I've been working hard lately, trying to bring to fruition a creative project. This has meant isolation from friends, late nights, bad food, tons of self-doubt....To try to pull myself back to some semblance of a healthy center I treated myself to a yoga workshop on a recent Friday night. I felt so good afterwards that I lingered at the yoga center's bookshop, reluctant to return to my self-imposed domestic pressure chamber.
My gaze fell upon a book by Jack Kornfield, "After the Ecstasy, the Laundry"- which was exactly what I needed, when I needed it. I have been reading it steadily and slowly since that night, reluctant to come to the end. It is the only book on the pursuit of spirituality/wholeness I have ever read that manages to quote the writers Rumi, Emily Dickinson and Rilke, Helen Keller and Albert Camus...and make all their ideas and thoughts seem like one seamless whole.
It would be foolish to attempt to oversimplify or summarize this powerful book, but I will include one of my favorite quotes here. When I first read it, I almost literally heard the chime of a bell ringing a true note:
A man's life is nothing but an extended trek through the detours of art to recapture those one or two moments when his heart first opened.
Albert Camus
I am hoping I will finish my writing project with a deeper understanding, less ego, and more compassion for myself and others. Most importantly, I want to continue on the path this book has given me signposts to follow. I believe I will be able to.
And all the best roads lead home, don't they?
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Thursday, March 5, 2009
A Journalist? Moi?
Happily, the answer is yes- sort of. The monthly neighborhood newspaper called WestView ("the new voice of the West Village") has invited me to be a columnist, and is publishing my saga of growing up in Greenwich Village in a series of regular columns. It's called "Sex and Sinclair Lewis: Tales From A Greenwich Village Girlhood" and so far my work has appeared in their February issue, and currently can be read online in their March issue under my nom de plume, Barbara Riddle.
You can find it at westviewnews.org
I couldn't be happier- their main readership lives on the very streets, alleys and mews (mewses?) that I roamed as a 7- to 12-year-old, glorying in the wild freedom we had before cell phones could track kids 24/7.
Of course, such an adolescence is not generic to West Villagers.....I just happened to have had the good fortune to land here. Oddly, we kids actually knew at the time that we were living in the best of all possible (American)worlds. I totally missed out on that suburban-anomie-alienation thing, and didn't have a clue about the adult misery described in "The Feminine Mystique", since my mom had always worked and enjoyed it. No alcohol-soaked bridge games for her. (Although she could expound at length on unreliable younger-actor-boyfriend woes....)
The other night at a dinner gathering, we went around the table citing favorite movies. I mentioned "400 Blows" by Francois Truffaut- any readers out there have special films dealing with adolescence they'd like to mention? I also adore
"A Thousand Clowns", with Jason Robards. If you haven't seen it, rent it NOW. It is more timely than ever.
You can find it at westviewnews.org
I couldn't be happier- their main readership lives on the very streets, alleys and mews (mewses?) that I roamed as a 7- to 12-year-old, glorying in the wild freedom we had before cell phones could track kids 24/7.
Of course, such an adolescence is not generic to West Villagers.....I just happened to have had the good fortune to land here. Oddly, we kids actually knew at the time that we were living in the best of all possible (American)worlds. I totally missed out on that suburban-anomie-alienation thing, and didn't have a clue about the adult misery described in "The Feminine Mystique", since my mom had always worked and enjoyed it. No alcohol-soaked bridge games for her. (Although she could expound at length on unreliable younger-actor-boyfriend woes....)
The other night at a dinner gathering, we went around the table citing favorite movies. I mentioned "400 Blows" by Francois Truffaut- any readers out there have special films dealing with adolescence they'd like to mention? I also adore
"A Thousand Clowns", with Jason Robards. If you haven't seen it, rent it NOW. It is more timely than ever.
