Traveling Shoes - Baltimore, April 2012

I’m wearing my favorite traveling shoes today.  They’re reminding me of one day last April when I took the train from DC to Baltimore to meet Addie at the Baltimore Museum of Art.  I hadn't seen her in a while.  She's now living in Baltimore.  We’d never been to this museum together, though she had gone recently on her own to check it out, kind of like a scouting mission for our visit.  She reported back that it I would love it - no doubt. 

I arrived in Baltimore early in the day and decided that I would just walk the several blocks between the station and the museum.  This was after I spoke with a woman at the station who told me that it was a long walk, about 15 blocks, but on a nice day, why not?  No problem, I thought.  It was a beautiful day and I like walking in cities, so off I went.  About two blocks in, however, things started looking pretty sketchy - people and buildings, even the buses going by didn’t look very inviting.  So I kept my head down and kept walking.  About eight blocks in - I was counting the blocks - two old guys sitting on a stoop, drinking something from brown paper bags looked at me, laughed, and asked for money.  “- sorry,” I said weakly.  

With no cabs in sight, I had no choice but to keep going. Despite it being a bright blue day, the air smelled of garbage and exhaust, like one big desperate exhale.  It was a residential neighborhood, but I didn't see many residents. Through the windows I could see mostly darkness or nothing, no joy, but who can afford curtains or a plant if you're just trying to survive?  This is a reality that is so easily ignored by people who can make it different, better.   

Counting the blocks became my focus.  I was OK.  But at around block thirteen a kid approached me and circled me staring at my face and my bag. He was brazen and intimidating.  I nodded, like, hi . . .?  please don’t take my bag? - attempting to move past him, when a woman sitting on a nearby step said something I couldn’t understand, repeated it, and he backed away. I saw he was wearing an ankle monitor.  I looked toward the woman and she glared at me like I was stupid - which I was.  And I didn’t belong there - which I didn’t.  So, with my bag, I made tracks. 

When my heart returned to a normal rhythm, I noticed that within one short block - of 10 blocks of panic - the sounds, the buildings, the energy, and the mood had transformed entirely.  I was in Johns Hopkins Universityland - tony, posh, trendy . . . (I won't go into what I think about socio-economic inequality in our world) with the museum just around the corner. People were about and it smelled of cherry blossoms, croissants, and Starbucks coffee.  I did feel safer here, but somehow . . . anyway . . . it isn't right. 

Addie and I found each other at the museum entrance.  Big hug.  She looked beautiful.  City life suits her.  I told her I had kind of a scary walk, but describing it sounded dumb when I was trying to be funny and I let my voice trail off.  

“You walked!  Are you crazy?”

“I didn’t know . . . I thought . . . whatever.  Let’s go in.”  I didn’t feel like a grownup in that moment and thought perhaps there is a time when one can admit that one’s children become smarter than they are about some things.

Right away she led me into a large gallery with only Henri Matisse, a hundred, probably, paintings and sculpture.  Portrait, landscape, still-life, nude, cut-outs, with color used in ways I had never seen before.  I was energized and happy.  This was a world I could connect with.  It was all so expressive and free, I thought, kind of like Addie.  As Matisse taught me to look at art in a new way, I began to look at Addie in a new way - grownup, independent, sophisticated.

Henri Matisse
Purple Robe and Anemones

1937

It was a good day - living on the edge, taking risks, making mistakes, feeling empathy and joy.  Observing the complexity of humanity in reality and in art is important, at close range, as long as I make it back to where I am free and can find love and inspiration. 

My shoes and me. 

Exposed

Super low tides lately.   Giving the world a different look and getting me thinking about, oh, I don't know . . . life - life's ebb and flow.  

An ebbing tide exposes whimsical treasures and enduring granite formations.

Looking Out at Norwood Cove

The Causeway

I think I'm in the low tide of my life.  Low tide inspires a broader consideration of life and structure and offers glimpses full of surprise and awe.  I think this is where I am.  I contemplate more, I observe more, and I feel confirmed and astounded at the same time.  

I can see now what's been there all along and I can identify and acknowledge those pieces of my life:  the joy, adventure, celebration, pride, and wonder.  But also the sadness, the challenges, and regret.  Real life.

