them. The pieces will never really fit, and safety still seems elusive.
THE STUDIO (OR BOX NO 3)
It's odd how the important details of one's life seem to materialize with little fanfare or notice. The most potent symbol of both my artistic life and private life is the box, and it is only at this instant that I have come to understand the force with which it has contained me, and I it, for sixty-three years.
This awareness which I denied for decades, comes from the sadness of recognizing that the effects of abuse create traits that do not make social interchange easy or comfortable. Hiding and keeping secrets, that half turn away from stage-front, all give a child solace when there is no protector to turn to.
To survive each of my siblings created his or her own box. For a while the box is a refuge. As the unthinkable becomes the norm, the lines blur. You no longer know if the box is for escaping from danger, or going to danger.
As the structure for my life as an artist, the box has been more liberator than captor. Boxes - the studio, stories, the cabinet, sculpture, installations, photographs and necklaces all reflect my need for beauty - contained, classified, ordered work that is quietly provocative, always posing more questions than answers.
Art is about memory, for both creator and viewer. Collision, defined as an encounter between two or more particles that come together or close is what makes art powerful. All memory is disparate. The collision allows us entry into the unfamiliar, or that which is discomforting, while our humanity prevents us from looking away.
For too long I've been confused about who created me and my talent. Father had great contempt for the artist, the poet and the dreamer, because it was a power he could neither control nor destroy.
Finally I know that he did not invent me. He imposed cruelty, damage and an odd sense of freedom I can't quite define.
Frequently I did not fight for myself, but I always fought for my art.
A SENSE OF ONE'S SELF
Susie was born beautiful, tiny and delicate. Her features were fine and perfect rather like a doll you never wanted to put down.
Once when she was about two we were swimming, and I tried over and over to get her to jump into the water, into my arms.
I don't remember her as being frightened, she was simply disbelieving. It was nearly impossible for her to trust that I wanted to take care of her and love her. If exhaustion caused me to stop cajoling, she became sullen and dejected.
Oddly, Father never talked to Susie. He treated her as if she were invisible. Shunning must be a nearly intolerable form of abuse. A child would have no sense of one's self, no vocabulary for self-definition, no echo.
Susie's box contains every real, or imagined slight she has ever suffered. He burden is surely arduous as she is still a tiny person. When I was with her last I tried to stay quiet and within myself so as not to wound her more.
As Father's abuse of her become violent and sadistic he still did not speak with her. How could she not feel like an object, seeing, but separate from everyone around her. Perhaps that's why she cannot hear when words of love are offered.
The contradictions are too great to list. She is tender but has no tenderness. Her lively intelligence is a chore that is never finished, so her accomplishments are erased. She sees every fault and weakness in those around her, but has little self- knowledge.
For those who have suffered abuse at a young age the line between child and adult continues to be fluid. She herself provided a clue in a one-line missive when she told me 'my secrets are from myself.'
Now we are all children again and we want to sing to her - 'come out, come out where ever you are, we want to give you love and safety. We have been where you are and we understand. It is time for us to forgive each other and ourselves.'
THE BOOK SHELF
Peggy was an adored child by everyone except Father. She would have been just under a year old when we moved to Castle Lane. Michael and I treated her like she belonged to us alone. We have a wonderful old sepia photograph that shows her wonderful swagger with her hips back and her tummy forward. She was naughty and silly, and loved the attention it brought her.
Father visited often and for a while pretended Peggy didn't exist. His manner became more menacing and cruel, when she entered her twos. At first his dislike for her was limited to verbal abuse. He regarded her naughtiness as a moral issue that only he could keep in check. Over a period of time she became quieter and less entertaining especially when Father was in the apartment.
He invented a punishment for her that was crushing to watch. After removing all the books from the bottom shelf of a bookcase he would pick her up and lay her on the shelf. If she moved, cried, of if anyone went to her aid, he would lengthen the time of her confinement.
The results of his attempt to make her a child of no value drained the joy from her. Now when he entered the apartment she would silently go to her shelf, and stay there until he left. She stopped looking directly into anyone's face trying her best to just disappear.
Michael and I were devastated and invented ways to run interference between her and Father. Sometimes I could lighten things a bit by humoring him, or drawing attention to myself but I always felt his letting me win every now and then was just a part of the game.
If Michael tried to protect her Father's spitefulness took a twisted turn as he would turn on Michael, making him feel inadequate as a male for not being able to protect his sister.
Dad and Michael bore the brunt of this abuse in the early days, and what it did to them physically and emotionally never healed. To this day I can't look at Michael without seeing deep pain in his face, mirroring the same anguish in the face of my long deceased dad.
Peggy invented her own box - a place where fairies, flowers, animals and lots of sunshine created a happy place for her to curl up in and shut out the hurt.
It has taken me many years to understand why she chose that fantasy over all else. In her continuing kindness and belief in goodness she quietly reminds me that I was only five years old when the madness began.
THE RINGLING SCHOOL OF ART
In 1964-65 I spent a year at the Ringling School of Art. I though it as the beginning of my formal education, but circumstances unknown to me at the time made this my only full time college-level experience.
My very fist plane ride took me from St. Louis to Sarasota, Florida. Airsickness made the trip not quite as glamorous as I had anticipated. I felt very sophisticated when I boarded at Lambert Field but when I landed in Florida it was painfully obvious that I looked and acted like a girl from a small, rural town.
I thought of St. Louis as a big city, and regarded myself as polished and refined simply because I resided there. What I hadn't understood at the time was that the environment in which I lived, the project, was in, but not part of, a large cosmopolitan city.
I was nineteen, and while I was skilled in the art of survival I was amazingly naive, and knew little about nuance or subtly. The day after my arrival I was at the beach feeling ghostlike with pale, too-white skin and and old-fashioned swimming suit. Within minutes a young, handsome man sat next to me. I felt safe when he told me he was a junior at the Ringling school.
I was ready to go out to dinner with him when he was suddenly stricken with a conscience - his words not mine. It was slightly mortifying to hear that I was too vulnerable to be taken advantage of, but touching when he decided to become my protector. He took the job seriously, and looked after me in a kind and tender manner.
He became my friend and confidant, and I learned to be his friend as well. It was in all probability my first true friendship.
It was a remarkable year, and one of my happiest.
A routine settled in once the decision was made that I had to go to the hospital. I remember the first part as an unpleasant ordeal. The emergency room was located in the new, and coldly institutional section of the hospital. The wait was long and uncomfortable with glaring lights, unending noise, and the stale smell of alcohol.
Relief came when the doctor finally signed my admittance papers. The sound of the bed guardrail being clicked into place was the comforting signal that told me I was now going to be safe for a while.
Only occasionally would my mother accompany me on the long gurney ride to the Children's Ward. The rhythm of the squeaky rubber wheels on the marble floors would make me sleepy. I can still feel the turning and jerking of the bed, to position it in the small cubical that would be mine for the next few days. This was the old, beautiful part of the complex that I loved.
Single rooms were situated along the outside wall of the building. Each space was just large enough for a bed and small table. Three of the walls were not full height, which created a box, open at the top, a room within a room.
The white billowy curtains covering the windows and the door gave the room a feeling of cleanness and order. The tightly wrapped sheets, cool and pristine with a certain weight to them kept me in the center of the bed. The cubical was private, but the open space allowed me to hear the comings and goings of the nurses, who seemed to instinctively know what I needed.
Usually by the end of the second day I would begin to feel better. I looked forward to the removal of the IV tube. It meant I would be transferred to the communal Children's Ward, a spacious sunny room with beds for about ten patients.
An open play area that held carts with books and toys occupied the center of the room. In the evenings a trolley with juice, ice cream and Jell-O would be brought around as we played games or read until bedtime.
An open play area that held carts with books and toys occupied the center of the room. In the evenings a trolley with juice, ice cream and Jell-O would be brought around as we played games or read until bedtime.
I typically spent two or three days in this ward before being released. Once home I missed the order, safety and whiteness.
