Throughout
her adult life, my mother dabbled in a variety of art forms—drawing, painting,
sketching, jewelry-making. As a young child, I remember her trying her hand at
oils. She proudly framed her picture of Marcel Marceau, the famous French mime.
It still hangs on her living room wall.
She began
her silver jewelry-making phase when I left for college. She had always designed
her jewelry—bringing her sketches to Tudor Jewelers on Linden Boulevard in
Elmont. There are countless Garie originals, from necklaces and earrings, to
pins and rings. On one of my trips to Israel, I asked what she would like from
the Promised Land. “Eilat stones,” was her reply. I made my way to a souk and
they found their way into pins and bracelets.
She
continued her art at Hofstra University, where she audited oil and acrylic
classes for many years enjoying the “senior” rate. She proudly brought home her
work, eagerly showing them to us, much as a young child asking for our praise.
Instead of hanging the latest on the refrigerator with a magnet, she would
notice the ones we particularly liked and during the next visit, it was
presented to us framed…with a flourish. I have several of her pieces on my
kitchen and living room walls. When Russell favored animals, a framed pastel of
a penguin appeared. When she and Perri entered their orange gift exchange,
Perri became the proud owner of …what else? A still life of oranges. It sits in
our entryway. For Doug, it was a bird, framed and now hanging over the piano in
the living room. And me…what was I thinking when I said I liked her attempts to
imitate Georgia O’Keefe. Her gifted picture hangs outside the bathroom, though
perhaps it should be inside. Well, take a look for yourself. It’s supposed to
be a close-up of a flower and its petals. But every time I look at it, I see…a
vulva. Oy, Mom! |
| Really, what do you see? An eagle? or a Flower? |
When she and
my dad became snowbirds, travelling to Florida every winter for 30+ years, she
insisted he needed to get out of the apartment and find an outlet. You guessed
it. Pottery classes. The entire family has been the recipient of free-form
plates, bowls, pencil holders and even toilet scrub brush holders, as well as molded
and poured lidded birds, soap dishes, and pitchers—blues and reds for Bruce and
Lorrie; purples, pinks, and greens for Doug and me. We even have a painted
rabbi (thanks, Dad), which we bring out on selected Jewish holidays. Where I
once thought of these attempts at “art” as an amusement, I now view all these
creative gifts as acts of love. They both wanted to share their expressive
selves with only those who were nearest and dearest to them.
Over the
years, I, too, have had that need to express myself creatively and have also
dabbled—pottery, stamping, beading, crocheting, photography, collages, and my
latest—art journaling. It allows me to combine it all with my love of writing.
I’m embarrassed to admit I have a closet full of paper, paints, stamps, torn
sheets of magazines and newspaper, ribbons and beads, broken jewelry, glue, watercolors,
and colored pencils, not to mention boxes of broken knickknacks. On vacations,
I have been known to travel with one small black rolling suitcase filled with
such stuff. You never know when that creative urge will strike!
And like my
parents, I have bestowed my creative gifts on the ones I love. I hope that
those recipients also will be wowed by my immense talent (not!) and view them
as expressions of love that I want to share, and not as “Oh, oh. Mom’s at it
again!”
As recently
as two years after her surgery, Mom was still trying her hand at sketching.
Pictures of her aides, self-portraits, and her grandchildren are in a pad I
found in her kitchen. Her desire to express still there. Now, bedbound and
barely able to speak or move, I’m sure she’d love to be able to have one
last chance to let us know what she's thinking and feeling.
So, note to
my older self: Don’t stop expressing yourself. Whether that creative outlet is
through art or dance or music or even a beautifully set table, let your voice
be heard…because you never know when you will lose it.