Robert Rauschenberg

Untitled

1958

This is an opportunity for me to continue to build from the foundation that my family and I have created. The last 20 years of my life, with marriage, children, and jobs, have been overflowing and overloaded, with troughs and crests, turbulent and joyous.  High tide.  We've improvised and jury-rigged some over the years, just because that's how it works sometimes, but we're left with soundness and resilience. 

Paul Gauguin
At the Black Rocks
1889

With the high tide receded, I'm down to just me now.  I've grown - evolved, but I'm only starting to figure out how.  I'm the same, but I'm different.  I'm careful, but I'm assertive.  I'm adventurous, but I'm informed.  I'm idealistic, but I'm pragmatic.  I'm emotional, but I'm reasonable.  (note to family: I'm nagging, I'm annoying, I'm selfish. I am funny.)  I'm all the things I used to be and more.

I am exposed.

Childe Hassam
Incoming Tide
1919

   

I'm exhaling, and I'm happy.  I'm making choices, I'm taking chances, I'm making mistakes, and I'm doing things that I've always wanted to do.  Because I have time and support and encouragement.    

And I'm grateful that I have what has been with me all along - beautiful whimsical treasures, Mary and Addie, and enduring granite formation, John.  

And I have art.

Paul Cezanne
Rocks at L'Estaque
1882

Watching Wimbledon Makes Me Remember London

Watching Wimbledon on TV is a summer ritual for me.  The tennis is so awesome, plus the leads, closings and commercial segues of the broadcast always show scenes from in and around London.  "I was there!" I say.  "And I was there - and there - and I rode that double decker!"  whatever.  I did.

This moment (below) was the highlight of my trip to London in 2010.  It's from a journal entry I wrote at the time.  I believe this was one of the most special moments with my daughter - subtle and loving and breathtaking, like her:  

National Gallery, London

Here I am again, lost in the paintings of a museum.  I’m with Mary, though not now. She’s in another gallery somewhere.  We’re at the National Gallery of Art in London and this is my 3rd visit here in three days.  The Gallery is way too heart-stoppingly, hyper-ventingly dangerous that I need to do it in bits - pace myself.  breathe.

​

I’m so happy to be here in London with Mary, if even for a short time.  She is studying and I am visiting, and she has taken me to this museum. Her gift to me.

Young Man Holding a Skull

Frans Hals

1626-1628

​
Each gallery is paradise - each artist, each painting has an idea for me.  I am caught up in Young Man Holding a Skull (Frans Hals, 1626-28) wondering if it really does look quite modern in its brush strokes and expression, when I hear,

“mom . . . MOM . . . come here.”

​

I see Mary’s face now, eyes wide, turned to me like Girl With a Pearl Earring (Johannes Vermeer, 1665, The Hague) . . . art is everywhere. 

Girl With A Pearl Earring

Johannes Vermeer

1665

The Hague

I go to her where she is standing just inside the next gallery, watching her as she motions me to see what is there, now, right in front of me.  I see.  My breath leaves me.  I look at Mary and want to cry.  

​

“Leonardo,” she says. “It’s Leonardo.”

                            

She just knows all that it means to me.  

The Burlington House Cartoon

Leonardo da Vinci

1499-1500

 

a mom memory

I'm thinking of my mom these days.  Every day, really.  I miss her. 

We all miss her.  It's our first summer without her.

In 1978, for my birthday, she sent me a card, a card that I have safely tucked away between pages of my Gardner's Art Through the Ages, except for now.  It's right here in my hands, her lovingly handwritten and thoughtful words are right here with me now.  I can even hear her voice:

"Sari Dearest - 
          
          Wishing you a happy birthday!  Will be thinking of you with all of our love on your day.

          We saw this print - and remembered that Winslow Homer is one of your very favorite artists.  Also - this particular work reminded me of the many times I held you just like this while we waited for Dad's ship to come home.  Do you remember those times at all? - or were you too little?

          . . . It is Sunday morning - a beautiful day.  We are going to play golf this afternoon.  Dad worked hard yesterday - fertilized the garden et al - The mallards arrived on the pond a week or so ago.  Lark is napping in the sun along the front wall of the barn as he usually does at this time of day . . .