BETRAYAL
It was a terrible moment when the suspicions became reality. He actually took me along when he went to visit her. I don't remember her mother being there, so her older sister must have been baby-sitting. I can however, even now, recall the instant loathing I felt for her. She was so blond and cute, not fat but full in that baby kind of way. He was proud of his latest discovery and seemed to need me as a witness. The surprise and hurt made me feel as if I were slowly disappearing. Instinctively I knew that nothing would ever be the same.
I had been in the top three (out of a field of eight) for some years, and felt confident that my position was now a given. It seemed obvious that she was never going to be as smart as I was. How could he not see that? He was the one who made smart so important. It wasn't fair to change the rules after I had been so good, and worked so hard. I remember standing in that room helpless, silently crying over and over that I shouldn't be here, feeling this way.
It was quiet in the car as he drove me home. I was devastated by his happiness and terribly sad that my inability to keep him interested had failed. He never looked at me in the same way again. The dance continued for several years until I finally went away for good.
I've often wondered who replaced her - and if she cared.
I've often wondered who replaced her - and if she cared.
THE MUSEUM
For years I visited the city museum every Sunday. The preparations were as important as the trip itself self. I carefully packed my school bag with pencils and drawing tablets. My money for the day would be divided into three categories: bus fair, lunch money, and sometimes treat money. I would of course have lain out my clothes the day before as everything had to be decided carefully.
Two transfers made the bus ride a long one, so I always chose a seat by the window in order to take an inventory of the passing neighborhoods. It was a lesson in my ongoing education of becoming ever more sure, of where, and how I wanted to live.
The museum sat at the top of Art Hill in a grand park. The bus passed the zoo, the planetarium, lakes, waterfalls and a series of wonderful park buildings that date from a more elegant time. The surroundings intensified the excitement of seeing the museum come into view.
Upon arrival an important part of my ritual was to use the main entrance, as it allowed me to enter the museum with a sense of grandeur and importance.
My tour always started with the collections of Greek, Roman and Egyptian antiquities. These installations in the small, stone rooms felt both ordered and random, especially in comparison to the formal layouts of the painting and sculpture galleries.
Being surrounded by these relics of past lives aroused a curiosity tinged with fear. I wanted to touch and own these un-encased, accessible objects. I would visit the American and European galleries only after spending at least half of my day in the antiquities collections, where I felt a strong sense of being connected to the objects that had been in existence long before my time.
Later I would sit on a canvas stool and make drawings of my favorite works. The guards would never question me when I was at my sketchbook, so pretended to be an artist.
Years later, when I went back to the museum to visit my favorite exhibits, I was surprised to find them gone. I wondered if they had been a dream.
SNOW
The most picture perfect rural scene can never in my mind or senses equal the exquisite nights of snowfall in the housing project. Typically I was not brave about being out by myself after dark, except during or after snowfall.
The sylvan landscape is enhanced by snow but not dependent on it for its beauty. The project however, was transformed. The whiteness had a purity that seemed to erase the commonness. A blanketing effect softened the edges of the architecture and made the porches disappear so that the scene could be mistaken for a grand park, uninterrupted by personal boundaries. The sound was majestic because it was so quiet.
I was always alone on these excursions. The snow made me feel safe and protected. I walked slowly trying to stay quiet as possible. Normally I disliked the cold, but the incredible beauty that surrounded me seemed to insulate me from the iciness.
The sky was a night sky, but not dark. It had a luminosity and lightness about it that made it appear to be both day and night at the same time. I felt an excitement in leaving this magical scene and returning to bed, because I had witnessed an event that belonged to me alone. It needed no company or explanation.
THE RECTORY
The advantages of being small are learned out of necessity. Having skinny arms came in handy when I wanted to get into the rectory. The entrance had heavy, ornate double doors with cut glass panels. Off to one side was a mail slot that opened into a box mounted on the inside of the door which enabled me to slip my arm into the slot, open the inner lid, and unlatch the door from inside.
One day I was thrown off guard by literally running into Father's new assistant who of course thought he had caught a criminal in the act. As I watched him try and take control of the situation, I kept in mind memories of all the assistants that had come and gone before him.
I knew I was permanent and he probably was not, so brazenness replaced my fear. I announced, with as much authority as I could muster up that I was allowed in the rectory at all times, with or without his permission. I then marched up the stairs into Father's room, grabbed a book and held my breath as I snuggled into my favorite leather chair. I never looked up.
A few minutes later I heard him follow, enter his own room and slam the door. He never spoke to me again, and left the parish shortly thereafter.
Father's barely concealed esteem and tacit approval of the incident put me in first place for an unusually long time. But success never lasted as long as I thought it should. My pride was compromised by dread. The five year olds were advancing fast.
VOLUNTEERS
During Easter week the volunteer ladies would come to our parish and treat a group of children to an Easter egg hunt. The event was held on the grounds of the home of a particular volunteer, with the location changing each year. Father pre- selected who would attend, more girls then boys were chosen and colored children were never invited.
We would arrive by school bus and be introduced to our hosts. The rules were reviewed. We could play anywhere on the grounds, but were not allowed into the house, or off the property. Small presents hidden with Easter eggs along with gooey refreshments made the activities interesting for a while, but the event quickly became lackluster once our small army rooted out every treat.
One year I decided I needed to see the inside of the house. About ten minutes into my wanderings I was found out. A stern voiced woman asked me 'what did I think I was doing?' I responded to her as if I were a peer, and said that it was very important for me to see the house and the furnishings because I was going to live like this some day. I expected acceptance and a talk about decorating. Instead, she looked straight at me and said, 'No dear, you won't'. I was mortified and angrily told her she didn't know to whom she was talking. Then I told myself I would prove her wrong.
After I was escorted out of the house I was put on the bus to wait for the other children. I was never invited to another Easter egg hunt.
SIN (OR BOX NO 2)
Confession is a strange experience. At age seven it was necessary for me to lie in order to make a good confession. Generally the list of sins I invented were the same from week to week. I disobeyed my parents. I stole. I was mean to my brothers and sisters. I lied.
There are Ten Commandments. If the major sins are eliminated -- murder, coveting thy neighbor's spouse, taking the Lord's name in vain or worshiping false gods not much is left for a child to ask forgiveness for. The concept of the sin of omission confused the issue, although this did not become a serious problem until I was about ten.
I did enjoy one aspect of confession. The confessional box was an interesting and wonderful space. The oak woodwork glowed from decades of wax and wear. The confessional curtains were made of a luscious maroon fabric. Their thickness and weight made them a bit difficult to handle but I loved the ritual of enclosing myself into this small, dimly lit space.
The confessional was not designed for a child as my head barely reached the pierced brass screen, that separated sinner from confessor. As I adjusted my eyes to the darkness I would go over my sin plan. The sound of the screen sliding open was the signal to begin.
'Bless me father for I have sinned.' I felt the lies coming as I recited those words. Disappointing Father by not having enough sins to confess left me feeling inept and oddly insufficient. Confession was suppose to be anonymous. But I knew Father's voice, his gestures, the smell of his pipe even the sound of his breathing. And he knew me.
Confession. It didn't take long to get the basic idea. You could be bad, confess your sins, do your penance and come back in a week to repeat the process, and be forgiven again. The severity of my penance had less to do with seriousness of the sin than with Father's mood. The 'Hail Marys' and 'Our Fathers' were easy. The Rosary could be run through the jig time.
The Stations of the Cross though, were a real inconvenience. Father often sat in the back of the church to make sure they were completed with at least a minimum of reverence and attention.
The Stations of the Cross though, were a real inconvenience. Father often sat in the back of the church to make sure they were completed with at least a minimum of reverence and attention.
When the church was empty, I used to go into the confessional and sit on the kneeler. If I were feeling especially brave I would go into Father's space and think about how strange it would be to hear the sins of another person. I think my powers of observation were honed from the ritual of confession. It seemed like spying.