Friday, December 19, 2008
A Slushy New York Night With Campbell Scott
So if you're a Manhattanite & you can't get any friends to see a play called The Atheist (by Irish-born Ronan Noone), what do you do? You buckle up and go by yourself. Even if there's a foot of slush everywhere between you and the theater.
Criminy, where else in America can you actually WALK to see a play & actor of this quality? It's not even a fifteen-minute walk to get there from my apartment, and most of the sidewalks are clear even if the corners require strategic leaping and feinting through deep icy mush.
Campbell, you may not know it, but you and I have a date. Lookin' good, I think, hair just the right length & fake shade of red, blue eyes peeping over my new scarf with the blue and mustard circle pattern...The play is caustic & biting, a tale of a journalist gone bad (in search of his mother's love?), not searingly original but I love the telegraphic language & musical phrasing, and Campbell Scott is brilliant. Infused with energy I drift home, wishing I could discuss it over a pint with someone.
I pass the faux army surplus Marc Jacobs store on Bleecker Street and see that there are people shopping (wtf??) at 10 pm at night. Yikes. Further on, I enter a deli to buy seltzer to mix with my pomegranate juice at home. A very wet & cold Irish wolfhound puppy befriends me as his owner buys peanut butter. His wagging tail endangers the potato chip racks for 3 feet all around. I swear the dog is smiling. Do we deserve such good will from the animal kingdom?
"Be careful, don't fall...stay warm," says the Pakistani store owner as he carefully gives me my one cent change from the three dollars I handed him. As I push open the door the Guatemalan man wrapping roses in the little tented foyer just beside the entrance looks up and smiles at me. "Have a good night," he says. "You too," I mumble. (Yeah, right. He is going to be standing there in the cold for a few more hours long after I am home in bed.)
A block from my apartment, I pass the nursing home and see that an old woman is being wheeled out on a gurney by two ET's, into an ambulance. She is wearing an oxygen mask and her naked body is barely covered by a white bedsheet. One of the ET's tries to cover her shoulder, but the sheet keeps slipping off to reveal her pale, cold flesh. They don't have an extra blanket to spare? I am wearing a down jacket, scarf & gloves and she is practically naked in the middle of the street.
Just another night in the big city, eh, boys and girls? My emotions are swirling and I can't feel my feet anymore. Or maybe it's my heart that's numb. I keep walking. Should I have taken off my jacket and put it over the ailing woman? She was almost inside the ambulance....
I arrive home finally, and am soon secure in the warm cocoon of my pre-Campbell Scott existence. Was it as good for him as it was for me?
Somehow, I don't think he's going to call me in the morning.
Criminy, where else in America can you actually WALK to see a play & actor of this quality? It's not even a fifteen-minute walk to get there from my apartment, and most of the sidewalks are clear even if the corners require strategic leaping and feinting through deep icy mush.
Campbell, you may not know it, but you and I have a date. Lookin' good, I think, hair just the right length & fake shade of red, blue eyes peeping over my new scarf with the blue and mustard circle pattern...The play is caustic & biting, a tale of a journalist gone bad (in search of his mother's love?), not searingly original but I love the telegraphic language & musical phrasing, and Campbell Scott is brilliant. Infused with energy I drift home, wishing I could discuss it over a pint with someone.
I pass the faux army surplus Marc Jacobs store on Bleecker Street and see that there are people shopping (wtf??) at 10 pm at night. Yikes. Further on, I enter a deli to buy seltzer to mix with my pomegranate juice at home. A very wet & cold Irish wolfhound puppy befriends me as his owner buys peanut butter. His wagging tail endangers the potato chip racks for 3 feet all around. I swear the dog is smiling. Do we deserve such good will from the animal kingdom?
"Be careful, don't fall...stay warm," says the Pakistani store owner as he carefully gives me my one cent change from the three dollars I handed him. As I push open the door the Guatemalan man wrapping roses in the little tented foyer just beside the entrance looks up and smiles at me. "Have a good night," he says. "You too," I mumble. (Yeah, right. He is going to be standing there in the cold for a few more hours long after I am home in bed.)
