7 December 2015

I have thought about Miss Kelly every day since she died this summer and in those thoughts, wondered if I would be able to come back to this writing.  There are so many things that I wish that I could tell her now,  now that I more fully understand that our time together was always finite, limited by inevitable death, and longer and richer than most of the relationships I will ever know.

I have been thinking about this, trying to be certain how old I was when we met.  I am not sure, but I think I may have been 7.  There are only two people remaining on the planet who have known me longer:  my mom and my sister.  There are only two people who with me might remember the vast history that brought us all together, and soon enough there will be only one.

My mother remembers very little of anything but her own childhood these days. It is not intended as a criticism, just a heartfelt knowledge that dementia is stealing all the intervening years away and grabbing the simplest details and blowing them into the wind where they dissipate entirely.  She is 84 now and more frail than I anticipated.  She was always the smallest among us, with her thin cheeks and fine bones, her funny Canadian vowels peeking out through certain words.  She was always little, but also fiercely independent and scheming.  Now, she holds my hand when we walk along the street, up stairs, and down stairs.  She wants to hug me hello and goodbye every time she sees me - even if it is only a few hours since the last intervention.

She needs a lot of interventions these days - how to use the remote control for the cable television; how to turn the overhead lights on and off in the living room; where she set her three medicines (citalopram, galantamine; and advair); and so many other things that seem so routine it is hard to imagine how anyone could forget them.  But then, I am only 58 and memory is still my friend.

Whenever she asks about dear Miss Kelly - I have to remind her that she died this year.  And then she follows this with another question, asking if my dad is still alive.  And what of Pat? And tell me about Margo?  I tell her all are gone now...gone a long time actually.  She says, Oh, I suppose I knew that.  

And I think it is, in its way,  a wise response: "I suppose I knew that."

(I suppose I knew that it would be ridiculous to continue to write these posts to you, Miss Kelly - sporadic and infrequent - but, I promised I would when we were together in the room where you died.)  

Norman Mailer said that Pablo Picasso lived his life on the last line...the last line of drawing.  I have come to envy that sort of compassionate response to the rigors of this life.  To live on the last line, drawn with simplicity - a breath - a motion - a phrase...the last line.

If I could speak to Miss Kelly now, I would tell her that the sky is still blue, all the time, even in death.  I would tell her I made the most amazing martini the other night, and have come to love a perfect manhattan with rye.  I would tell her that I have a new job and will have to change my bio and update my LinkedIn profile.  I would ask her how she's feeling today and how is Mary?  I would tell her that life is so precious and so cruel.  She would say, "I know, kid"  and take a breath.  And that might be the last line.

Sunday, 25 January 2015

Finally, a studio again.

It takes so much longer than I think it will to make a corner in the world where I can sit and think. I so long to be one of those who can work anywhere, sit in any chair, write with any pen.  But, I am not.  I need my things around me and a certain sense of myself in the space.

This is not to say that I have never written on an airplane, on my lap in the passenger seat of Kirsten's Toyota truck.  Of course I have.  This is not to say that I cannot draw and paint on the sidewalk in Montmartre.  I can.  But when it comes to working here, at home, I need a little corner of quiet and a few layers of my history around me.

So here you have it: Paints, stamps, more than one pen.  A candle, a date stamp, a cup of coffee gone cold.  The ever present journals.  And behind me?  A wall of cookbooks.

I think I like it here.

All this change.

In the last few months, I have touched everything we own.  Moving from our home to the tiny house across the street so we can witness and watch this massive renovation plan, we packed and packed, unpacked and repacked, all to set our lives into half the space for one year.  I have fallen in love with this little house.  It is a gem. Circa 1948, it has two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a living room and a kitchen.  Years ago, the front bedroom was the neighborhood beauty salon with an exterior door, now bolted closed.  Between the living room and the kitchen is the tiniest little niche that must have masqueraded as a dining room before I claimed it for a studio.  It is all of 8'x4', but, with double windows and a three-prong plug for the lamp and the stereo (the computer and printer reach by a power strip to another plug outside the space).

It has taken me weeks to get this settled down and in.  Sorting papers and pencils and pens and paints, I have wondered if I would be able to paint in this space at all...but here I am.  And yes, I can.