BASKETBALL
When I was nine years old, Father decided I would become a basket ball player. The game has defined my life ever since.
At four foot nine inches and sixty pounds I was an unlikely candidate. I loved sports, but loved winning even more. So I ignored my size and became devoted to basketball. For the first year or so I didn't get into many games, but I never missed practice, and worked hard to convince Father that I could overcome my limitations.
Sitting on the bench waiting for a chance to play was agony. Finally getting into a game was exciting but scary. I was the smallest player in the league so it took time for me to find a way to avoid being regularly pummeled. The players were big, some outweighing me by twice, and others taller by as much as a foot.
Our team had a reputation for playing dirty and Father not only encouraged it, but expected it. We fouled, kicked, and punched doing whatever was necessary to waylay another player when the refs weren't looking.
My strength was my ability to move fast and eventually I leaned how to make it work for me. My specialty was tripping. My punch didn't have much of an impact on a large girl, but my foot planted carefully in front of an opposing teammate could bring a player down with little effort on my part.
My strength was my ability to move fast and eventually I leaned how to make it work for me. My specialty was tripping. My punch didn't have much of an impact on a large girl, but my foot planted carefully in front of an opposing teammate could bring a player down with little effort on my part.
Father wore black pants, a white shirt with rolled sleeves and his clerical collar. His shirt never stayed tucked in and for some unknown reason his shoe laces were always untied. His antics would have made Bobby Knight look like a novice. He was brutal, and unless he was giving one of us the silent treatment, he yelled constantly. He considered short shots as sissy shots. They may have counted on the scoreboard, but they didn't make points with him. He liked tough plays, long shots and hurt bodies.
As a small player I didn't have great upper body strength. And soon found I had more power with hook shoots then with straight shots. During a fast game I remember Father screaming at me to take the shot, and without thinking I did. Suddenly it was quiet. No one including myself realized what had happened. I was at half court. I had made the shot. Father never said another word about it when we went to the bench for time out.
He taught me how to fight, but not how to win.
He taught me how to fight, but not how to win.
FIRST STUDIO (OR BOX NO 1)
When I was fourteen my grandmother bought us a house in order to get us out of public housing. It gave us respectability, but was disappointing as a home. It was not as comfortable or as well finished as our apartment in the project had been.
As we explored out new home we came upon what we thought was a basement storage room. It was small, no more then five feet deep and seven feet long. It seemed a puzzle until we realized that with its tiny sink and tall counter it had been a make shiftdark room. There was never any question about its ownership. It was mine. It was a real studio.
There was a lot of grumbling and whining about my taking it over without discussion, but it seemed clear that my needs as an artist took priority. It was the first place that I would not have to share.
The fact that it was little more then a closet did not dampen my enthusiasm. After moving in my supplies of paper, sketch books, pencils, wood blocks and cutters, I put a padlock on the outside of the door, and a bolt on the inside. It was not a popular gesture, but the fights eventually subsided, and long after I left home it was still regarded as my studio.
The fact that it was little more then a closet did not dampen my enthusiasm. After moving in my supplies of paper, sketch books, pencils, wood blocks and cutters, I put a padlock on the outside of the door, and a bolt on the inside. It was not a popular gesture, but the fights eventually subsided, and long after I left home it was still regarded as my studio.
The tall counter called for an interesting arrangement. I couldn't reach it easily with a stool, so I made a cushion and sat directly on the counter top to work. It was quite comfortable because I had the corner to lean into for support, and the space became larger by eliminating the need for stools or chairs.
Shelves and compartments below the worktop were filled with books and materials. A ritual that exists to this day started in that space. In addition to displaying my own works, I added reproductions of famous works of art, postcards from museums and precious found objects. Nothing had much monetary value, but to me everything that entered my studio was a treasure.
Having a studio gave me instant status in my art classes. The fact that no one from my school ever visited, did not diminish my pride of ownership.
For as long as I can remember I referred to myself as an artist. That first studio made me legitimate. This most private of worlds is still my retreat, shared only by invitation and wonderfully safe from the world outside.
For as long as I can remember I referred to myself as an artist. That first studio made me legitimate. This most private of worlds is still my retreat, shared only by invitation and wonderfully safe from the world outside.
DROWNING
It happened on our school picnic in an average sized public pool. I was diving off the side over and over, gradually making my way to the deep end of the pool.
I remember going in, but suddenly I lost my way back to the surface. I was drowning. I didn't panic immediately. I knew that if I could reach any wall of the pool, I could find the way out.
My senses failed me. You can't hear under water, and the silence is terrifying. You can't scream because water fills your mouth and chest with an intense pressure that makes control impossible. Only vision stays intact. The action unfolds like a ballet in slow motion. Light acts as a lure, and color becomes exaggerated.
I was unable to see beyond the horizon that separated the world above the water line with bodies moving easily about, and the space at the bottom of the pool where I was alone and struggling.
Disorientation occurs rapidly. One's sense of space is erased and time literally stops. The harder I struggled to make my arms and legs work, the more leaden they became. The water itself changed from liquid to something more dense and impenetrable.
I do not know who saved me. I only remember the arms that pulled me from the force that was keeping me down. Breaking through the surface of the water was like an explosion. The air hit with a violence that made me feel as if my head had shattered.
I have no memory of the moments after I was taken from the pool. I can't recall events before or after the incident. It's as if it happened in a void. All I remember is my terror and helplessness.
THE SHOE FACTORY
My parents, grandparents, uncles and aunts all worked at the shoe factory. I was the only grandchild who followed in their footsteps. I began my full time working life with a summer job along side my grandmother when I was sixteen years old.
Grammy would have been in her fifties, and had worked at the factory since her late teens. I remember her sad, bitter stories of factory life before the Union became a force. She had to pull strings to get me a job as I was not a Union member. My Grammy was not a person anyone wanted to say no to.
I began work on the floor along with my grandmother and her cronies. Like her, they were hard tough survivors, women who spent their lives in dangerous working conditions with little education, raising children, and grandchildren, keeping house and keeping order.
She was proud to have me working with her and fiercely protective. She would introduce me to her friends and enemies, I would be asked if I was going to continue my job at the factory after I graduated from high school. I would smile and say no, then explain that as an artist I was going to travel and study. I was too innocent to understand that my ambition might offend anyone.
Grammy learned to clinch her teeth and pretend she was happy, but my reply hurt her deeply. I learned very early on that people on the outside don't want you to get out, but people on the inside don't want you to get out either.
Two weeks after I had started my job I was made a foreman. Out of deference to my grandmother no one treated me badly, but all had changed. I was now management. It was difficult for my Grammy to be proud of me, and sad at the same time; just as it was painful for me to want more, and be able to get it.
I was now comfortably ensconced in an air-conditioned office, worlds away from the hot noisy factory where my grandmother had spent her life. It was a long summer.
SHOPPING
I was a born shopper. Even as a young child of three, I recall having strong feelings about what I liked and wanted, and definitely that which I did not like, and did not want. My mother was not a good shopper so at age six I began doing all of the clothes buying for our family. My favorite haunts were scattered across the city.
I loved beautiful stores where the clothes were presented in elegant interiors with classic columns, mahogany cases and polished woodwork; quiet, spacious rooms not comprised by being over filled. For my own clothes I shopped at Montaldos, Boyds, and Scruggs Vandervoort and Barney.
For my many brothers and sisters I prowled the resale shops in the moneyed sections of the city. Often the clothes were new or barely worn. For the boys I chose summer outfits of fine Italian cotton - shorts with straps that fit through shoulder keeps on shirts with exquisite detailing on their collars and cuffs. For cold weather I found woolen pants and overcoats of the softest Melton or flannel in navy and gray, detailed with leather buttons and plaid linings.
I remember the quality of the fabrics - seersucker, linen, poplin and cotton, all beautiful to the touch and a pleasure to iron. In winter I was drawn to the textures and colors of velveteen, tweed, mohair and camel hair.