A block from my apartment, I pass the nursing home and see that an old woman is being wheeled out on a gurney by two ET's, into an ambulance. She is wearing an oxygen mask and her naked body is barely covered by a white bedsheet. One of the ET's tries to cover her shoulder, but the sheet keeps slipping off to reveal her pale, cold flesh. They don't have an extra blanket to spare? I am wearing a down jacket, scarf & gloves and she is practically naked in the middle of the street.
Just another night in the big city, eh, boys and girls? My emotions are swirling and I can't feel my feet anymore. Or maybe it's my heart that's numb. I keep walking. Should I have taken off my jacket and put it over the ailing woman? She was almost inside the ambulance....
I arrive home finally, and am soon secure in the warm cocoon of my pre-Campbell Scott existence. Was it as good for him as it was for me?
Somehow, I don't think he's going to call me in the morning.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Oh Joy: November 4, 2008
Oh personal joy....
New York joy....
American joy....
Japanese, Egyptian, French, Swedish, Australian, Polish, African joy....
Global joy....
Celestial joy....
New York joy....
American joy....
Japanese, Egyptian, French, Swedish, Australian, Polish, African joy....
Global joy....
Celestial joy....
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Here Tell Your Anguish
Fall is a time of melancholy reflection in New England, and the 2008 election season has put many of us over the top, obsessing over the possibility that our candidate, the young man who offers us healing and hope, will be vanquished by the old forces of fear and greed. What can one do besides give money and time to his campaign? Not having formal ties to any external belief system, praying is just not an option for me.
Lately it has become almost impossible to think about anything else. So much is at stake. Correction: EVERYTHING we care about is at stake. In my opinion, this is nothing less than a referendum on our understanding of what it is to be human. I was beginning to bore and irritate my friends with my outbursts. (As in, "Yes, Nader is a great man, I respect his accomplishments, but he's not friggin' ever going to be President and if he siphons off enough votes to wreck this for the Democrats you and all his misguided supporters will be partly to blame for untold suffering and maybe the end of the world..." You see what I mean. I was getting a little worked up. )
So I decided to escape from New York City to the Gulf coast of Florida for a week, to see if a change of scenery would calm me down. My plan was to do some writing, walk, bike and swim, watch the last Obama/McCain debate with friends and return refreshed and feisty.
In a city where most drive, even short distances, I had the sidewalks mostly to myself and the anoles, tiny dinosaur-shaped lizards who constantly dart like rush hour commuters between bushes and across the pavement, somehow projecting an air of cameraderie. (Or maybe it's just their Manhattan energy that I like...)
The third time I passed the window of the Christian Science Reading Room in downtown St. Petersburg, I paused and allowed my gaze to fully rest on the sign in the window. (Ah, the advantages of being on foot when all the world is otherwise whizzing by.) The first two times I had noticed it and hurried on, self-conscious to be seen reading religious slogans in the window of a storefront "church."
Droplets of sweat trickling down my back, a strange feeling of peace invaded my body. "Here Tell Your Anguish"- the sign wasn't promising to fix me, it was just assuming that to be human is both to feel anguish and also the need to "tell" it.
A devout agnostic/humanitarian, I found those words and that thought powerful and comforting. They had a hypnotic cadence that was mystifying to me. There was an intriguing mind behind those words.
Returning home, I simply typed them into Google Search, and Eureka! the author appeared to be Charles Lamb (1775-1834), renowned English essayist. (I'm telling you, essays rule.)
And if anyone has the right to expound on anguish, it's Mr. Lamb: his beloved older sister killed their mother in a fit of temporary insanity, and he took care of his sister the rest of his life. His novella of unrequited love ("Rosamund Gray") is now on my must-read list. (Note: in several other Google entries, the quote is also attributed to Thomas Moore, in the hymn, "Come Ye Disconsolate". But I am still happy I was first sent to Charles Lamb.)