So this morning I posted on artcards.tumblr.com for the first time in over a year.  And now, here I am with you, Miss. Kelly.  I wish you could see this little house and its tiny studio.  I would take you on the four-and-a-half-room tour.  Make you a mimosa in the green kitchen.  Point across the street to the house you imagine I am in and laugh over the plans for its renovation.  New kitchen.  New guest rooms.  New master bedroom.  New porch.  New studio.

And a year from now, I will spread out again into a bigger space for art and writing than I have ever known.  But for now, just a little pass through space between the living room and the kitchen will do just fine.  It's mine.  It's here.  And so am I.

I love you, Miss Kelly....wish you were here, too.

December 3

It is almost Christmas. 

We were sitting around the fire pit in the neighbor's yard last weekend when the conversation turned to Christmas readiness. This is a familiar conversation.  Some are, invariably, completely ready - shopping done, cards sent, tree decorated (I am never ready for Christmas on Thanksgiving weekend). Some will say, "Oh, God, no!" vehemently, and always with a sense of panic tucked in. And one will say: "A few years ago, I stopped giving Christmas presents.  And I asked everyone to stop giving them to me, too. We all have everything we need and no one needs to waste any more money on stuff nobody wants." 

Sometimes I chime in at this point, as I did this weekend, to say that a few years ago I said, and I meant it, that all I wanted for Christmas was time. Time together, time with friends, time to sit and talk and listen.  

I meant it then, and I mean it now.  But, not without a little footnote attached. 

I agree that Christmas gift-giving has gone completely mad in almost every direction. The stores and sales opening at 5 p.m. on Thanksgiving Day so that the race for bargains and this year's hottest items can begin before the dishes are done. I heard on the news today that Black Friday (the day after Thanksgiving) was a record breaking success for the car industry! What? It's true. Chrysler sales were up by more than 16% over last year, and it was one of the top five sales days of their year. I can't imagine buying a car on the day after Thanksgiving, but apparently, there is more of that going on than ever before.   

Some of us (myself at least occasionally included) strive to be Martha Stewart, with polished silver and matching place settings.  And some of us ache with a nostalgia for Christmases past...long past, perhaps a Christmas that never existed. 

But still, gift giving is a ritual gesture, a reminder of the many gifts of our lives, and more importantly, a reminder of the one gift the holiday is meant to recall: the birth of a Savior. It seems that wrapping up a present - of any kind - is a reminder of swaddling clothes; the tree lights sparkle like the stars over Bethlehem; and the action of picking the gift from under the tree, reaching across the room to hand it to a friend or family member, watching them unwrap, open, delight, is a reminder of the ways that we, too, can make love manifest in a broken world. We shouldn't, I suppose, rack up credit card debt to do it, or anguish over the perfect gift that we cannot find or afford - but we should look closely at the loved ones we have and say they are worth some effort of remembrance, some moment of delight.  

I remember when Mother gave me a copy of Anne Morrow Lindbergh's Gift from the Sea. I will never forget it or the goldfish that Dad bought for us as children in that poorest of years. I will not forget the silly pink silk top my mom bought for me when I was deeply in need of a little "glam" in my mommy years. I hope that I have been at lease as precise in a few of my choices...even though I know that I have often missed the mark. I will keep on giving gifts - of course to the grandchildren, even though I don't think it is "all about the children." I will do my best to give a little gift to this circle of life...and remember...and give thanks.  

So this blog, dear one, is my little gift to you - who has given me more than you can ever know. 

All love

Amanda 

   

P.S. Am I ready for the holiday?  Oh God, no.  

P.P.S. Aren't free stock photos wonderful?  Thank you Microsoft Office online for the Christmas tree image! 

  

A long time ago now, Kirsten took Polaroid pictures of the shelves in the house on Pinecrest.  Then she transferred them to handmade watercolor paper and the few that were successful hide in the flat files in the studio.   

I found this one the other day when I was cleaning up and looking for inspiration in the drawers.  I still have many of these cups and teapots, though a few have been given to Jennifer.  The demitasse cups still come out at dinner parties, and the orange teapot - well, I use it once in a while - always makes me smile.  

The picture feels like my memories: a little too grainy to recall with any precision, a little blotchy, a little faded.  But the feeling - the memory of the feeling - this is crystal clear.  And the feeling is gratitude.  

Last night, at the picnic table in Fran and Dusty's yard, I remembered when you first met Kirsten.  You had come for a visit and we were sitting on the couch in the living room.  Kirsten went into the kitchen to get us something - a martini, maybe - or tea, or coffee, I do not remember - and you leaned over and said:  Oh, Amanda, she is so cute. Can we keep her? 