For the girls, I bought dresses daintily smocked or embroidered, with full skirts, tight bodices and puff sleeves. The textures of the fabrics were wonderful - hard finished cottons, crisp and more white than white; piques with perfect patterning that made collars and hems stand proud; batiste, almost transparent from the fineness of the weave; and voile that smelled of babies and femininity.
I loved satin ribbons with their invisibly finished edges, beautiful as hair bows or waist sashes; and grosgrain, stiff and wide for the bands of hats, or the cuffs and placket of an Easter coat.
I like fine white anklets, always white and paired with plain black patent leather Mary Jane's. I adored hats, stylish cloches of white straw with navy trim, and wide brimmed sun hats of natural straw with long streamers of ribbon, or fresh flowers.
I like fine white anklets, always white and paired with plain black patent leather Mary Jane's. I adored hats, stylish cloches of white straw with navy trim, and wide brimmed sun hats of natural straw with long streamers of ribbon, or fresh flowers.
I was never bothered a bit by the incongruity of our wardrobes with life in the project. At a young age I clearly knew I had choices.
HALLOWEEN
My mother was terrifically inventive when it came time for Halloween costumes, hair and make-up for the six of us.
One year she managed to find me a pair of satin brocade pajamas and little black shoes. After I was dressed, she made my long hair into two braids and wrapped them around my head like a crown. My face was whitened with theatrical base and powder, my pale blond eye brows darkened with black pencil, and my mouth done in bright red lipstick.
She used the last mums of the season to provide the finishing touch as she wove the bright yellow stems into my braids. I thought I was beautiful.
Our grandmother would appear just as mom finished decorating the last child. We would all pile into Gram's beloved Nash Rambler for the short ride to the upper class neighborhood near Shaw's Garden.
An averaged sized sedan provides little space for six children and two adults. For me it became even more uncomfortable than usual. Mom had neglected to wash the mums before she put them in my hair and I suddenly realized that my head was crawling with ants.
Gram was not about to sacrifice the fun of five children for the discomfort of one, so we continued on our rounds. We took in the usual large haul from our upscale trick or treating. The ride home produced the same difficulties it had in previous years, with six tired, sugar-high kids fighting for space.
I spent an unusually long time in the bathtub before going to bed that night. For subsequent Halloweens I made sure that mom never again used any living thing to make me beautiful or exotic.
The lesson I learned that night is that there is a price for beauty. I've never looked back.
The lesson I learned that night is that there is a price for beauty. I've never looked back.
AGAINST DOCTOR'S ORDERS
Father never came to visit me at the hospital. The day he walked into the Children's Ward was one of the rare moments when we looked at each other with a clear, but silent understanding of where the power lay.
I was stunned and frightened. This was my safe ground. It was the only place where he was not welcome, or I thought in charge. He was angry. I had no idea what he was about to do.
He came over to where I was sitting, picked me up and started to leave the ward. When a nurse asked him what he was doing, 'he told her he was taking me home.' She asked him if he was a relative. When he replied no, she informed him that he could not remove me from the hospital. He turned belligerent and abusive when the doctor-on-call tried to intervene.
When it became obvious that no one was going to stop him, the nurse told him she would go and get my clothes. He said that would not be necessary. To my surprise and shame he had removed my hospital gown and carried me to his car. My only piece of clothing was a thin pair of white underwear. I couldn't talk or move.
He carried me the short half block from the parking lot to our apartment. It was impossible for me to hide because the yards and porches were filled with playing children and lounging parents.
My mother was startled when he walked in with me. He put me down and I ran to my room. I heard him leave the apartment. Almost immediately my mother came into my room gave me fresh pajamas and put me to bed. She never said a word.
MADAM ALEXANDER
My Madam Alexander doll was my most prized possession. She was a gift from my Aunt Ceil when I was about seven years old. I kept her in my treasure chest- a round, ten gallon soapbox with the label removed. I kept the box in my closet with books carefully arranged on the lid, so I would know if anyone had played with her without my permission or supervision.
The doll's wardrobe was remarkable by any standard. It included beautifully tailored tweed suits and wool jackets with stand-up collars, and skirts both long and short. For dress, she had a full-length coat of red velvet with fur collar, cuffs and matching muff. She had a skating outfit with a fitted jacket and a circle skirt of dark green felt. For play she wore a snowsuit of red and green plaid wool gathered at the ankles and cuffs with a hood trimmed in rabbit.
She had sweet summer dresses made of soft, pale baby checks and aprons of white dotted Swiss. For dress-up play she had sassy flared shorts and matching sleeveless camp shirts in forties style floral or natural linen. For shopping she wore a tailored skirt of mattress ticking, and a tuck-in-blouse of white poplin.
Her clothes were not store-bought. They were of a quality that was not available in any toy store. A neighbor lovingly made them from scraps, pieces of fabric that would have been considered throwaways by a lesser talent.
I envied the quality and style of her clothes. They were sophisticated and smart. She was my role model for how I wanted to act and dress when I grew up.
THE DOLL HOSPITAL
Sometimes my dolls would have to be taken to the doll hospital to mend a tear or have a seam re-sewn. When my Madam Alexander doll needed attention I would carefully place her in a bag, along with several changes of clothing. The doll doctor loved seeing her outfits, and marveled at their style and craftsmanship.
The two of us would take the bus down Chouteau Avenue then transfer to the streetcar that went across the Grand Avenue viaduct. I would hold my breathe and my doll, when the back of the car swayed precariously as it maneuvered the turnout built to alleviate bridge traffic.
The St. Louis Doll Hospital was on the second floor of an old office building across from Woolworths. It was a magical place crammed with every type of doll and doll-part imaginable. The room and its contents thick with layers of forgotten or abandoned dolls and stuffed animals had an appealing patina from decades of dust and grime.
The shelves were lined with boxes of glass eyes, springs, heads, arms and legs made of porcelain, wood, tin and man-made composites. Torsos of leather, fabric, rubber and plastic in various states of disrepair were stacked like cordwood. The collection of expensive dolls, clearly not played with and affordable only by the adult collector held little interest for me.
The shop owner took his customers, as well as his patients seriously. The time we spent together never felt rushed, and he seemed genuine in his affection for his craft.
If the repairs were simple, I was allowed to watch him work. His hands were deft and gentle. His concentration was not broken as he reached for the proper tool or part without looking up.
I didn't mind if my doll had to stay in the hospital for a more complicated repair, because it meant I would be making a return visit within a weeks time.
I think of him and his work with great tenderness, and true nostalgia.
A COMMON LANGUAGE
It seems fitting to write a story about my friendship with Joseph Goldyne. My interest in works of art, museums and the making of art began at a very early age. Even before I could talk, I was selecting and arranging objects. And I'm sure, rejecting some as well. I'm also equally sure that Joseph began his artistic life in a similar manner, for neither of us is able to accept the world simply as we find it.
It's a matter of small importance that we were educated in ways that couldn't me more different. What is valued by both of us is what we learned, not how we learned it.
We share a common language, a manner of thinking and seeing so natural and comfortable that words are frequently unnecessary. The verbiage comes after a moment of indefinable space that exists between what we see, and what we have to say.
The power of this space cannot be precisely defined. It is magic, silent and intense hovering like a scent, disappearing at the very moment of recognition.
We enjoy a mutual admiration and respect for each others' work, but the greatest quality we share is a critical eye. We are, I think, good teachers for one another. Demanding but loving, always pushing for more, and not apologizing for doing so.
Our common language includes all of the senses. It is the language of aestheticism n. 1. The pursuit of the beautiful. 2 a. The belief that beauty is the basic principle from which all other principals are derived. b. A doctrine whereby art and artists are thought to have no obligation or responsibility other than that of striving for beauty.
Looking over the many notes, e-mails, drawings, cartoons, words of praise and condolence, books and gifts he has sent me for nearly three decades, I see things that were not visible before. It recalls the sensation of visiting a favorite painting, enjoying the reunion, then discovering the pleasure of a detail revealing itself for the first time.
