2024 Comes In

Paul Cézanne's Pines and Rocks 

“Notice the brush strokes—how he uses space, how nothing is wasted,” my mother says to me. I’m nine years old, and we’re at the Museum of Modern Art in New York City. We’re looking Paul Cézanne’s Pines and Rocks, but move to The Bather, and she points out the lines of model’s muscular leg, and the color palette of the background.  “No wasted space,” she reiterates. This was to become her mantra in art, and in life.

In my memory, it’s just my mother and I walking through the museum. Today, I’m on my own.

My mother’s voice comes through me as I admire Van Gogh, Picasso, Gauguin, Seurat, Monet, Matisse, and Chagall. Their work swims into my eyes and triggers a pool of memories. 

Marc Chagall's I and the Village

I smile at the playfulness of Marc Chagall (I and the Village), and hear my mother talking to me about artists’ phases, stages, and senses of humor. She often spoke about process, and taking time to explore different subjects as well as styles of painting and drawing. In retrospect I realize that this—taking time to explore and try out—was also part of her modus operandi. I can see a variety of style in her paintings, illustrations, sketch books, and subjects.

I flash back to her trying to teach me how to translate what I’m looking at onto paper in the form of sketching.    Now I try to ingest in all the images I see, and transfer them into words.

I stop in front of Rousseau’s The dream.  I relish the personal space I have at that moment to approach the canvas, and focus. I remember my mother telling me that though he never went to Mexico (as he apparently claimed—thereby entitling his “Mexican pictures”) self-taught Henri Rousseau, was able, from his home in France, and thanks to his rich imagination and frequent trips to the Paris botanical gardens, to translate jungle images from his head onto his canvas.

Tears start to sting as I hear my mother’s voice again; she is proud of my recollection of the artists and their styles, her lessons, and for my taking the time to visit the museum, and ponder all. No wasted time.

Sonia O. Lisker Gargagliano 

I consider my mother’s “Mexican pictures,” which she created after spending time in Mexico—before I was born. I look at her brush strokes. And I can’t help but  notice in her paintings, many of which surround me at home, that there is no wasted space.

And so now in mid-January, we welcome 2024—and consider what we’ve done, what lies ahead, both anticipated and not.

Last year I had several goals: to dance flamenco, try new recipes—to read more, write more, and learn Italian. I still need to work on all, and I add to the list.

I can hear my father now, telling me—as he always did—that I have to take chances. (He was referring to talents and skills, not skydiving nor bungi jumping!)  Taking chances is on my list. No wasted time.

Life, after all, is precious.  

 

All Clear

 

 

The Day of And a Few Days Later

“Well, it’s like this all the time in New Delhi!” an older woman said to me last Wednesday, in Midtown Manhattan, waiting at the crosswalk. I had noticed her cane, her stance, and her lean on the mailbox prior to the change of the walk sign at the cross walk, and so I had asked her if she was okay. She said she was, and, in typical NYC fashion, that was the end of our exchange. The light turned green, and we separated.   

This was on the day that NYC was blanketed in sepia, the day the wildfire smoke hit the city. Dazed and masked, people twirled, phones in hand, recording and marveling at the scene. Words like “apocalyptic, smoky, orange,” echoed through the throngs on Fifth Avenue.

Fast forward to three days later. The sky is blue, the air seems fresh, and yes, it appears to be all clear—at least around here.

We are always looking for an all clear. Or, perhaps, in my case, I’m also looking for clarity—and hope I offer the same. Thinking about relationships, work, stories, and trips, I consider that all clear is synonymous with a go ahead, or that we can proceed in a positive way. I'm also equating all clear with clarity. 

The Clarity of Reflection 

I can’t help but remember a student I had at Concordia College, so many years ago. Lorenzo, from Puerto Rico, came to Concordia to play volleyball and, like many on his team, also to learn English.

At that time, I had a habit of asking my students, “Is it clear?” after explaining something in my ESL class. (Wait—maybe I still say that!)

