#93 Alma Thomas's Paintings and an Electrical Fire in New Jersey

When I opened up The New Yorker Magazine a week ago I saw a photo of a painting. It was a painting I recognized immediately: not the particular image, but the artist's work.

When I was a little girl I had a friend who had a very, very fancy house. Her father was eccentric and collected art, large wolfish dogs and sports cars. One of his cars was a MG which was a tiny convertible with a roll bar in the back seat. I rode in the frame of that roll bar once. I got a ride. I was little and the bar slammed against my head when he sped over bumps and it didn't feel fun or safe. I couldn't wait to get out of that car. It looked so appealing and fun but was really the opposite: I think all my hair was knotted or had to be untangled from the roll bar to extract myself from the vehicle. I am exaggerating of course.

I am sure I cried and felt like a baby which is not an exaggeration at all.

When I sat on the brown velvet couch in their split-level house I breathed in the dog breath from their giant German Shepard. His mouth was so big and his tongue so pink and long that his breathing echoed everywhere. I was able to pet his long nose without getting bitten but his fur clung to everything. Even hidden in the white carpet with the brown border which mimicked the design of the tile dining room floor. All custom stuff.

In my perpetual state of panic and curiosity I looked at the artwork. On one particular day I was sitting in the toilet in the downstairs bathroom and a bolt of lighting struck a tree in their back yard which had a power line connected to it. Every one started to scream:
"fire! fire!"
The dog was going wild and everyone ran out of the house. Smoke was everywhere and I was sitting on the toilet in the bathroom adjacent to the living room which held my favorite work of art: yes, the painting in the magazine. The one by Alma Thomas. In fact, as I remember it, the wall which held the painting was on the other side of the same wall which held the toilet, so when the lightning struck I guess I could say the painting and I were energetically connected for a moment.

I panicked and ran outside with my underpants down which really wasn't all that different than how I felt in that house almost all the time (with the exception of sitting in the kitchen watching Bewitched and eating tuna salad and drinking Tab which was an entirely calming experience). I ran out and ladies were yelling, "Liz!Liz!Liz" or so I'd like to believe they remembered I was peeing and the firemen came and everything was back to normal.

Ha!

So there was Alma's painting on the wall. It was modern, colorful and reminded me of something a child could do, except she nailed the rainbow colors and even brushstrokes better than any kid I knew. It was 70's stuff like rainbows and Peter Max colors and big. I sat there after the fire and became one with the purple horizontal hyphen-stripes. I am standing on a purple line and playing hopscotch. Purple purple step step not on a crack and then blue blue blue. Red red red. Pink pink pink. Orange orange orange. Like a Candy Land board but so much better. That looks like a sunrise through the rainbow.

Alma was an African American woman who was born in the late 1800's. This painting was in my friend's fancy living room in New Jersey. I didn't know it at the time. I didn't know who painted it. I didn't care except whoever did had something really great going on. Whoever that kid or person was. I was grateful that painting was there for me.

After the divorce my friend's mom got rid of her ex-husband's art collection and re-did the whole place. I never saw that painting again until last week at the Studio Museum in Harlem. I went to Alma's exhibit in 2016.  I was mesmerized the minute I entered the room. Her paintings are so beautiful and alive. There were different styles and patterns and a variety of bold colors. I was singing in my heart and I felt like it somehow belonged to me.. The whole place.

Across the room was the painting from New Jersey. I wasn't sure at first but it was distinctly different from the others. I stood there and wished I could touch it.
The title is: "Apollo 12 Splash Down". It was painted in 1970.
It was lent to the museum by a gallery.
It seems like nobody owns it now.

Keep Talking: #92 Roses and My Mom Is A Spy.

Keep Talking: #92 Roses and My Mom Is A Spy.: Walking down Second Avenue to join my 7th grader, as a chaperone, on her class trip to the Brooklyn Botanic Garden  to a class trip for my 7...

#92 Roses and My Mom Is A Spy.

Walking down Second Avenue to join my 7th grader, as a chaperone, on her class trip to the Brooklyn Botanic Garden when a cab pulled over. It was one of those lime green cabs, the ones you cannot get unless you live above 96th Street. Frantically waving arms protrude from the cab. 'Who is that?' I think.
It's another mom.
"Get in!" she says as she throws the door open and moves aside to give me room in the back seat. Her daughter is sitting next to her.
"Why?"
"I have to talk to you!"
So I get in. I say hi to her daughter who isn't fazed by her mom's behavior.
I'm not either.
"So, how can I help you?" I ask.
"I want to know about the tutor."
I start to tell her and about 30 seconds later the cab pulls over to the corner where her daughter and I get out. We are a block from school.
"Where are you going?"
"To work. I'm staying in the cab. I'll call you!"