A good friend is like that.
LEAVING
My mother always relied on me for support, but the night my father left it should have been between just the two of them. Things had been bad since the third child was born, and now there were six. I was just ten years old.
She was already in bed, and I was with her, a familiar ritual when she was upset or worried. I knew something was wrong but thought it was due to their usual disagreements.
When he came into their room she told him he had to leave for good. I couldn't believe it was really happening, and pretended to be asleep, but I had heard everything. He pleaded and cried and begged for another chance. She was silent until he finally left, sad and defeated.
She put her arm around me, and said she was sorry. I didn't move. I felt as if I wasn't breathing. The terrible sorrow that overwhelmed both of us was unbearable.
For months after he left, he begged me to talk mom into letting him come back home. He was convinced that I had the power to change her mind. He never believed I really tried, and forever after accused me of taking his place.
After he died, the hospital game me the contents of his wallet. It held his driver's license, two twenty-dollar bills, and a tattered baby photograph of me and my twin brother.
BEAUTY
Our house on Michigan Avenue was ugly and cold. Not just visually cold, but physically cold as well. The unheated second floor had three large bedrooms where all six children slept. For many years there was no interior access to the living room, kitchen, bathroom or mom's bedroom located on the first floor. We soon gave up any expectations of comfort, and shortly after moving in we abandoned the bathroom on our floor.
Eventually we also stopped using the third bedroom (the original kitchen) because our plan to relegate the youngest siblings to the least desirable of rooms became unenforceable. Nightmares or scary noises would bring the little kids scrambling into the beds of the older kids, so we re-arranged the two most comfortable rooms to accommodate all six of us.
For me and my two sisters I commandeered the best space in a railroad flat - the front room. It was a large square room with a high ceiling, double windows facing the street, and a single window overlooking the gangway. We each camped out in a corner to provide a bit of privacy, but this made the room even more cavernous and empty. We rarely used the space for playing or hanging-about, because the winters were bitter and the summers unbearably hot and muggy.
The situation did however, offer me the luxury of space. My corner, newly furnished with a small bed, side table and a lamp became nest-like due to both its containment and my accumulations. My objects and treasures could now come out of the soapbox.
The tabletop became my canvas as I arranged, and re-arranged my collections. I quickly discovered that if I could look at a few square inches of beauty I could block out acres of ugliness.
The objects I saved were modest - art postcards, bits of ribbon and wrapping paper, rocks, twigs, leaves and small boxes. Seashells were not yet common, or easily available. The few I managed to acquire were reminders of the exotic and faraway worlds that I did not as yet have access to.
My love of beauty saved my life. It taught me how to make art, and consoled me in times of trouble. The still lives I created on my bedside table were sacred. The sense of order, and the relationship of one object to another were crucial to my sense of well being.
I was convinced that no one could achieve that perfection better than myself. With my siblings, fear more then respect or understanding protected my first installations.
I knew instinctively that a great collector must, by necessity be an aesthetic tyrant.
PIECE WORK
When I was six years old my Grammy broke the law in order to try and give my mother an income. The Union had been long in coming to the shoe factory where Grammy spent her adult life. Working conditions and benefits improved after the Union came to power, but at the same time it became illegal to do piecework at home, or use children as laborers.
Neither the Union or the bosses intimidated Grammy, so she simply hid the 'uppers' under her coat, and brought them to our home so mom could have a little financial independence.
Mom, who was never speedy at anything was ill suited for piece work so she quickly turned the job over to me and Michael. Depending upon the degree of difficulty we could make from one cent to five cents per upper. The only way to make the work profitable was to be fast. Michael ran more at Mom's speed and was quickly removed from duty. I however went for the bait. Admiration, money and control were within my reach.
For the next several years I spent my evenings after supper, lacing and stitching the decorations on women's fancy shoes. At my best, I was able to do several hundred pair a night, and earned what would be considered a fair sum of money for the time. My Gram was proud of me as a wage earner and worker, and I was proud of her respect.
The shoes were impossibly beautiful. I enjoyed the smell of the leather, and the feel of the lacing as I ran my fingers over the rise of a pattern. The rough side of the skin allowed my fingers to hold the piece comfortably, while I worked the decoration onto the smooth, well shaped crown.
I admired the look of a graceful high heel, and the elegance and sophistication it conveyed. I could picture the woman who would purchase these shoes and daydream about the rest of her ensemble.
My work helped me to acquire a vocabulary of terms and actions that would take me out of my hermetic surroundings. I wanted to be a worldly woman with beautiful shoes, who was accomplished, educated and independent.
THE TRASH CAN
Being forced to witness the abuse of a loved one must be the most brutal form of torture. The memory of Father's mistreatment of my brother causes a sadness in me that is indescribable.
We were in the first grade when this cruelty began. Father would casually drop into class just at the moment a child was being scolded by the teacher. The offenses such as forgetting one's homework or daydreaming were minor offenses. Father however, could make them appear to be the acts of a monster child on the verge of self destruction.
My brother was a favorite target. Michael always knew what was coming, and he would go limp with resignation and fear. Father's contempt for him seemed to increase as it became apparent there was no avenue of escape. Father would pick him up, carry him to the trashcan, remove the swinging lid, lower him into the trashcan and put the lid back on.
No one spoke. Some children cried, but silently. We all knew that if we tried to interfere the punishment would be extended. He was unstoppable, and glowed with self-satisfied smugness. The child he removed from that trashcan reminded me of an exhausted infant with damp matted hair and eyes wet with tears.
Father only subjected the boys to these humiliations. Many of them fulfilled his prophesies and became as adults, what he had accused them of as children - weak, lazy, inferior losers, who would amount to nothing.
I hated that he tried to make me an accomplice. He wanted me as a witness, but he also wanted me to side with him by agreeing that Michael deserved to be punished.
There seemed to be no way out. The children were afraid, and the adults were invisible.
NOT EVEN WATER
We converted to Catholicism when I was five years old. Actually I think it would be more appropriate to say that we became Catholic, as I don't remember that we had any religious affiliation before we met Father.
After my baptismal ceremony the next major ritual was first communion. The tradition of dressing as a little bride was far more appealing than having my head dipped in water. My efforts to become pious and saintly seemed a fair price to pay for a dress and veil.
The fasting laws for receiving communion required a great deal of practice. Not eating past midnight wasn't punishing, as our eight o'clock bedtime was strictly enforced. Not taking even a sip of water in the morning before Mass was trickier than it sounded. My first problem was learning how to brush my teeth without swallowing any water. I took the restriction seriously, and had to really concentrate to make sure my body remained uncontaminated by even a drop of water.
The next privation was more difficult. Although I was small for my age I ate like a trencherman. Skipping breakfast was true agony as I found myself wondering if god really thought a hungry child was more virtuous than a happily fed one. The fasting eventually became easier as I found comfort and pleasure in the pageantry and ritual of Catholic life.
The first communion ceremony took place in late spring after months of religious instruction and rehearsal. My Grammy although vehemently anti-Catholic attended. It was as I recall the first and last time she came to service in our church.
The girls all in white, walked down the aisle single file, with hands folded and heads bowed. The boys followed, dressed in white short-sleeved shirts with navy trousers and neckties. We were quiet and reverent, and a little afraid. A bit of innocence faded as the ritual of communion moved us closer to adulthood, with the call to learn the rules and laws of the sacraments.
Before the reception with family and friends, six girls were chosen to be the angels who would guide the next group of communicants through this ritual. The angels were dressed in long pastel gowns, with angel wings made of tulle and lace, stiffened with wire.
Being a second grader, and an angel made life seem perfect.
THE PUZZLE
It feels strange to have never put the pieces together. In my family I thought I was the only one. My unique position made me believe I was protecting the others. I was sure I could control him - I was after all one of his favorites.
He formed his clique carefully, methodically. To our gang of eight, he appeared to hold no interest in any one else. We were the chosen ones. Other girls, their parents, even the nuns were envious. The power was intoxicating. He was charming, persuasive, and appealingly attentive.
