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| My Mod Mom--Many Moons Ago in Italy |
“What do you notice about the line of my shoulders versus the line of my hips?” My mom asks me as she stands before me in her studio. Her hand, purposefully placed on her right raised hip is that much more pronounced due to her lowered right shoulder. Her head, in true model fashion, is slightly titled to the right. Thick dark and perfectly arched eyebrows accentuate her almond-shaped eyes above her light brown flawless skin and high cheekbones. Her straight dark brown hair is cropped carefully and closely to her head. Her deep chocolate eyes focus fully on me. She’s exaggerating her stance as she poses in front of me. She wants me to see her with an artist’s eye.
My sketchbook lies
open on my lap and my charcoal pencil is in my right hand. I’m sitting up
straight on her royal blue covered couch, observing her observing me—eyes
peering into mine—as she models. Her easel and stool are behind her, as is the red
French Roast coffee tin filled with different-sized paintbrushes, and the adjacent
palette dotted with small piles of shiny colors. The smell of fresh oil paint breathes
towards me as does the warm light from the skylight above.
“The lines of your shoulders and your hips are slanting in
opposite ways?” I say—with a question in my voice to cover myself in case I’m
incorrect.
“Exactly!” her Audrey Hepburn smile lights up her face and I
bask in her approval. She maintains her stance.
“Now sketch me,” she commands. I know she means for me to
pay attention to her position and figure, and not the details of her outfit: black and white thinly striped turtleneck
cotton and high waisted capris black pants, tapered at her skinny waste, as
well as toward her thin, sockless ankles that lead into ped-cushioned feet, and
her loafers.
I was probably nine years old. This was one of many art lessons
she gave me. I’m sure I resisted at times. But I tried to keep my complaints to myself,
especially when she recounted how the only way to get good at anything was to keep at it—and never give up.
This class was probably given just before she put me into
African dance classes with Mr. Ashangi. When I started those classes I did
complain--about being the only white girl, about the other girls who wondered
why I was with them—and Mr. Ashangi, who made fun of me and told me that as a
white girl, I couldn’t possibly have rhythm.
In response to my whining about the class, Mom told me that
I needed to work that much harder so that I could get rhythm, and that this
class would be a good lesson for me. “Now,” she claimed, “you’ll understand what it
feels like to not be in a majority!”
As for my mom, she didn’t appear to have ever struggled with
rhythm. In fact, she seemed to have been born a natural dancer—as well as someone
possessed by so many other attributes. We have home movies of her, from the 40s,
dancing on the roof of her Brooklyn apartment. In the films, she’s about 11
years old, and imitating Carmen Miranda while being coached and coaxed by her
parents. She looks sun kissed and happy.
Mom kept her love of the sun, dance, and smiles her whole
life.
As a young teen, my Brighton-Beach-Brooklyn-born-and-raised
mother worked to lose her native accent. She won the argument to go to Cooper
Union to study art instead of being sent to secretarial school. She worked in
advertising, television, as an illustrator, a children’s book illustrator—and
author, teacher and more. She often told me tales of being the first female art
director, at age 23, at Young & Rubicam, and how she had to repeatedly prove
herself in order to “hang out with the boys.” Apparently, she did.
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| Mom and Dad in the 1960s In NYC |
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| M & D in the 1980s in North Brookfield, Massachusetts |
Hostess and cook extraordinaire, those that knew my mom extol her virtues as an entertainer, as well as a quick-witted extrovert. Clever and creative are just two of the many wonderful qualities she had. Controversial could be added to that list.
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| Four Generations: Sonia, Sofia, Arlen, Grandma Sophie, in the 1990s, Larchmont, NY |
Recently, a dear friend suggested I write a book about her. Mom was, after all, a fascinating trailblazer in many ways. I told my friend about her many accomplishments, as well as a bit about her being quite controversial, both amongst her five children (from three marriages) and their significant others, and grandchildren, as well as friends, and colleagues. He immediately retorted: “That makes the story that much more interesting.”
Well, perhaps I will dive into that in the future.
Today I glance around my home at her numerous paintings, sculptures,
furniture designs, photos, and books; memories
of her and my dad’s parties, her taking me to so many museums, shows, and
movies, her sharing of books, tales,
travels, and more come into my mind. It’s a bittersweet wave that runs through
me as I write about her. I feel lucky, and hope I told her that before she
passed away two years ago.
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| Three of Mom's Children's Books |
However, dear family and friends, my objective is here is
not to be sad; on the contrary, I want to celebrate her life today. Today, after
all, is Mother’s Day. And so, it’s a pleasure to share Sonia’s Blueberry Pie with
you. Both of my children, Sofia and Wes, not only love this pie, but also have
made it for their friends on occasion.
In conclusion, to all of you—mothers, fathers, sisters,
brothers, children, I hope you enjoy this treat as much as we have, and do.
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| Blueberry Pie and Flowers |
Sonia’s Open-faced Blueberry Pie
Makes one 9-inch pie
Graham Cracker-Nut Crust:
1 1/2 cups graham
cracker crumbs (you can buy them as crumbs, or crush 1 ½ packages in a food processor)
1/2 cups pecans (I prefer) or walnuts, toasted pulverized
(in a food processor) or finely chopped
1 tablespoon raw brown sugar
1/4 teaspoon ground
cinnamon
4 tablespoons butter cut into ½-inch bits
Preheat the oven to 375ºF. Combine the ingredients in a food
processor and process until it becomes just about smooth. Press into a buttered
9-inch pie pan. Bake until lightly toasted, 8 to 10 minutes. Let cool
For the filling:
3 cups fresh blueberries (you can add blackberries, too!)
3/4 cup blueberry jam or preserves (can be a blueberry and blackberry
mixture)
1/4 teaspoon minced fresh lemon rind
1 pinch nutmeg
1 pinch cinnamon
In a medium saucepan, combine ½ of the fresh blueberries (about
1 ½ cups) with the blueberry jam or preserves. Add the lemon rind, nutmeg, and
cinnamon, and cook, over medium heat, until warmed through, about five minutes.
Scrape into the cooled pie crust. Top with remaining
blueberries, serve, and enjoy!