There was more gold in my first excursion: a whole series of references to the appearance of "anguish" in quotes from various writers. Here's a killer:
"The beauty of the world has two edges, one of laughter, one of anguish, cutting the heart asunder."
Virginia Woolf, from "A Room of One's Own"
Words were beginning to soothe me.
To some problems, there are no solutions, divine or otherwise.
But to put our feelings into words- that makes us fully human. Our unique task, and our unique privilege.
To finish, I offer a cherished quote from a tattered piece of newsprint (brown with age) that I carry in my wallet-
it's taken from a poem by W.H. Auden, who manages to stumble his way to the sublime more often than not:
"Time that is intolerant
Of the brave and innocent,
And indifferent in a week
To a beautiful physique,
Worships language and forgives
Everyone by whom it lives."
Is this thought comforting?
Yes.
Mission accomplished.
Lately it has become almost impossible to think about anything else. So much is at stake. Correction: EVERYTHING we care about is at stake. In my opinion, this is nothing less than a referendum on our understanding of what it is to be human. I was beginning to bore and irritate my friends with my outbursts. (As in, "Yes, Nader is a great man, I respect his accomplishments, but he's not friggin' ever going to be President and if he siphons off enough votes to wreck this for the Democrats you and all his misguided supporters will be partly to blame for untold suffering and maybe the end of the world..." You see what I mean. I was getting a little worked up. )
So I decided to escape from New York City to the Gulf coast of Florida for a week, to see if a change of scenery would calm me down. My plan was to do some writing, walk, bike and swim, watch the last Obama/McCain debate with friends and return refreshed and feisty.
In a city where most drive, even short distances, I had the sidewalks mostly to myself and the anoles, tiny dinosaur-shaped lizards who constantly dart like rush hour commuters between bushes and across the pavement, somehow projecting an air of cameraderie. (Or maybe it's just their Manhattan energy that I like...)
The third time I passed the window of the Christian Science Reading Room in downtown St. Petersburg, I paused and allowed my gaze to fully rest on the sign in the window. (Ah, the advantages of being on foot when all the world is otherwise whizzing by.) The first two times I had noticed it and hurried on, self-conscious to be seen reading religious slogans in the window of a storefront "church."
Droplets of sweat trickling down my back, a strange feeling of peace invaded my body. "Here Tell Your Anguish"- the sign wasn't promising to fix me, it was just assuming that to be human is both to feel anguish and also the need to "tell" it.
A devout agnostic/humanitarian, I found those words and that thought powerful and comforting. They had a hypnotic cadence that was mystifying to me. There was an intriguing mind behind those words.
Returning home, I simply typed them into Google Search, and Eureka! the author appeared to be Charles Lamb (1775-1834), renowned English essayist. (I'm telling you, essays rule.)
And if anyone has the right to expound on anguish, it's Mr. Lamb: his beloved older sister killed their mother in a fit of temporary insanity, and he took care of his sister the rest of his life. His novella of unrequited love ("Rosamund Gray") is now on my must-read list. (Note: in several other Google entries, the quote is also attributed to Thomas Moore, in the hymn, "Come Ye Disconsolate". But I am still happy I was first sent to Charles Lamb.)
There was more gold in my first excursion: a whole series of references to the appearance of "anguish" in quotes from various writers. Here's a killer:
"The beauty of the world has two edges, one of laughter, one of anguish, cutting the heart asunder."
Virginia Woolf, from "A Room of One's Own"
Words were beginning to soothe me.
To some problems, there are no solutions, divine or otherwise.
But to put our feelings into words- that makes us fully human. Our unique task, and our unique privilege.
To finish, I offer a cherished quote from a tattered piece of newsprint (brown with age) that I carry in my wallet-
it's taken from a poem by W.H. Auden, who manages to stumble his way to the sublime more often than not:
"Time that is intolerant
Of the brave and innocent,
And indifferent in a week
To a beautiful physique,
Worships language and forgives
Everyone by whom it lives."
