❇ From a Manhattan department store window elevator to salty art lessons in a beachside garage.
My artistic education wasn't confined to paper and paint; it started with the makers around. During the '60s and '70s, my father dressed the display windows for major department stores along Fifth and Madison Avenues. I would help him on Saturdays, which was a dream for an imaginative child. Fun fact: the floors of the display windows in the Lord & Taylor Building were actual elevators! I got to press the big red button to descend to the warehouse floor and help my father pick out bolts of fabric and trims. Dad taught me all about draping, sketching, and cutting clean, square edges--something I still wrestle with today.
Next door, our neighbor Molly was in in-demand draper for the NYC metro area. I still remember sitting on her lap at five years old, learning how to baste stitch as she gently guided my hand. She taught me how pattern and color interact, which fabrics suit drapery versus upholstery, how to pinch-pleat by hand using razor-sharp drapery pins, and above all, patience. meanwhile, my grandmother taught me how to embroider, crochet, ten a garden, and put up preserves for the winter--0skills she carried from her childhood in Italy and that I have since passed down to my daughter.
When the weather warmed up at school, recess moved to the beach, and kickball took over the baseball diamond. while everyone else played ball, I was the kid wandering off toward the tidal pools, collecting hermit crabs, shells, and seaweed so I would have a fresh still-life setup ready to paint when I got home.
Recognizing my obsession, my intuitive and resourceful mother tracked down an after-school art lass run by two sisters out of their garage near the shore.
I can still smell the warm, salty breezes mingling with the paint, while hearing distant sounds of children laughing and playing at the beach. The warm mid-morning sunlight streamed in, casting dappled patterns across the long worktable. The sisters handed me watercolors, paper, and two brushes, giving me the simplest and most profound direction: "Paint what you see."
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Utensil in a Gray Pot, watercolor on butcher paper - age 7 |
I remember slipping completely into the "zone". No inhibitions, no anxiety about being judged--just the rhythm of the brush, the salt air and the dappled light. Those sisters ignited a genuine love of observational study in me that I still draw upon every time I sit down at my easel today.
❇ Next up in Part 3: Overcoming dyslexia in the classroom, a memorable showdown with a history teacher, and why our kids desperately need the "A" in STEAM.
As always, thanks for reading.