It was the perfect thing to say... and here we are 17 or 18 years later and the answer is today what it was then: Oh yes, oh yes, we can.   

I suppose I am thinking about this because we are talking about renovating the house and among the many steps in this crazy process will be a fierce inventory of what we have (and why), what we will keep or toss (and why), and with it a revisiting of so many feelings, so many moments, so much life.

There is no question that I am easily charmed by pretty things, beautiful objects, teapots, dishes, cups, and bowls.  But the older I get, the more aware I am that these things, even when empty,  tucked away in the china cabinet, in their emptiness, in their waiting, they hold history and the history is more dear than the object itself.  

Always thinking of you..

Amanda 

23 May 2013

You might not be able to tell from this picture, but this is me, having a good time.  With flour on my face from making buckwheat blini for a birthday bash extraordinaire, a little bit of sun, and a little wine, this is more or less, how I see myself these days.  I am letting my hair grow (because I think it might be unseemly in another decade) and working on my midlife diet and trying to find "happy clothes" that make me smile (do note the floral pattern in my skirt) .  

At the end of another long (productive) day at work, I am sitting at the desk.  Annie, the wonder dog, is asleep beside me and snoring so loudly that the floor shakes a little.  I made a cheese omelette and toast for dinner and am sipping on a glass of Pinot Noir (I learned that this is among my favorite solitary dinners when I was in Paris many moons ago). I am searching the web, looking at all my favorite tumblrs and blogs, pinning on Pinterest, and thinking about tomorrow.  And you. 

We have been so busy for the last month, that we have not seen Tess and Tate at all.  Kirsten would call it "jonesing," as in, "I am jonesing for the littles..."  I call it homesick for the Grands.  There is nothing quite as marvelous as the way they greet me. Calling out Oma in their loudest voices, running toward me, hugging round the waist and knees when we meet at the Sip 'N Go half way between here and there. It is wonderful.  But then are so many other things: letters from Will on old fashioned airmail stationary (we started writing letters to one another this year...what a treasure).  The way Emily takes on the world on Facebook, and the quick check in calls from Jennifer on her way to her classroom in the early morning. Honestly, Miss Kelly, I never knew it would get this good.  

Of course, there are days - long and not productive, nothing but bills in the mail, and no check in phone calls and no time for Facebook - when it seems less rosy. But I try, more and more, to keep those days in perspective.  To remember that I can initiate and not just respond - pick up the phone and call - write a letter - talk on FaceTime.  But sometimes, I like the silence and the soft disconnect.  The introvert in me comes home from work a little weary most days, and by the time I make supper, check in with Kirsten, and settle down, it feels best to simply breathe...slowly...and count it another day.  Today I got word that I will close a major gift for the Museum this week - a bequest of art and a pledge for cash...not bad for a Wednesday.  Talked with a donor for more than an hour at the end of the day - he was in his car headed home from his office in Midtown. I was here, at this desk...furiously taking notes for a contact report. Another day, yep.  Just another day.  

With the long weekend coming, we should find a moment to talk...I will call.  But in the meantime, know that I am sitting here, far away, but close at hand...thinking of you. Always, always thinking of you. 

All love, dear friend,

Amanda 

Ippy Patterson             Drawing 

Okay, I have to admit it.  Time flies.  It swoops around my head and passes by before I can catch it.  Of course, I think about you every single day...but, time flies by.  So I thought it might be time to just admit my weakness, one more time, and hope that this will make it possible to move on, forward, to a way of being that is more connected.  I am sorry I have been so silent. But here is what I have been up to:

1. Work
2. More Work
3. Even More Work.

Meetings and events and dinners and driving from one place to another, all to meet and greet and make plans and schemes.  All to raise money.  We are approaching the end of the fiscal year, and as everyone knows who works in advancement (a.k.a. development), the fourth quarter is always the most stressful. Surpluses are rare and deficits loom. So I spend so much of my time dreaming the best dream, making calls, and getting out to see people.  You have to be an optimist to work in development.  You have to believe in people and their fundamental generosity or the last three months of the fiscal year will overwhelm you.  And I suppose that you must also have a keen memory. One story must prompt the recall of another...making connections is key.