Is this thought comforting?
Yes.
Mission accomplished.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
When It's Time To Bid Your Contractor Adieu
Ruptures are painful. There is the temptation to assign blame; there is the also not very helpful tendency, if you are me, to look for the fault not in my stars, but in myself. Always a possibility- but it shouldn't be a foregone conclusion!
What if a sequence of unrelated simultaneous events just becomes too much for two individuals to juggle, and a fragile connection implodes, and it's nobody's fault, but everyone's loss?
No, I am not talking about a marriage- but almost: my recent falling out with my trusted local contractor. I am sad about it, but in going over it here I hope perhaps a reader may benefit, and I will achieve some clarity (and catharsis).
Let's call him Dermott. His crew had painted my little 1860's farmhouse in upstate New York, and he replaced the rotting wooden steps with a gracious brick and flagstone veranda that he and I designed together.
He supervised the arrival and setting up of the Amish-built storage shed/barn, painting it to match the house and putting up a low flagstone wall around it that melded it seamlessly into the landscape and historial ambiance of the sleepy hamlet that was once a cluster of modest housing for workers near the local train station.
It's now become a retreat for, among others, crazed New Yorkers seeking a peaceful respite from their urban pursuits.
In all cases, I followed my recipe for avoiding last-minute confusion: get the bid for the work in writing, pay 1/3 up front, 1/3 when the job is half-done, and the remainder on satisfactory completion. If the person is an unknown quantity, ask for references, and get 2 other bids. (Usually you don't want to take the highest or the lowest bid.) You should never have to tell a bitter tale of "I paid them the whole amount in cash on the first day and never saw anyone again"- that really doesn't need to happen.
So, I left in Dermott's hands the installation of a new clawfoot tub and tiling of two bathroom floors while I was away visiting family in Sweden during the summer. I had the bid in writing, I ordered the tub myself on the Internet (from a Kentucky outfit) and Dermott was all set to take delivery and get to work while I was gone. His crew had free rein of my house for an entire month.
A few e-mails exchanged while I was away let me know it had become "the job from Hell"- the old plumbing was in such bad shape that a lot more had to be done before the tub could be installed and everything would not be done when I returned. I believed this, as I had to trust Dermott or my world would start becoming shaky.
It's a quirky house, with small rooms and steep stairs, and not easy to work in. This I knew. Everytime they turned around, some new small problem had caused delays. I asked him how much extra I owed him for the problems encountered and when he gave me a figure, I actually added $300 to it because I felt he was undercharging me! It seems to me we were both feeling guilty (and angry)- the perfect codependent situation. Neither wanted the other to be mad. We already were, and weren't admitting it. A recipe for a blow-up.
When I first returned, it was clear it would be weeks before the job was done, as his crew now had other commitments to install heating systems, etc. for other people and my job was no longer a priority. I tried to be understanding. People were coming and going for a few hours at a time; the house reeked of paint and spackle and I woke with headaches. Sometimes people scheduled to come did not show up at all.
Some small problems unrelated to the remodel came up and I asked Dermott to either recommend a handyman, or let me know how much extra I would owe if his crew could take care of the issues. He said they could do it, no problem. (Examples: installing a rubber draft guard at the bottom of an irregular basement door that was allowing musty air to seep into kitchen from basement; wrapping air conditioners with covers for the winter.)
Finally: At 10:30 pm one evening in late September (the job was originally scheduled to be finished in late July) I arrived from Manhattan on foot from the train station, in the dark. My back door was wide open.
Without thinking, I called Dermott immediately and asked him who had last been at my house. He wasn't sure. "Maybe Mike?"
I told him that from then on, only he was authorized to come & go because he was the only one I completely trusted to be careful. Dermott said he could not guarantee that. "Okay," I said, "in that case, we're done. Please return all my keys. I'll have someone else finish up the last details. Let me know if I owe you anything."