"Dad's Coming!"

Winslow Homer

1873

I was away at school and far from home when I received the card, and I missed her, although being far away at that time in my life was good for me.  I had some growing up to do.  This card meant so much to me in that moment, and I've saved it and rediscovered it many times over the years.  In that moment in 1978 I was back snuggling in her arms as she softly sang, "When you're smiling, when you're smiling, the whole world smiles..."  I go to that place again these days as I think of my mom and my own daughters.  So much love.  

family dinner (me in the foreground)

Mom and Dad ( a young Officer) just starting out

My mom then continues to write:

". . . Will turn this over to Dad now - "
(uh - uh - )

". . . Work hard, Honey - and the good times will bring you that much more pleasure.  Love you - Mom    xxx
(oh, reality . . . here it comes . . .)  

Dad, the pragmatist:

"Hi:

Hope that you have a fine birthday and that you are having a fine school year.  We are all so very happy that spring is spranging and sprunging into being so I can begin to worry about the yard, muck in the manure, stride among the sticks, and gambol in the gardens.  Hang in there and do not let the spring fever take over your being too much.  By the way - (oh no!  don't bring up . . .!!!) please send me a listing of your grades (GRADES!) for last semester, (aaargh) and your predictions as to what they are now. (whimper)

Love you and are looking forward to seeing you soon.  Dad

love you too Dad
miss you

oh, and Dad - I'm back in graduate school and I have straight A's.  

Mom, thanks for the card.

So Much Depends Upon

Miss you, Alice.  Everyday.

Alice hated having her picture taken.  You can see the discomfort in her face, but she stood still for me because I asked her to, this time.

Alice loved going for walks at "Betsy's Field" with John on Sundays.  They would leave me at home and go off and do their thing.  I went with them on this day though.  Two years ago.

"Betsy's Field" is a hillside clearing that overlooks the entrance to Somes Sound and across to the Northeast Harbor shore.  I don't know if anyone else calls it "Betsy's Field", but we do because we know Betsy, and it's her field.  Alice lost herself in the scents, the tide pools, the rodents, and crunchy shoreline tidbits - and running and running, herding seagulls - every once in a while lifting her head to locate John, keeping him close.  "Betsy's Field", for both of them, was a Sunday kind of place to find peace and confirmation of all that is beautiful in the world.   

   

William Carlos Williams inspired me to write a poem for Alice, who died a year ago.  

                                                                    so much depends

                                                                    upon

                                                                    Alice's greeting

                                     

                                                                    her nose between door

                                                                    and frame

                                                                           

                                                                    then

                                                                    her smiling face

                                                                    and eyes

                                                                                                        

                                                                    paw reaching, a kiss

                                                                    a confirmation

                                                          

                                                                    oh, happy day

                                                                    you're home!  

                                                                                         - spm

                                                                            (based on WCW's "The Red Wheelbarrow")

                                                          

                                                                           

My Father Taught Me How To Write: Thanks on Fathers Day

My father taught me how to write.  He was a writer, a poet, and a storyteller and I realized this at a very young age.  I always thought this was special about him.  His bedtime stories to my sisters, brothers, and I primed our imaginations and continued as our dreams through til morning.  We became characters in his epic poetry and tears turned to giggles with his silly limericks.  Letters to the editor expressing his strong opinions about community affairs were read by a large audience while his very personal letters to friends and family were beautiful and meaningful.  His writing was full of endless imagination, sincere thoughts and feelings, and passionate opinions - and that is what he taught me writing is.  It's honesty and it's bravery.

"spinning a yarn"

His writing was only a part of who he was.  He was also a career Naval officer, graduated from the Academy, and spent much of the Cold War in a submarine "somewhere" in the North Atlantic.  In the meantime, he had six children and a wife moving from station to station along the eastern US coast.  I can't help but wonder that he spent many hours writing and thinking and imagining and worrying and sorting out all the things that were most important to him while he was away from us.  My mom said his letters helped her keep going when her life was incredibly difficult without him home.  And his homecomings were beyond joyful with his stories of adventures in European ports and the treasures he brought home for us.  These times continued to fuel our own imaginations and define our own lives.