The men in our lives - father, brothers, uncles, cousins and mere boys could not measure up. He showed them no kindness. He was obvious in his cruelty to males. It was, as it turned out, a ruse, a cover for his interest in girls.
His was not a quiet or easy relationship. We had to compete for his favor. A few of the girls pretended to fight, but they seemed to know that they were not really in the running. They were ringers he kept around for sport. The real competition was between five girls, with three having the edge, and two always out of favor. The order changed constantly.
It started before morning Mass. Who would get to help him dress for morning services? Who would share breakfast, lunch, dinner and sometimes ice cream at Velvet Freeze? Who sat in the back seat of the car, which three for the front seat and the prize - who would be next to him? Eight girls - who would be dropped off first? Who would be taken out of school to hang out at the rectory? Have Sunday dinner at his mother's house? Who would get to be in the starting line-up for basketball?
If one of us got to confident, he would simply change the ranking. Cool indifference often won, but he was smart so one had to play well. You could never be sure.
Children masquerading as women, the problem was he only wanted children. The good years were from five to twelve but only if you looked younger than you were.
Puberty was not attractive to him but he couldn't let go. Long after his interest waned he would fight off any boys who might be foolish enough to think we were now free.
Leaving him was the only way out. He could never truly leave us.
My sisters as it turns out had never been safe. He was clever enough not to behave toward me, as he behaved toward them. The pieces will never really fit, and safety still seems elusive.
THE STUDIO (OR BOX NO 3)
It's odd how the important details of one's life seem to materialize with little fanfare or notice. The most potent symbol of both my artistic life and private life is the box, and it is only at this instant that I have come to understand the force with which it has contained me, and I it, for sixty-three years.
This awareness which I denied for decades, comes from the sadness of recognizing that the effects of abuse create traits that do not make social interchange easy or comfortable. Hiding and keeping secrets, that half turn away from stage-front, all give a child solace when there is no protector to turn to.
To survive each of my siblings created his or her own box. For a while the box is a refuge. As the unthinkable becomes the norm, the lines blur. You no longer know if the box is for escaping from danger, or going to danger.
As the structure for my life as an artist, the box has been more liberator than captor. Boxes - the studio, stories, the cabinet, sculpture, installations, photographs and necklaces all reflect my need for beauty - contained, classified, ordered work that is quietly provocative, always posing more questions than answers.
Art is about memory, for both creator and viewer. Collision, defined as an encounter between two or more particles that come together or close is what makes art powerful. All memory is disparate. The collision allows us entry into the unfamiliar, or that which is discomforting, while our humanity prevents us from looking away.
For too long I've been confused about who created me and my talent. Father had great contempt for the artist, the poet and the dreamer, because it was a power he could neither control nor destroy.
Finally I know that he did not invent me. He imposed cruelty, damage and an odd sense of freedom I can't quite define.
Frequently I did not fight for myself, but I always fought for my art.
A SENSE OF ONE'S SELF
Susie was born beautiful, tiny and delicate. Her features were fine and perfect rather like a doll you never wanted to put down.
Once when she was about two we were swimming, and I tried over and over to get her to jump into the water, into my arms.
I don't remember her as being frightened, she was simply disbelieving. It was nearly impossible for her to trust that I wanted to take care of her and love her. If exhaustion caused me to stop cajoling, she became sullen and dejected.
Oddly, Father never talked to Susie. He treated her as if she were invisible. Shunning must be a nearly intolerable form of abuse. A child would have no sense of one's self, no vocabulary for self-definition, no echo.
Susie's box contains every real, or imagined slight she has ever suffered. He burden is surely arduous as she is still a tiny person. When I was with her last I tried to stay quiet and within myself so as not to wound her more.
As Father's abuse of her become violent and sadistic he still did not speak with her. How could she not feel like an object, seeing, but separate from everyone around her. Perhaps that's why she cannot hear when words of love are offered.
The contradictions are too great to list. She is tender but has no tenderness. Her lively intelligence is a chore that is never finished, so her accomplishments are erased. She sees every fault and weakness in those around her, but has little self- knowledge.
For those who have suffered abuse at a young age the line between child and adult continues to be fluid. She herself provided a clue in a one-line missive when she told me 'my secrets are from myself.'
Now we are all children again and we want to sing to her - 'come out, come out where ever you are, we want to give you love and safety. We have been where you are and we understand. It is time for us to forgive each other and ourselves.'
THE BOOK SHELF
Peggy was an adored child by everyone except Father. She would have been just under a year old when we moved to Castle Lane. Michael and I treated her like she belonged to us alone. We have a wonderful old sepia photograph that shows her wonderful swagger with her hips back and her tummy forward. She was naughty and silly, and loved the attention it brought her.
Father visited often and for a while pretended Peggy didn't exist. His manner became more menacing and cruel, when she entered her twos. At first his dislike for her was limited to verbal abuse. He regarded her naughtiness as a moral issue that only he could keep in check. Over a period of time she became quieter and less entertaining especially when Father was in the apartment.
He invented a punishment for her that was crushing to watch. After removing all the books from the bottom shelf of a bookcase he would pick her up and lay her on the shelf. If she moved, cried, of if anyone went to her aid, he would lengthen the time of her confinement.
The results of his attempt to make her a child of no value drained the joy from her. Now when he entered the apartment she would silently go to her shelf, and stay there until he left. She stopped looking directly into anyone's face trying her best to just disappear.
Michael and I were devastated and invented ways to run interference between her and Father. Sometimes I could lighten things a bit by humoring him, or drawing attention to myself but I always felt his letting me win every now and then was just a part of the game.
If Michael tried to protect her Father's spitefulness took a twisted turn as he would turn on Michael, making him feel inadequate as a male for not being able to protect his sister.
Dad and Michael bore the brunt of this abuse in the early days, and what it did to them physically and emotionally never healed. To this day I can't look at Michael without seeing deep pain in his face, mirroring the same anguish in the face of my long deceased dad.
Peggy invented her own box - a place where fairies, flowers, animals and lots of sunshine created a happy place for her to curl up in and shut out the hurt.
It has taken me many years to understand why she chose that fantasy over all else. In her continuing kindness and belief in goodness she quietly reminds me that I was only five years old when the madness began.
THE RINGLING SCHOOL OF ART
In 1964-65 I spent a year at the Ringling School of Art. I though it as the beginning of my formal education, but circumstances unknown to me at the time made this my only full time college-level experience.
My very fist plane ride took me from St. Louis to Sarasota, Florida. Airsickness made the trip not quite as glamorous as I had anticipated. I felt very sophisticated when I boarded at Lambert Field but when I landed in Florida it was painfully obvious that I looked and acted like a girl from a small, rural town.
I thought of St. Louis as a big city, and regarded myself as polished and refined simply because I resided there. What I hadn't understood at the time was that the environment in which I lived, the project, was in, but not part of, a large cosmopolitan city.
I was nineteen, and while I was skilled in the art of survival I was amazingly naive, and knew little about nuance or subtly. The day after my arrival I was at the beach feeling ghostlike with pale, too-white skin and and old-fashioned swimming suit. Within minutes a young, handsome man sat next to me. I felt safe when he told me he was a junior at the Ringling school.
I was ready to go out to dinner with him when he was suddenly stricken with a conscience - his words not mine. It was slightly mortifying to hear that I was too vulnerable to be taken advantage of, but touching when he decided to become my protector. He took the job seriously, and looked after me in a kind and tender manner.
He became my friend and confidant, and I learned to be his friend as well. It was in all probability my first true friendship.
It was a remarkable year, and one of my happiest.
THE BALLERINAS
Susie and Peggy were the family ballerinas. Not having access to a ballerina's wardrobe was not an obstacle to their aspirations.
Their inventiveness made them more beautiful than the finest velvets and laces. They had leotards, but not the all - important tutu.