"Fine," he said, "we're sick of coming to your house. Maybe you should never have left Manhattan. And anyway, I lost money on that job."
I am relieved but mostly sad. Undoubtedly the tensions of the external world- the growing acrimony of the 2008 electoral process & the unsettling turmoil on Wall Street- played a role in the disintegration of my working relationship with Dermott. Obsessive mental re-playing of our e-mails and conversations still does not help me ascertain what I might have done differently. And I seriously doubt the rupture can be repaired.
Although I don't know Dermott's political leanings, I think what happened is in many respects a microcosm of the culture wars that McCain and Palin have been trying to inflame once again. Taunting me to "go back to Manhattan" reminded me of the "America- Love It or Leave It" bumper stickers of the late Sixties. It was not a good memory.
It's complicated and a bit scary, being a single female homeowner in America. I am going to have to hunt down that portable drill I bought two years ago and do a little less writing and a little more recharging of my batteries (literal and metaphorical) if I am ever going to get all the artwork and mirrors back up on the newly plastered walls- and my ego patched up as well.
At least I don't have to hire a divorce lawyer. Been there, done that.
Adieu, Dermott. I still love my front steps.
What if a sequence of unrelated simultaneous events just becomes too much for two individuals to juggle, and a fragile connection implodes, and it's nobody's fault, but everyone's loss?
No, I am not talking about a marriage- but almost: my recent falling out with my trusted local contractor. I am sad about it, but in going over it here I hope perhaps a reader may benefit, and I will achieve some clarity (and catharsis).
Let's call him Dermott. His crew had painted my little 1860's farmhouse in upstate New York, and he replaced the rotting wooden steps with a gracious brick and flagstone veranda that he and I designed together.
He supervised the arrival and setting up of the Amish-built storage shed/barn, painting it to match the house and putting up a low flagstone wall around it that melded it seamlessly into the landscape and historial ambiance of the sleepy hamlet that was once a cluster of modest housing for workers near the local train station.
It's now become a retreat for, among others, crazed New Yorkers seeking a peaceful respite from their urban pursuits.
In all cases, I followed my recipe for avoiding last-minute confusion: get the bid for the work in writing, pay 1/3 up front, 1/3 when the job is half-done, and the remainder on satisfactory completion. If the person is an unknown quantity, ask for references, and get 2 other bids. (Usually you don't want to take the highest or the lowest bid.) You should never have to tell a bitter tale of "I paid them the whole amount in cash on the first day and never saw anyone again"- that really doesn't need to happen.
So, I left in Dermott's hands the installation of a new clawfoot tub and tiling of two bathroom floors while I was away visiting family in Sweden during the summer. I had the bid in writing, I ordered the tub myself on the Internet (from a Kentucky outfit) and Dermott was all set to take delivery and get to work while I was gone. His crew had free rein of my house for an entire month.
A few e-mails exchanged while I was away let me know it had become "the job from Hell"- the old plumbing was in such bad shape that a lot more had to be done before the tub could be installed and everything would not be done when I returned. I believed this, as I had to trust Dermott or my world would start becoming shaky.
It's a quirky house, with small rooms and steep stairs, and not easy to work in. This I knew. Everytime they turned around, some new small problem had caused delays. I asked him how much extra I owed him for the problems encountered and when he gave me a figure, I actually added $300 to it because I felt he was undercharging me! It seems to me we were both feeling guilty (and angry)- the perfect codependent situation. Neither wanted the other to be mad. We already were, and weren't admitting it. A recipe for a blow-up.
When I first returned, it was clear it would be weeks before the job was done, as his crew now had other commitments to install heating systems, etc. for other people and my job was no longer a priority. I tried to be understanding. People were coming and going for a few hours at a time; the house reeked of paint and spackle and I woke with headaches. Sometimes people scheduled to come did not show up at all.