Dad home on leave 1962

So when my father retired from the Navy and returned home to his family, he must have had to make the most incredible transition while still maintaining his sanity.  To go from his role in keeping the world safe from destruction and maintaining a balance of power, to, well, he basically had the same role . . . only with his children.  I think we were perplexing to him, especially my sisters and I.  He would often just randomly say, "girls . . . ", shake his head, and walk away, while at other unavoidable times, he would clearly, strongly redefine for us the center of household power, therefore keeping us safe from destruction.  I wonder if he missed the Cold War.

Dad (far left) somewhere in the North Atlantic

Our dining room table became a center for family time.  It was a place where we all got to know each other, really.  Dinner time became hours of passionate discussion that sometimes included yelling - that's ok, it was productive yelling - sometimes tears, productive tears . . . fist slamming, "I'm leaving!", humbling - all good.  My father was the moderator, inquisitor, devil's advocate, the traditional conservative amid the gradually evolving liberal, idealistic, knee-jerk reactionary household (including my mother because she went back to college . . . poor dad.).  He forced us to think about and articulate what we honestly thought, to come to a conclusion, to take a stand.  The "audience" (any of the rest of us) was pretty critical, or just safely quiet.  We look back on all this experience with . . . love and fondness (humor), and respect.  I look back on this as my preparation to becoming a writer.

Dinner Table 1987

The dining room table also offered quiet, peaceful moments - morning coffee and weekend "breakfast" made by dad, afternoon crossword puzzles, late night cookie baking, one-on-ones.  Like the one-on-one I had with my father on the morning of my high school graduation.

I had been struggling for several days writing a speech for my graduation ceremony.  Because of my participation in student government, I had been chosen to give a speech on a topic of my choosing.  I knew I had to address the fight between the teachers' union and the school board that was still not resolved after three years.  I had to.  It was like the 800 lb gorilla in the room - many students barely acknowledged it, even though it became a major distraction and intrusion on our entire high school career.  But in this final moment, I was panicking, unsure, ready to throw in the towel.  I lost confidence and direction, I lost courage.

I emerged from my bedroom after being up all night and sat at the table with my father.  I put my head in my hands and sort of sobbed for a while thinking that it was at least better there than in my room, like maybe it offered some possibilities for a way out.  I looked up at my dad after settling a bit.  He looked just a little uncomfortable, and my face went back into my hands for more sobbing.  When I settled again I slowly lifted my face with my hands still attached, and he said,

"uh...so...what's up?..."

Immediately I went out of control with sobs and half words and snorts and whining and moaning and "I - I - I just - uh - uh - uh --- I don't know -- what -- to -- write - uh, uh, uh . . . uh?"

Ex-ha-ha-ha-hale.

Finally, my father spoke.  Very simply.  He said, "Well, um, just write what you think, and just write what you feel, eh?"

Smart. Like he thumped me on the forehead with the heel of his hand, Duh?  I was liberated.

So,

My speech followed two of my classmates who tearfully spoke about life-long friendship and sad good-byes and happy, happy happiness and memories, and love and peace, not wanting to leave. . . ugh.  My friend, Richard, who was sitting next to me had to nudge me out of my chair to get me to the podium.  Complete silence as I began to speak:

"...educational system in North Stonington...inconsistency among teachers...apathetic attitudes and lack of pride...student body...lack of understanding...townspeople...

(YIKES!)

...enlightening and emotional experience...both sides...solutions...talk about our future and not our past..."

My father clapped the loudest.  It was so wonderfully controversial.  People loved me and hated me.  I was on my way.  Thanks dad.

Dad 1984
Happy Fathers Day

The Beginning of My Love Affair With Art

My grandmother was an artist. I was introduced to this fact early on, while during visits to her home in Pennsylvania, she would take my sisters and I on sketching outings. She supplied us with sketch pads and charcoals and lovely locations. We became plein air artists - she’d park the car and send us off to find secret spots.   I remember she called one of my sketches "lovely". 

And she would show us her art that she did while she was a student at Pratt - beautiful, sensitive, subtly expressive drawings. She didn’t say much as she unrolled and unbound her works that had been put away, perhaps waiting for us. I think I understand now, that in introducing us to her world of art, her belief and passion that art is important in a life has been passed on.