I get out of the cab and walk the block and into the lobby of the school. I don't know where her daughter went.

There is a mom in the lobby talking to the security guard. She has a sticker on her shirt so she has officially signed in.
"Are you here for the field trip?" She asks.
"Yes. You?"
"Yes."
Silence.
I start to make small talk. What class is your kid in? And a few other questions to try to connect.

"Do you have any other kids?"

Well, this just about throws her into a tailspin.
"One is already too much! With all my traveling for work!"
Silence.
"Oh. What do you do?" I wonder.
"One thing I do is consult for Homeland Security."
I'm curious but am not sure if that was code for don't ask. I ask and she freely launches into the topic of her work history. The happy faucet is on and flowing fast.
Within 60 seconds I've learned a lot. She tells me how she was in the military and actually "was a Spook"
A Spook.
I feel like an idiot.
"What's a Spook?"
"A spy."
I'm intrigued, as planned.

Then her 13-year-old walks over and they start to argue about whether or not she remembered to pack a water bottle for the trip.

I walked away and hear from behind me: "Bye, Liz!"

Her name is Ginny.  Later that day when we pass each other on the trip we say, "Hi Ginny!" or "Hi Liz!" like we've known each other for years.

The trip was to the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. There are many things I can tell you about going on three (3 transfers) subways with 25 7th graders. Things that would appall their parents. Things that would appall anyone: the dramatic flirting and littering. The addictive use of electronics. The nose picking and bugger eating. The smells and swearing. The self-centered preening and grandstanding for what appears to be nothing, because they all do it and so there really isn't an audience. Only annoyed chaperones who wonder about herding cats and the possibility of leaving them (to go meditate under a Bonsai) or simply wander off like a kooky irresponsible adult because they are actually old enough to find their way back to safety, if necessary. They deserved some impromptu outdoor Scout training to whip them into shape. To be fair not all of them were like that. Most were good or compliant enough, but the rotten apples spoiled the whole barrel of fun.

The truth comes out when the girls who are projectile-venom-eye-stare-beings walked into the rose garden and transform completely. It is as if they are set free from the hormonal gravitational forces which trap them. They begin to dance between the rows of crimson,  pink, yellow and purple bushes and smile. Laugh. Joyfully from one beautiful flower specimen to the next like large bumble bees who have found intoxicating pollen while connecting with nature and invisible scents which celebrate something beautiful which has long since been forgotten.

They are a joy to be with.

I spy them becoming little girls again: princesses who don't want to leave the garden. The white fences and rose festooned trellises are a room to expand and just be free.

All in a day's work.

Keep Talking: #91 MRI: What's Inside There?

Keep Talking: #91 MRI: What's Inside There?: It is time for my annual MRI . West Side Radiology at Columbus Circle. This is my second year at this location. I used to go to Park Aven...

#91 MRI: What's Inside There?

It is time for my annual MRI . West Side Radiology at Columbus Circle.

This is my second year at this location. I used to go to Park Avenue Radiology.

I used to be afraid of them and I'm not anymore.

I will not get into the whole medical thing. I will get into the minutia of the process itself. For example, there is a tiny dressing room and they use a DVD as a key chain. You leave everything in the little room which is like a personal locker. 

"Take everything off except your underpants."

"Can I wear my socks?"

"Yes."

I leave everything in the closet/ locker and sit wrapped in a paper towel robe in an open area. A woman who obviously just finished her MRI looks at me as she opens her closet locker.

"No wedding rings. Nothing."

Why does she have to use that tone. 

I start to pull off my rings and the technician comes back and tells me I can keep them on. I follow her to the MRI room which is freezing. She gives me a blanket and sets me up so they can put the contrast in. She gives me earplugs and then inserts the needle into my arm and then tells me to lie down on my stomach. She places the blanket over me so I can stay warm. Evidently, MRI machines get very hot so they keep the room temperature very cool. There is a place for my breasts to droop down- like two special little boob compartments. Arms straight ahead like Super Man. I rest my forehead on a little soft spongy thing which has a mirror in it so I can see what is going on in part of the room. This nice invention is so we don't fee claustrophobic. It's a really neat addition.

I am prone and relaxed. I feel the tray that I am resting on move into the tube. They speak through a microphone, "first will be 3 minutes."  Clank clank clank. Click click click. Clank. Pause. Clank clank click. My mind wanders to a therapist I had years ago who told me that she loved the sounds of the MRI machine because they remind her of avant garde music. I think of her face smiling with a gap between her front teeth. I remember that she died of cancer three months ago. I imagined her in this machine. Relaxing and smiling as she is absorbed by the music. I envy her freedom to enjoy this. I start to think about why she needed the MRI and if it had anything to do with the cancer that eventually killed her. Then I decide not to think about her.