Some small problems unrelated to the remodel came up and I asked Dermott to either recommend a handyman, or let me know how much extra I would owe if his crew could take care of the issues. He said they could do it, no problem. (Examples: installing a rubber draft guard at the bottom of an irregular basement door that was allowing musty air to seep into kitchen from basement; wrapping air conditioners with covers for the winter.)
Finally: At 10:30 pm one evening in late September (the job was originally scheduled to be finished in late July) I arrived from Manhattan on foot from the train station, in the dark. My back door was wide open.
Without thinking, I called Dermott immediately and asked him who had last been at my house. He wasn't sure. "Maybe Mike?"
I told him that from then on, only he was authorized to come & go because he was the only one I completely trusted to be careful. Dermott said he could not guarantee that. "Okay," I said, "in that case, we're done. Please return all my keys. I'll have someone else finish up the last details. Let me know if I owe you anything."
"Fine," he said, "we're sick of coming to your house. Maybe you should never have left Manhattan. And anyway, I lost money on that job."
I am relieved but mostly sad. Undoubtedly the tensions of the external world- the growing acrimony of the 2008 electoral process & the unsettling turmoil on Wall Street- played a role in the disintegration of my working relationship with Dermott. Obsessive mental re-playing of our e-mails and conversations still does not help me ascertain what I might have done differently. And I seriously doubt the rupture can be repaired.
Although I don't know Dermott's political leanings, I think what happened is in many respects a microcosm of the culture wars that McCain and Palin have been trying to inflame once again. Taunting me to "go back to Manhattan" reminded me of the "America- Love It or Leave It" bumper stickers of the late Sixties. It was not a good memory.
It's complicated and a bit scary, being a single female homeowner in America. I am going to have to hunt down that portable drill I bought two years ago and do a little less writing and a little more recharging of my batteries (literal and metaphorical) if I am ever going to get all the artwork and mirrors back up on the newly plastered walls- and my ego patched up as well.
At least I don't have to hire a divorce lawyer. Been there, done that.
Adieu, Dermott. I still love my front steps.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
A Young Woman From Omaha, Nebraska: Mary-Madeleine Lanphier, 1911-1981
The black and white photos from her childhood show nothing out of the ordinary: the girl-baby born in 1911 on a bearskin rug, the feisty Boston Terrier sprawled beside her.
On Easter, holding up a basket, huge plaid bow atop her head with its thick straight bangs, high-button shoes on her dainty feet.
Swimming in a lake, head aloft, grinning, with her girlfriends looking on from the dock.
How did this young woman dare to make the journey from Omaha to New York City, to Horatio Street in Greenwich Village?
Was it the magnetic attraction of Edna St. Vincent Millay's poetry, read by the young woman on the high school radio program beamed from Omaha out into the cornfields? After she arrived, how many detours were there on the way to becoming the writer she knew she could be? After five children, too many men to count, an editorship of McCall's (it was rumored she invented their slogan, "The Magazine of Togetherness"- she, the eternal single mother!) her luck turned a bit.
An amazing team, Morris Engel and Ruth Orkin, took her in as a creative partner. She receiving writing credits on two films: "Lovers and Lollipops" (1956) and "Weddings and Babies" (1960). The latter shared the Critic's Award with Ingmar Bergman's "Wild Strawberries" at the Venice Film Festival. Both are in the archives at the Museum of Modern Art, and are now listed in various Internet movie sites devoted to classic movies...Unavailable to the public for years, they can now be viewed in DVD format. French filmmakers like Godard gave credit to Morris Engel for sparking the independent film movement with the pioneering shoulder-slung camera that the ex-GI Morris devised, enabling him to shoot on location in New York City. The results were poignant, luminous films that found meaningful drama in the lives of "ordinary" Americans. Ruth Orkin's brilliant photographs of New York streetlife live on in museum collections and notecard reproductions.