And the other day I thought of you - wished you were there to meet Ippy Patterson and see her home with me.  For years, Ippy was an illustrator for The New York Times Garden pages.  She draws.  She draws like a dream.  Careful, thoughtful renderings of plants, seed pods, flowers, leaves, cocoons.  All drawn to actual scale, with the tenderest line.  The work is astounding. Along side these natural drawings are nude studies and tempestuous, curious illustrations for a book about her childhood.  There are monsters under the bed in these drawings, and strange creatures lurking near images of her mother.  And then, back to nature, back to these intensely personal renderings of the world around her. She showed us her studio (to die for) and her home  (impressive) and made a soft focaccia with sweetened nuts and butter.

You would have loved it.

She and her husband opened their home for a tour of Ackland Members and in the course of the morning, she mentioned that years ago, they lived in Connecticut, in a house that had been owned by Edward Steichen.  Ah, see...this is the moment when I thought of you.  I suddenly remembered the story Dad told about going to an estate sale at that house, and purchasing a lamp housing from Steichen's darkroom. (Do you remember it?)  We have it now.  He gave it to Kirsten one Christmas, I think, as a kind of peace offering once he had to admit that this life was not a phase I would grow out of, but just a life. It hangs in Kirsten's darkroom. I have always loved Steichen's images of the Flat Iron building in New York.  Even now, when I walk past it on business trips, I feel as though I see this image - not the building itself, but the image of it more than 100 years ago.

Ippy and I had to admit that we have been circling near each other for a long time - and the privilege to finally meet - well, I think it is all mine.

That's the strange and wonderful thing about my work.  It is a privilege.  To meet, to see, to know people whose lives are full, decorated, engaged, and engaging.  It is a privilege.  And after all, I am an optimist. So I keep my orchids and trust that one day they will bloom again.  I feed the finches and trust that they will love the small leaves of kale I place in their cage every few days.  I listen to the news and say my prayers and think of you.  And sometimes, when the light is just right, I remember Connecticut...and I sit in the Bishop's Chair and remember...with such endless fondness for this wild and crazy life I have lived.  And then, well, truth be told, I go back to work.

But even as I work for a living, I still find a time everyday to draw and paint, to capture images.  Maybe my optimism shows here as well - capturing something that will stop time, like Ippy's drawings and Steichen's images.  Maybe.

I love you, Miss Kelly. And I am always thinking of you.
Yours
Amanda

1 February 2013

Pencils only.  Please.doodling AMH 2012 

At a recent Acquisitions Committee Meeting, I doodled the pencils in the tin can that lives in the Print Study Room at the Ackland.  One might have thought that a meeting like this would always be interesting.  But strangely, not so much. Yes, we look at works of art being offered to the Museum, requests for loans, and considerations for purchase. And while I appreciate (and I do) the generosity of donors, the challenges of our budget, and the strengths of the collection - nevertheless, something else happens for me in this meeting sometimes.  I get antsy and bored...I feel some disconnect between my real life (maybe anyone's real life) and the conversations and discussions by which we choose objects. 

So I doodle.  

In Print Study - imagine a room lined with book shelves and cabinets (ca. 1975) along the two long walls, windows on the third, and a blank wall at the entrance end.  Imagine a locked door on one of the bookshelf walls that leads to the room where 8,000 works on paper are stored - we are not allowed to use pens.  It makes perfect sense.  Graphite can be easily removed; ink requires solvents and solvents leave a residue and residues are as insidious as kudzu - only a little can seep and cover an entire object...

Pencils only, please.  

But you know, as I doodle, it gets better to me.  It makes me listen more closely.  Attend more deeply.  And I realize the privilege.  

I have learned so many things in my time in the Museum. But perhaps none is as poignant as the difference between a personal collection and a public collection. We all have objects that we love, but they don't all belong in a museum. And our deep affection for them does not, in and of itself, qualify them for the long life a museum can offer.  

My little drawing will never be an acquisition, no matter how much I love it. And all acquisitions will not be interesting to me, no matter how hard I try.  

Maybe that is the real distinction between a public and a private collection.  I can love every work in my own collection, but I will never love every work at the Met or the Louvre.  Many, if not most, will leave me cold even if I understand their academic significance or the remarkable history they represent. But my personal collection?  It shimmers, it shines, it engages me every time.  It reflects me to me...us to me...our life to me and does not ask me to value any one else's considerations, or challenge my assumptions, or encounter difference, or study art history, or agree with an art critic. My own collection just sings to me and for me... 

Sometimes I like it that way... and sometimes I like to doodle.   

I love you, Miss Kelly.