To remedy this they took full-length slips and put them on under their leotards pulling the excess fabric out, through and around the leg holes. They fluffed and tugged until they achieved the proper tutu fullness.
Peggy, a devoted ribbon collector then used her treasures to add more decoration to their hair and costumes. Scarves were often used to finalize their attire, until they knew they were beautiful and ready for the stage.
The large clothes drying area in our back yard provided the perfect stage. The grassy sections of the yard supplied a forest scene, while clusters of dandelions and sometimes mums added flora to the background. We had but one tree, but its size and grandeur made it perfect as a stage set.
They would dance, weaving in and out of linens, and all manner of wearing apparel as if the Corp des Ballet were accompanying them. When the curtain came down, like all ballerinas they knew they were stars, happy, and exhausted.
It was always fun returning the costumes and props to their storage box, for it signaled the end of the fantasy. It was now time for naps and dream dreams of future performances.
TIME STOPPED
Since renewing contact with my siblings in the fall of 2007, I've come to see that abuse stops time. Initially I assumed this happens only to children. Once my thinking moved past my own experience, I realized that this is probably a side affect for all victims of mental and physical abuse.
To survive torment required one to find a place of safety - real or imagined. Each sibling chose multiple paths none providing terribly healthy or wise.
Two of my brothers continue to use alcohol and drugs - a trait that I have witnessed in my family for four generations.
Sadness, anger and a sense of impotency in protecting and defending parents and siblings made this a reasonable choice given the lack of adult awareness and supervision.
Our grandfather, father, mother, uncles and cousins all began abusing alcohol at a young age. My sisters and I consciously avoided alcohol. Sadly over the years our other choices, although at times more quiet and less socially obvious were no less damaging.
While Father's manner and intensity of abuse varied from child to child, we share a common thread that continues to affect us all. He did not allow us to become social beings. Separating us not only from each other, but also from our peers, only increased his power. In effect he disconnected us from the world. We existed only in the small sphere of his choosing, and merely for his gratification.
Michael and I became the five year olds struggling to stop Father from erasing from our lives the dad we adored. At sixty-three Michael still cries over his inability to save his siblings and parents from this monster. I remind him that he was only five years old.
After learning of the horrific abuse my sisters suffered as three and four year old's, I battle with the guilt of not being able to save them from the torture this man of god inflicted upon them. My sister Peggy reminds me that I was only five years old.
Peggy tried to save Susie, and in her telling I see the anguish both inside and outside. I repeat, again and again that she too was only six years old.
Bobby and Davy have deeply lined faces from the pain of not being able to protect each other and their siblings.
With me Susie carries her anger like a lance. I cannot find fault as I too have used my own anger as a weapon. I am still trying to find a way to show her my love. We are more alike then not, and perhaps that creates our schism.
After more than fifty years we are still children - searching for unconditional love, safety, and a place of comfort and peace.
An unbearable sorrow is the sign that all endings are not happy ones.
Susie and Peggy were the family ballerinas. Not having access to a ballerina's wardrobe was not an obstacle to their aspirations.
Their inventiveness made them more beautiful than the finest velvets and laces. They had leotards, but not the all - important tutu.
To remedy this they took full-length slips and put them on under their leotards pulling the excess fabric out, through and around the leg holes. They fluffed and tugged until they achieved the proper tutu fullness.
Peggy, a devoted ribbon collector then used her treasures to add more decoration to their hair and costumes. Scarves were often used to finalize their attire, until they knew they were beautiful and ready for the stage.
The large clothes drying area in our back yard provided the perfect stage. The grassy sections of the yard supplied a forest scene, while clusters of dandelions and sometimes mums added flora to the background. We had but one tree, but its size and grandeur made it perfect as a stage set.
They would dance, weaving in and out of linens, and all manner of wearing apparel as if the Corp des Ballet were accompanying them. When the curtain came down, like all ballerinas they knew they were stars, happy, and exhausted.
It was always fun returning the costumes and props to their storage box, for it signaled the end of the fantasy. It was now time for naps and dream dreams of future performances.
TIME STOPPED
Since renewing contact with my siblings in the fall of 2007, I've come to see that abuse stops time. Initially I assumed this happens only to children. Once my thinking moved past my own experience, I realized that this is probably a side affect for all victims of mental and physical abuse.
To survive torment required one to find a place of safety - real or imagined. Each sibling chose multiple paths none providing terribly healthy or wise.
Two of my brothers continue to use alcohol and drugs - a trait that I have witnessed in my family for four generations.
Sadness, anger and a sense of impotency in protecting and defending parents and siblings made this a reasonable choice given the lack of adult awareness and supervision.
Our grandfather, father, mother, uncles and cousins all began abusing alcohol at a young age. My sisters and I consciously avoided alcohol. Sadly over the years our other choices, although at times more quiet and less socially obvious were no less damaging.
While Father's manner and intensity of abuse varied from child to child, we share a common thread that continues to affect us all. He did not allow us to become social beings. Separating us not only from each other, but also from our peers, only increased his power. In effect he disconnected us from the world. We existed only in the small sphere of his choosing, and merely for his gratification.
Michael and I became the five year olds struggling to stop Father from erasing from our lives the dad we adored. At sixty-three Michael still cries over his inability to save his siblings and parents from this monster. I remind him that he was only five years old.
After learning of the horrific abuse my sisters suffered as three and four year old's, I battle with the guilt of not being able to save them from the torture this man of god inflicted upon them. My sister Peggy reminds me that I was only five years old.
Peggy tried to save Susie, and in her telling I see the anguish both inside and outside. I repeat, again and again that she too was only six years old.
Bobby and Davy have deeply lined faces from the pain of not being able to protect each other and their siblings.
With me Susie carries her anger like a lance. I cannot find fault as I too have used my own anger as a weapon. I am still trying to find a way to show her my love. We are more alike then not, and perhaps that creates our schism.
After more than fifty years we are still children - searching for unconditional love, safety, and a place of comfort and peace.
An unbearable sorrow is the sign that all endings are not happy ones.
WHO ARE YOU
Some months after the Katrina disaster I was visiting Judy in Colorado and a small club in Vail was having a benefit for survivors and communities. Musicians from New Orleans were touring the country playing venues of all sizes, and we were fortunate to have the opportunity to hear good music, do a good deed and have a magical evening.
Primping, each in our own way for a night out was exciting, and the drive to Vail only enhanced our anticipation. We arrived early, and so as not to interrupt the musicians setting up we went to a sport's bar next door to have a drink and waste some time.
We were clearly out of our element so without discussion we abandoned our bad wine, scurried back to the club and found a table to stake out. After purchasing our first bottle of Veuve we made like quiet mice waiting for the evening to begin.
The arrival of patrons of all ages, and variety of dress gave us hints that this was going to be an interesting night. It had the flavor of the 60's when life was exciting and hopeful, when small clubs had huge talent, and everyone shared their space and good feelings.
Initially we just people watched, but as the crowd grew, conversation naturally and easily wove itself through the cliques, couples and pairings until it became one party with fun and sharing as its' base. The musicians were tuning up and talking among them selves, until the star, Dr. John quietly began playing.
The quiet didn't last long, and as other musicians joined in, the room erupted. People were on the dance floor, and if you weren't you were literally dancing in your seat. As we were enjoying the dancers we spied an attractive young woman who was chic with an air of innocence. There was something about her that set her apart from the crowd.
The intensity of the music increased, as did the sharing when the table next to us bought a round we reciprocated, and suddenly everyone was doing the same. The young woman we had admired came over to me and said, 'you don't look like anyone else in this room, I know you're someone famous.'
I replied that I wasn't, but her dream didn't let go and after some protestations I said 'yes I was famous in a small circle.' It was fun entertaining her fantasy and she invited me onto the dance floor with her and her boyfriend. She told me I even danced 'cool' which I didn't, though magic was in the air. On and off through the night we indulged in our mutual admiration for each other.