But nobody (except her widely-scattered children and grandchildren) has ever heard of Mary-Madeleine Lanphier, the young woman from Omaha: writer, mother, artist's model.
Ravishing subject of a 1940's painting titled "The White Fichu" by George Bellow's best friend, Eugene Speicher, who was once the most celebrated portrait-painter in mid-20th century America. (His portrait of fellow student Georgia O'Keefe hangs in the entryway of the Art Student's League in New York City.)
A young woman from the heartland, Mary-Madeleine was educated by nuns in a Catholic convent in Omaha from the age of 10, after her beloved mother's death; she never finished college, never shot a wolf, never judged another human being. She loved the color chartreuse, made her own hats, gave bright pink boiled starfish as Christmas presents, loved sex and foreign films, Colette and gypsy music and Medalia D'Oro coffee. She sometimes hinted at Native American ancestry (with French Canadian heritage in her family, Lakota Sioux genes are a distinct possibility). She was self-destructive, spontaneous, foolish and fierce, always. She charmed her friends and bewildered her children. When she died in 1981 after a year-long, intense battle with the most virulent form of lung cancer, her family decided against placing an obituary in The New York Times. They later came to regret this omission.
May I now present my mother?
On Easter, holding up a basket, huge plaid bow atop her head with its thick straight bangs, high-button shoes on her dainty feet.
Swimming in a lake, head aloft, grinning, with her girlfriends looking on from the dock.
How did this young woman dare to make the journey from Omaha to New York City, to Horatio Street in Greenwich Village?
Was it the magnetic attraction of Edna St. Vincent Millay's poetry, read by the young woman on the high school radio program beamed from Omaha out into the cornfields? After she arrived, how many detours were there on the way to becoming the writer she knew she could be? After five children, too many men to count, an editorship of McCall's (it was rumored she invented their slogan, "The Magazine of Togetherness"- she, the eternal single mother!) her luck turned a bit.
An amazing team, Morris Engel and Ruth Orkin, took her in as a creative partner. She receiving writing credits on two films: "Lovers and Lollipops" (1956) and "Weddings and Babies" (1960). The latter shared the Critic's Award with Ingmar Bergman's "Wild Strawberries" at the Venice Film Festival. Both are in the archives at the Museum of Modern Art, and are now listed in various Internet movie sites devoted to classic movies...Unavailable to the public for years, they can now be viewed in DVD format. French filmmakers like Godard gave credit to Morris Engel for sparking the independent film movement with the pioneering shoulder-slung camera that the ex-GI Morris devised, enabling him to shoot on location in New York City. The results were poignant, luminous films that found meaningful drama in the lives of "ordinary" Americans. Ruth Orkin's brilliant photographs of New York streetlife live on in museum collections and notecard reproductions.
But nobody (except her widely-scattered children and grandchildren) has ever heard of Mary-Madeleine Lanphier, the young woman from Omaha: writer, mother, artist's model.
Ravishing subject of a 1940's painting titled "The White Fichu" by George Bellow's best friend, Eugene Speicher, who was once the most celebrated portrait-painter in mid-20th century America. (His portrait of fellow student Georgia O'Keefe hangs in the entryway of the Art Student's League in New York City.)
A young woman from the heartland, Mary-Madeleine was educated by nuns in a Catholic convent in Omaha from the age of 10, after her beloved mother's death; she never finished college, never shot a wolf, never judged another human being. She loved the color chartreuse, made her own hats, gave bright pink boiled starfish as Christmas presents, loved sex and foreign films, Colette and gypsy music and Medalia D'Oro coffee. She sometimes hinted at Native American ancestry (with French Canadian heritage in her family, Lakota Sioux genes are a distinct possibility). She was self-destructive, spontaneous, foolish and fierce, always. She charmed her friends and bewildered her children. When she died in 1981 after a year-long, intense battle with the most virulent form of lung cancer, her family decided against placing an obituary in The New York Times. They later came to regret this omission.
May I now present my mother?
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