Lorenzo frequently responded, with a grin, “As clear as mud, teacher!”

He chided me, and was often quite the jokester, but sometimes he was on target: my explanations often required a second round. I take that recognition with me, and try—whether talking to family and friends or students and teachers—to be clear. It’s a skill I’m still working on.

But back to last Wednesday, I walked up to the Museum of Modern Art, where I had decided I wanted to revisit Georgia O’Keeffe’s exhibit. I watched as people stopped in front of one work or another, saw them observe, listened to their commentary, accolades, and more.

An older bespectacled gentleman with tanned skin, a white beard, and a straw fedora, came to a full stop in front of “Evening Star.”  He stood, hands behind his back, and gazed, deeply at one painting, and then the others in that series.   

From Georgia O'Keeffe--One of the Many Currently at MOMA 

I wanted to ask him what he was thinking when he looked at them.  Was a meaning clear to him?  What was clear to him?

But he moved on as a young couple with a toddler moved in front. 

As I continued to walk around the museum, my thoughts of clarity continued. I considered how clarity comes in different realms: art, communication, movement, music, and another one of my favorites, flavors.

Recently I found clarity in a dish I made: Crispy Lemon Chicken Cutlets with Salmoriglio Sauce

Since it was quite well received,  I decided to explore variations on the theme. A few nights later, I made pork chops with an orange sauce that somewhat emulated the previously-made lemon-infused dish. The result? Another sunny, and tasty citrus-themed plate (served this time with broccoli and wine-caramelized onions, and roast potatoes). 

 Crispy Lemon Chicken Cutlets with Salmoriglio Sauce

Crispy Pork Chops with a Fresh Orange Sauce

I enjoy clarity of flavor as much as I enjoy clarity of explanations, communication, and more. I find clarity when I run, when I cook, when I dance, when I draw, and when I write. 

Today as I ponder the message of all clear and clarity, I think of the bold, dazzling colors of nature that boast their individuality, yet work and grow together. 

 

Almost Spring's Big Dig

Mom and a Storyboard

“Look at her!” my friend Sus declares as we uncover photos of my mom.

I’ve found the black and white photos of my mother at work. She was one of the first female art directors on the “mad men” scene of Madison Avenue. I heard the story so many times, about how I was almost born at Y&R (Young & Rubicam) but how she just barely made it to Flowers and Fifth Hospital—after a quick stop to pick up a nightgown in Bloomingdale’s—and then on to the hospital to give birth to me. 

I go through photos—there are hundreds, maybe even thousands of them. They date back to the time my mom was little, posing on the Boardwalk in front of her parents’ home in Brighton Beach. Posing…they were always posing.

Words are tangled in my throat as I peruse her sketchbooks, and flash back to the times she sketched at parties, when curious guests couldn’t help but come by and ask what she was doing, look over her shoulder, admire her fluid intake and translation of the scenes around her.

I was not like the guests; her sketching made me uncomfortable.

Now, as I leaf through the dozen or so sketchbooks, I have an uneasiness mixed with pride and regret that I didn’t enjoy her drawing—while she was drawing. Why did her sketching bother me? Why didn’t I accept it more readily? Why wasn’t I proud then? 

Mom's Sketches in Spain 

As some of you may know, now over two years ago, we moved from a house into an apartment. At that big downsizing time, I took a lot of my old photos—okay not only mine, but those from and of my parents (their ex-spouses!), grandparents, aunts, uncles, parents-in-law, siblings, kids…well, you get the picture. Tons of photos! They were packed into large Rubbermaid tubs and put into storage.

One of my new year’s resolutions was to go through, sort, keep or toss: my big dig. And so, it’s begun.

It’s amazing how many blurry photos, how many duplicates, how many “unknowns,” and how many trees and sunsets were captured. And as I sift, I try to identify criteria for saving.