My grandmother studied art at The Pratt Institute in New York City around 1915, which was an amazing place and time in the world, and the world of art.  Modernism had been ushered in with the new century on the heels of urbanization, industrialization, socialism, and Darwinism.  Several artists defined this countercultural movement, this break from 19th C. Romanticism/Realism to 20th C. Revolutionary - Picasso, Matisse, Van Gogh, Duchamp, and Cezanne.

International Exhibition of Modern Art, 1913
Smithsonian Institution Archives of American Art

   . . . and  I wonder if my grandmother attended the Armory Show in NYC in 1913 (the International Exhibition of Modern Art) which was the first large showing of European Modern art in America and one of the most important events in the history of American art. This exhibition was the catalyst for American artists and patrons to liberate themselves from the constraints of what art had been and move toward independence, experimentation, and the possibility of what art could become.  I wonder if my grandmother was one of those astonished viewers who were introduced to Impressionism, Cubism, Fauvism, and Symbolism while “news reports and reviews were filled with accusations of quackery, insanity, immorality, and anarchy”.  I'm imagining she was pretty blown away.  This was the birth of "avant-guard".

How exciting!

 

Nude Descending a Staircase No.2

Marcel Duchamp

1912

Improvisation No. 27 (Garden of Love)

Wassily Kandinsky

1912

I wonder a lot about what she thought of this undeniable transformation of the art world, about her own art, and that she chose to leave it behind and marry a dentist and raise two sons, perhaps more comfortable following the path expected of her.  I was so young and I never asked and she never said.  But never knowing has given me the chance to create a totally romantic and dramatic story of her life as a young artist in NYC.  It does identify, for me, also, the beginning of my love affair with art.

Away From Home - Baltimore!

John, Mary, and Addie (the one posing)

Baltimore is the place Addie has chosen to live.  On Friday morning she graduated from college and on Saturday morning she moved in to her house in Charles Village.  After we hauled her stuff, she gave us a walking tour of her new neighborhood, a several block radius of early 20th century row houses, and funky shops and restaurants; facades and porches are painted brilliant, offbeat colors, especially vivid in the bright beautiful day.  We like Addie's new digs.  I can't imagine her anywhere else, for now.  

Addie and John

We continued a short distance to the Baltimore Museum of Art to see the Matisse collection - my idea, but they were happy to join me, John, Mary, and Addie.  We like museums.  I'm thinking how lucky I am that Mary, who lives in DC, and Addie are so conveniently close to world class art museums - for when I visit them, or . . . for when I need a place to stay while visiting the museums.  But anyway, Matisse was as dazzling as ever.  I was star-struck, in awe, and content.  

We talked all about Matisse, Charles Village, and what is Addie going to do now? over gluten-free Indian food and cupcakes (what?) at Sweet 27.  (We didn't miss the gluten.)  One day away from graduation, Addie is in the phase of, "Well, I'm going to make a plan to make a plan . . . "  So she's on her way.  Each of us offered our own kind of support and encouragement:  John is confident that, "whatever, she's going to be just fine."  Mary, her older sister, is honest and practical in her recent, similar experience, sure that, "well, reality will hit and . . . "  And I am hopeful, while confident that Addie is off-beat and brilliant like the colors of her neighborhood.

On leaving the restaurant I took this photo of the facade.  We strolled away while I reviewed the image and I was startled at the Matisse-like quality of the design and color.  I scanned through the other images of the row houses and saw that all the colors are Matisse colors, as if Charles Village was his canvas and his Fauvist, Impressionist, Abstract Expressionist palate highlighted roof peaks, turrets, columns, porch rails and steps.  It is all so whimsical.  

Sweet 27 Cupcakes and Cafe

I made some color comparisons.  I can't help but think the residents looked to Matisse for inspiration:    

Young Woman in a Blue Blouse, Portrait of L.N.  Delektorskaya

Matisse

1939

Charles Village row houses

Henri Matisse

Place des Lices, St. Tropez

1904

Charles Village row houses

Henri Matisse

Portrait of L. N. Delekorskaya

1947

 

Henri Matisse

Still Life With Lemons

1943

Henri Matisse

The Snail

1953