The machine is like being in the bathtub. Nobody bothers you. You can't do anything except be still and breath. Relax. Time will pass.

Clink clink clink. "Now 2 minutes." I look into the mirror and see some part of my arm reflected. I am tempted to wiggle my fingers. I don't. I see the top of someone's head in the other room and wonder what they are looking at on their computer screen. My boobs? What do they see? Maybe they are talking about what they should order for lunch. That's pretty much what I think. They'll probably do a Seamless delivery. Maybe Mexican today.

"Now we will start the drip." I remember that there is a cool sensation that will start to enter my arm. I get scared for a moment that the line might have a bubble in it and I could die. How long would that take? Will I feel woozy first and then black out? Nobody would even know until the procedure was over and how embarrassing that would be for the technician who inserted the line into my arm. Then I decide that is really ridiculous and that will not be the way I will die. The fact that I have been able to push the neurotic thoughts aside indicates that my years of therapy have been productive. I'm happy about that and then I start to think about my therapist. A good soul. 

Then I push that aside and the procedure is over. The technician comes in and helps me up. I don't care if the guy sees my breasts or not, but I act modest and cover myself up. I go back to my closet/locker with my DVD keychain and pass a woman wrapped in a paper towel robe and socks. I think about her breasts for a moment and hope she is okay.   I know I am. So many breast out there. So many which aren't okay. I silently wish her luck.

Keep Talking: #90 Swimming Pool

Keep Talking: #90 Swimming Pool: There is a lot of intimacy which takes place in and around a swimming pool. There are years and years of memories which add up like an easy ...

#90 Swimming Pool

There is a lot of intimacy which takes place in and around a swimming pool. There are years and years of memories which add up like an easy math equation without powers, fractions and decimals. Memory: It's easily blue and clear. The light will hit the surface in a memorable way which will imprint happiness in your reptilian brain: all children get excited about a pool.  It can be the shittiest pool on earth and kids will love it. Twenty five years after that vacation to the Jersey Shore where your parents couldn't afford a hotel room or a condo rental you and your four siblings slept on the floor of a motel room the size of two double beds and all you could dream about was getting up in the morning and jumping into the pool. Like being in the best cartoon you could imagine being in you can transform yourself as soon as you submerge your head. Everything is blue quiet and slow. Holding your breath for this purpose is an an amazing experience to add to your life. Diving, somersaulting and hardstanding underwater all serve a fantastic function because it is the first time you will understand that you defy gravity. You will always wish you have gills and can breathe underwater.
Always. That will never change.

When you look across the pool and see a large man belly flop dive into the pool followed by two small boys who have the same exact dive and the same smaller version of his body you know they have entered the realm of memory. They look like a school of fish following each other around and they will create this pattern for generations to come. Weird diving belly first with feet kicking into the air. They should all break their necks but they don't. This species has an awkward style of survival. They splash each other and dunk. The smallest one climbs the metal ladder and runs on the concrete leaving a trail of wet footprints. Splatting his way around the pool to grab a giant orange noodle. His swim trunks creep down his backside and his tiny six pack is heaving to grab more air, refueling his lungs before getting right back in.

Splatting wet every which way with snot running out of his nose and a huge grin on his face.

There is another dad with his son between his legs. He is carefully teaching him how to tie the knot around the waist of his swim trunks. They peer down together. Quietly and carefully. Patiently. This boy will remember how patient his dad was: not exactly, but it will remain stored in his heart whenever he sees a swimming pool the remainder of his life. Absolutely, he will.

A mom hates getting her suit on and when she does she hates getting into water that is less than perfect bathtub temperature. Her daughter begs her to get into the pool.
"Mom, you never swim with me!"
Mom eases herself slowly down the cobalt tile steps. You know exactly what this looks like: she is sucking in her stomach and holding her bent elbows parallel to the surface inching her way in to not get cold too quickly. Pretending she has control.
"Brrrrrrrrr!"
"Just get in! You'll get used to it!"

And like the little whale she believes she is she dives in and breaches like her mom did 10,000 years ago. Sneaking below the surface she grabs her daughter who squeals with laughter and sweet joy. Wrapping her legs around her waist she becomes light as a feather. Her daughter holds her big mom afloat on the surface of the pool. Holding her and balancing her as the sun caresses her face.

This will be inside them forever and ever.