There was a lot of drinking but no drunkenness, the cause kept any darkness at bay. The band just got better and a true jam session began. No one stayed in his or her seat. The club had long couches with very high backs so in order to see we began sitting on the top of the backs of the seats dancing in place.
At one point I was next to a mother and daughter, and the mom and I were google eyed over one of the guitar players. The daughter looked at us with disdain and said, 'but he's so old.' We just laughed and ordered more Margaritas. The guitar player was in his 30's.
Everyone closed the bar that night. The drive back to Edwards was beautiful with that bright night light one sees in the mountains. I hadn't had that kind of fun in years.
But I think of it often with true joy and a bit of regret for our loss of fun and a common cause.
VICE OR VIRTUE
The goal for perfection has been both my metier, and my downfall. On the up side it has allowed me to create works of art that are imbued with poetic beauty; organize and install exhibitions with a fine eye for detail, and make necklaces that merge with the wearer's persona.
For my clients I make magic by managing events, advising on the purchase of works of art, or redoing a room or a home. I see what they do not, and become their aesthetic manager until it is time for them to take ownership of the changes.
For me a successful work demands the perfection that makes it appear effortless. Magic does not happen if the seams show. Hiding the seams takes time and patience, and while that is of benefit to all of my work, it is not necessarily perceived as a virtue in my private or professional life.
The idea of achieving perfection is of course a myth. However, aiming for perfection is the only way to begin a work, any work that I take on be it sculpture, jewelry, photography, interiors, the Cabinet, my look or laying a beautiful table.
The studios, my places of privilege and privacy are my comfort zones. The only true locales where I am in charge and safe. As a virtue, my goal for the best, led me out of a life that allowed little opportunity for achievement. 'It will do' or 'it's good enough' are phrases that can put me into a rage - some silent, some not. Had I listened to those who could not, or would not believe in my passion and talent, I might not have found the exit.
Anyone who reaches for the heights pays a price for their choice. The dilemma is difficult as I cannot imagine wanting less. I love change, and am inspired by the possibilities it offers, even as it causes difficulties for those closest to me.
As a vice I have wrapped myself in the cloak of perfectionism, driven to see only in tones of black or white, which makes me subject to great anger if one does not agree with my choices. Despite knowing that self-preservation was a healthy reason for adopting this myth, I now need to see if I can remove this mantel. It has become a burden that is difficult to work against.
A friend says that, 'I am tortured by my surroundings' which is true. Perhaps it has become a philosophical question. How can I stay true to that which has saved and served me, while maintaining my humanness as a loving, sharing and accessible person?
I first met Richard Avedon at his opening 'The American West' at the Chicago Art Institute. After we were introduced he took me aside and said I looked fantastic, but he saw me using my style as armor instead of for pleasure. At our next meeting he put his hands on my shoulders, looked at me intensely and said, 'well done.'
Wikipedia has a long definition for perfection with entries by a number of authors. I could pick and choose, providing a good case for normal perfectionist, while ignoring the term neurotic perfectionist. However that would be too easy and a bit disingenuous as well.
To be continued.
Some months after the Katrina disaster I was visiting Judy in Colorado and a small club in Vail was having a benefit for survivors and communities. Musicians from New Orleans were touring the country playing venues of all sizes, and we were fortunate to have the opportunity to hear good music, do a good deed and have a magical evening.
Primping, each in our own way for a night out was exciting, and the drive to Vail only enhanced our anticipation. We arrived early, and so as not to interrupt the musicians setting up we went to a sport's bar next door to have a drink and waste some time.
We were clearly out of our element so without discussion we abandoned our bad wine, scurried back to the club and found a table to stake out. After purchasing our first bottle of Veuve we made like quiet mice waiting for the evening to begin.
The arrival of patrons of all ages, and variety of dress gave us hints that this was going to be an interesting night. It had the flavor of the 60's when life was exciting and hopeful, when small clubs had huge talent, and everyone shared their space and good feelings.
Initially we just people watched, but as the crowd grew, conversation naturally and easily wove itself through the cliques, couples and pairings until it became one party with fun and sharing as its' base. The musicians were tuning up and talking among them selves, until the star, Dr. John quietly began playing.
The quiet didn't last long, and as other musicians joined in, the room erupted. People were on the dance floor, and if you weren't you were literally dancing in your seat. As we were enjoying the dancers we spied an attractive young woman who was chic with an air of innocence. There was something about her that set her apart from the crowd.
The intensity of the music increased, as did the sharing when the table next to us bought a round we reciprocated, and suddenly everyone was doing the same. The young woman we had admired came over to me and said, 'you don't look like anyone else in this room, I know you're someone famous.'
I replied that I wasn't, but her dream didn't let go and after some protestations I said 'yes I was famous in a small circle.' It was fun entertaining her fantasy and she invited me onto the dance floor with her and her boyfriend. She told me I even danced 'cool' which I didn't, though magic was in the air. On and off through the night we indulged in our mutual admiration for each other.
There was a lot of drinking but no drunkenness, the cause kept any darkness at bay. The band just got better and a true jam session began. No one stayed in his or her seat. The club had long couches with very high backs so in order to see we began sitting on the top of the backs of the seats dancing in place.
At one point I was next to a mother and daughter, and the mom and I were google eyed over one of the guitar players. The daughter looked at us with disdain and said, 'but he's so old.' We just laughed and ordered more Margaritas. The guitar player was in his 30's.
Everyone closed the bar that night. The drive back to Edwards was beautiful with that bright night light one sees in the mountains. I hadn't had that kind of fun in years.
But I think of it often with true joy and a bit of regret for our loss of fun and a common cause.
VICE OR VIRTUE
The goal for perfection has been both my metier, and my downfall. On the up side it has allowed me to create works of art that are imbued with poetic beauty; organize and install exhibitions with a fine eye for detail, and make necklaces that merge with the wearer's persona.
For my clients I make magic by managing events, advising on the purchase of works of art, or redoing a room or a home. I see what they do not, and become their aesthetic manager until it is time for them to take ownership of the changes.
For me a successful work demands the perfection that makes it appear effortless. Magic does not happen if the seams show. Hiding the seams takes time and patience, and while that is of benefit to all of my work, it is not necessarily perceived as a virtue in my private or professional life.
The idea of achieving perfection is of course a myth. However, aiming for perfection is the only way to begin a work, any work that I take on be it sculpture, jewelry, photography, interiors, the Cabinet, my look or laying a beautiful table.
The studios, my places of privilege and privacy are my comfort zones. The only true locales where I am in charge and safe. As a virtue, my goal for the best, led me out of a life that allowed little opportunity for achievement. 'It will do' or 'it's good enough' are phrases that can put me into a rage - some silent, some not. Had I listened to those who could not, or would not believe in my passion and talent, I might not have found the exit.
Anyone who reaches for the heights pays a price for their choice. The dilemma is difficult as I cannot imagine wanting less. I love change, and am inspired by the possibilities it offers, even as it causes difficulties for those closest to me.
As a vice I have wrapped myself in the cloak of perfectionism, driven to see only in tones of black or white, which makes me subject to great anger if one does not agree with my choices. Despite knowing that self-preservation was a healthy reason for adopting this myth, I now need to see if I can remove this mantel. It has become a burden that is difficult to work against.
A friend says that, 'I am tortured by my surroundings' which is true. Perhaps it has become a philosophical question. How can I stay true to that which has saved and served me, while maintaining my humanness as a loving, sharing and accessible person?
I first met Richard Avedon at his opening 'The American West' at the Chicago Art Institute. After we were introduced he took me aside and said I looked fantastic, but he saw me using my style as armor instead of for pleasure. At our next meeting he put his hands on my shoulders, looked at me intensely and said, 'well done.'
Wikipedia has a long definition for perfection with entries by a number of authors. I could pick and choose, providing a good case for normal perfectionist, while ignoring the term neurotic perfectionist. However that would be too easy and a bit disingenuous as well.
To be continued.
Natasha Nicholson Copyright 2011
