POST #170: WORDS OF WISDOM

My best friend, – for over thirty years - died about a decade ago. In addition to fond memories, she left me her words of wisdom, aphorisms from her childhood in pre-Nazi Europe. I can occasionally dredge one up but unfortunately, didn’t write them down at the time and have forgotten most of them.

Dina Pisé was born in Lithuania in the late 1920s. Her idyllic childhood came to an end when the Nazis invaded her home town, Kovna, murdering her father and brother while she watched and sending her and her mother to a German work camp where she spent the remainder of the war. Weeks before they were to be liberated, her mother died of typhus fever. Not the most auspicious way to enter adulthood but a testimonial to how human beings can live through unbelievably dire experiences. She not only survived, she lived life to the fullest, refusing to dwell on the horrors she had witnessed. She would not participate in Shoah memorials; the past was dead and as far as she was concerned, would stay that way. I remember her saying that the Nazis had robbed her of her childhood and she was not giving them any more of her life.

After coming to this country from a DP camp in Germany, she married, had a child, divorced and remarried a brilliant French entrepeneur and became an artist. She was exotically beautiful, had lots of friends and lovers, gave great parties where she cooked marvelous Eastern European food, played the guitar and sang melancholy Russian love songs. Her Friday night poker games were legendary, a “hot ticket” invite; only men, no wives allowed. (if you knew their wives, you wouldn’t have invited them either). Most of all she became a sculptor, creating a house full of life-sized figures made of paper mache or stuffed muslin. Her work was wise and loving and witty, a chance to recreate in art some of what she had lost in life.

I still remember some of her sayings, and, like most folk wisdom, they were remarkably accurate.  I think most of them were Russian or Yiddish in origin, but universal in meaning. At one time, I thought about collecting them and turning them into a book, but unfortunately, I never got around to it, and then she was gone.  I have forgotten most of them, but every once in a while one will pop into my head. Although it’s a little late, I’ve started writing them down and thought I’d share a few that I remember:

1)    Three heads can’t sleep on one pillow.

 Meaning, we never really know the truth of what goes on in someone else’s life. And, as far as marriages are concerned, you can never believe what the couple tells you. Even the two heads involved have trouble figuring it out.

2)    She exchanged good shoes for slippers.

This was her comment about a friend of ours who was noted for having frivolous lovers, none of whom were equal in quality to her rather dull but devoted husband. (see #1)

3)    If he were mine I would drown him.

This referred to my late husband who got on her nerves.

The images in this post were taken of the two of us about forty years ago for a joint exhibit held at the Art Barn in Greenwich. We even looked like sisters.

POST #169: A CASE OF “THE CUTES”

Decades ago, when my third and last child hopped on the school bus, I got around to what I hoped would be my life’s work: I was going to be a full-time artist. It soon became obvious that while I might be having a great time painting in my studio, I was never going to make a living at it – my 1920s Weimar Germany satirical style wasn’t exactly what people wanted over their fireplace. Since I was determined never to go back to teaching in the public schools  (I would go on Welfare first,) I needed to find an alternative source of income – “just in case.” Maybe I could be a children’s book illustrator?  At least that would not be a life sentence to the gulag of the Junior Highs.

But if I planned to be an illustrator, I needed a portfolio to show potential publishers; “commercial, but with artistic merit.” I found an old Eastern European folk tale, “Clever Manka” (in the public domain) and proceeded to create a series of drypoint etchings to illustrate it. Fortunately, I had come up with a way of making drypoints that did not require a press, something I could do on the kitchen table without special equipment. The results seemed passable so I “dummied” up a book and set up an appointment with a Children’s Book Editor at Harper & Row” – the big time.  Off I went to the city with my six year old (no baby sitter available) in tow.  The editor I saw LOVED my work, loved it! loved it!  Said it was ‘unique’ – (it was). She planned to show it to her boss, the famous Ursula von something – a legend in the children’s book world. And then, nothing happened. When I called to enquire, I was told that the editor I had seen was no longer at Harper & Row and since persistence has never been one of my outstanding qualities, my career as a children’s book illustrator ended before it had begun.

There was one problem however, my short foray into the commercial world had without my realizing it, done considerable damage. I had acquired a serious case of what I call “the Cutes.” Everything I did looked adorable, like children’s book illustration; I had lost my satirical bite. It took almost two years to get back to my old sardonic self. Every once in a while since then, I try my hand at commercial illustration but I am very careful not to take it too seriously lest “the Cutes” take me over again.

I have several friends who were once very successful commercial illustrators and designers; in fact some of them were at the top of the New York advertising heap, award winning and all that. They all retired to be “fine artists” but could never rid themselves of the slickness that came from years of having to please clients. Even when there was no buyer or gallery in view,  their work always looked “saleable” i.e. “commercial.” Most of the time, they were unaware of the problem, convinced that they could make it in the fine arts the way they had in advertising or publishing. And while their work was always of high quality, the desire to sell, the scarlet letter “S” on their foreheads, never went away. In effect, I was fortunate that my career as a children’s book illustrator had ended before real damage was done.

I dug out some of my stabs at being an illustrator to use for this blog and after not having seen them for years, decided they’re NOT BAD. Maybe I could have been a good children’s book illustrator. The irony is that the extra income I wanted ended up coming from teaching art history on the University level - and that, I think, made me a better artist, although definitely not a very cute one.