The Story Teller

“How come there are no pictures on the walls, no photos?” asked my first date.  “Did you just move in?”

I looked around with alarm, embarrassed. . . .

Did I tell him there was little disposable income in our household for art and frames? That my mother was often depressed and had no interest in home decor?  That my father held maximal frugality in high esteem?

No.  Those stark white walls, that blank slate, took hold of my imagination and I said YES, we had just moved in.

But the next morning I called my friend Rosie Greene, whose house was beautiful, full of paintings and photos, whose mother treated me to plays and concerts, plied me with books I had to read.

“Rosie, can you and your mom help me?  I need to buy pictures to hang in my living room.”

My plea was Mrs. Greene’s command. Within an hour we were in a shop where canvasses were strewn upon tables, stacked in bins.

“Now look at this, girls.” Rosie and I stared, dumbfounded, at a rectangle covered with triangles, a floating eye. Was that an arm???

Noting our disdain, Mrs. Greene tossed that print aside and reached for a cacophony of squiggles.  We groaned.

“GIRLS — you have to broaden your horizons. Modern art is all the rage!”

Not for this girl. I was drawn to a wall of gilded frames. Elegant women gazing serenely from posh velvet chairs.  Dashing caballeros riding Arabian steeds.

New worlds opened before me.  Each painting told a tale.

“Bathsheba at Her Bath,” Rembrandt, said a tiny plaque, below the heroine of my favorite Bible story. I had always felt sorry for her. Plucked from her husband, by mighty King David, like ripe fruit from a tree. How could a great poet, composer of the Psalms, have such wickedness in his heart?

“No, no, no. That won’t do, dear,” said Mrs.  Greene, steering me away from voluptuous, lost Bathsheba.

“Let’s choose something less .  .  .  imposing.”

She redirected my attention to tangled red roofs and chimney pots, rosy-cheeked babies, a field glowing in bright sun.

Yes.  This time, Mrs.  Greene was right.  These indeed were more appropriate for my cramped rowhouse walls.

I bought the prints with my saved-up baby-sitting money, and in years to come would feel a thrill each time I saw these old friends in the world’s great museums.  I would come to know their makers well: Renoir, Cassatt, Cezanne.

My sweet Mom watched as we transformed her living room, a rare smile on her lovely face. Within a few years, she would be gone. Brain cancer. But that is a story for another time.

She offered us a dusty shoe box filled with old photographs and we culled the best from the stack — my little sisters and I dressed in identical taffeta dresses, my grandparents, a shot of my Mom and Dad at the Philadelphia Navy Yard, where they met during the War.

Rosie and I hammered together frames. I cut a picture of Rock Hudson from a Photoplay magazine — he was my heart throb of the moment — and framed that, too.  His teeth sparkled as if this were an ad for Ipana toothpaste.

“Who’s that?” asked my beau on our second date.  “Your brother?”

“Yes,” I answered, fingers crossed.  “He lives in California.”

Among the many things we did together

On the death of my dear friend Carol Parsons . . . 9/7/13

We worked all day at jobs we loved, then rushed home to grab a bite, change into jeans and get to the movie theater on time. For we were part of a group of Washingtonians who previewed films scheduled to open that weekend. Waiting in line, we’d hash over the day’s challenges, chat with others and speculate about the indie or soon-to-be blockbuster we were about to view.

Carol generously invited me to countless gala openings at the Hirshhorn Museum, where she worked.  I met Chuck Close!  I enjoyed private viewings of works by Ed Ruscha, Clyfford Still, Brice Marden, Kiki Smith, Cindy Sherman, George Segal — the list goes on and on.

On one Saturday each month we lunched. We called our group “Ladies Who Lunch”—a little homage to Sondheim and Stritch—and took turns choosing a restaurant. I have a photo of Carol, Ros Kaiser, Diane Munro and Julia Su happily smiling for my camera. Ros passed away in April; she was one of Carol’s oldest and dearest friends.

In late 2002, I moved to California because I was about to have a grandchild there. Until then, Carol kindly shared her grandchildren with me. We called purple ‘pupple,’ because that is how little Sophie said her favorite color. We wiggled our hips and sang Madonna songs like Madeline. After my grandson was born, Carol and I talked on the phone almost weekly about his progress, about Luke and Will and the girls, and 10 years passed and they were all so grown up, but we still giggled over ‘pupple.’

Several times a day I smile to see a colorful mug on my kitchen shelf, hand-painted with images of adorable girls. Carol saw me admiring it at an exhibit of work by one of her many creative friends and surprised me with it that Christmas. After I left Washington, it became an important memento of our long friendship. With Carol gone, it will mean more to me than words can say.

Book Launch Party Announced

CELEBRATE

Brenda’s Here!

Cover design and illustration: Ana Eastep, Studio 25

Available at Amazon.com 

or Ask Your Local Bookstore

Graphic designer Ana Eastep and I created many projects together when I was a McGraw-Hill editor and in my editorial services business. So it was natural to reach out to her when I needed a unique, beautiful cover for my book. I mentioned cubism and yellow roses as possible motifs. Ana read my manuscript, absorbed its essence and my comments, and this exquisite illustration is the result of her creative genius. I am eternally grateful.

Little White Lies

Why are little white lies white?
Why aren’t they green or yellow?
What color are big lies?
Black?
I can’t imagine a black lie.
How would you see it, judge its contours, its depth?

Are we to surmise that a black lie is evil?
Unfathomable?
An opaque hunk of obsidian obstructing your view, in your face, blocking your progress?
Finite?
While a white lie prances along a rainbow, following the arc to infinity?

Is a white lie lyrical?
Does it hum a tune, have meter and rhyme?
Are characters in a white lie chaste, their motives pure?
Do they love their parents, feed the homeless, help old people cross the street?

Black lies probably are not gregarious.
They doubtless do not mix well at parties, network, participate in football pools.
Curmudgeons they!
You would not take them home to meet your mother or invite them to your beach house or ski chalet.

White lies, on the other hand, wear well, wear clothes well and sport the best haircuts, layered and sleek with just a few strands popping up in a pert cowlick.

White lies are transparent.
You can step right through them, as if they were not there.
They are never obstinate, opinionated or obvious.
You barely notice them.

At table, black lies hog the watermelon, spitting seeds out of the side of their mouth in a well-practiced maneuver that dirties your rug.
White lies prefer dainty tidbits, tartlets of crème fraîche and caviar (the real thing), thin strips of marinated carrots, Chantilly for dessert.
White lies are fastidious. At meal’s end they lift their napkin from their lap and tap the corners of their mouth, as if a trace of food lingered.

Black lies are bullies.
They push white lies against the wall and punch and threaten, torment them.
Their sharp elbows and loud guffaws startle white lies.
In the face of black lies, white lies become ever more reticent, shy.
They are quick to seek cover, change their tune, lose conviction.

Brick upon brick of black lies reach skyscraper proportions.
White lies may aspire to create tall edifices but succumb to gravity.
Their tiny legs cannot climb so many steps, their wee breath gives in.
They cannot stomach whooshing elevators that reach the clouds before you can say Jack Robinson.
Leaving black lies to rule heaven and earth.