My criteria has yet to be defined. I do know that I’m not going to scan them all; I want to keep the “hard copies.” Not sure what I’ll do with them, but I’m enjoying going through them…remembering so very many moments.

In another box, I’ve found letters. Those I’m loathe to toss…at least some of them. Especially words from people, like my parents, who are no longer on this earth with us. I've put those aside for now. I'll read them all. Eventually.   

This all comes back to my kitchen. As many of you may also know, food is another way I keep people ever-present. Menu planning is something I enjoy daily: I think about who’s going to eat it, what the weather is like, what’s available, and what people might be craving.

I open up a recipe box, and look for one of our Christmas Eve classics: The orange Jell-O mold, complete with shredded carrots and crushed pineapple, which she always made in the shape of a Christmas tree.

I never thought I’d ever make it. Now I pull out the recipe, and look for the pan that it will set in. 

 

 

Comerse el Coco: A.K.A. Rumination

My Illustration of one of my Parrot Friends 

Their voices catch me by surprise—as do their green tails. I stop my running, pull out my earbuds, and look up into the tree to see and hear them. 

Well, this isn’t the first time I’ve seen the parrots of New Rochelle, here, next to Trinity school. But it’s winter, so I was not expecting them. I stand under the tree where they’ve gathered, and watch them as they dance above me. They're all feasting on the small buds that line the smaller and very thin twig-like branches.

It was then that I had my “Axolotl” moment (I refer to a wonderful short story by Argentine author, Julio Cortazar). In the story, the protagonist loses part of his own sense of self, and experiences a type of metamorphosis: he adopts the identity of the creatures he’s observing.

In my case, I knew I wasn’t actually becoming a parrot—despite my desire to join in, feast, and then fly with them. But I started to ponder: How do these parrots see me? Here I stand, a white female human with cream-colored knit hat, almost nest-like blonde meets brown curls of hair sneaking out underneath, a red down vest, black leggings and red rimmed socks poking up above my black running shoes. I wonder what they notice and if, in fact, they are observing me observing them.     

Looking up at this bevy of birds, thinking about their impression of me, reminded me of something else: a story about noticing, one that I’ve told my students over the years. 

My story starts several decades ago, when I was hired to do a training in a university in West Virginia. The school had been recently acquired by a Japanese company. At the time, I was working with predominantly Japanese students at Concordia College in New York, and had done some presentations about cultural differences in communication styles of English language learners from Japan. Hence, I was hired to travel to this university to work with their teachers for a couple of days. Little did I realize that I was more foreign to this group of instructors than their new Japanese students were. 

I remember I dressed in one of my standard NYC-type suits (we’re talking about the early 90s)—which was a simple black linen single breasted, shoulder-padded waist coat and a matching almost knee-length skirt. I wore ivory stockings, and black Mary Jane heels and a pair of longish Peruvian silver and lapis lazuli earrings that poked out from time to time between my dark brown curls. 

When I saw them, I noticed right away that they were all white, mostly quite a bit older than I was then, and more conservatively dressed. The women all looked like Aunt Bees to me (from Mayberry RFD), with grey or dyed sand-colored hair, piled up high. Maybe wearing pearls?  

One gentleman, who looked a bit different from the rest of the crowd, sat in the front row. He was wearing a white mock-turtleneck shirt, and a navy-blue corduroy jacket with suede patches on the elbows. His hair was straight and sandy blonde and long, and pulled back into a tight and long ponytail. 

“Aha,” I thought, “here is my ally.” 

But I was dead wrong. 

I told the teachers, as part of my spiel, that their new students might not be as voluntarily vocal as some of their others. In fact, I continued, they should of course encourage all of their participation, but then call on individual students to speak up. Additionally, these students might not answer as quickly as we might like. To this end I advised, when asking questions of their English language learners from Japan, teachers should wait a bit longer for a response.   

My “ally” in the front row leaned back, and spoke up: 

“What do you mean, wait longer? What are you saying? Is five minutes long enough?” His rapid fire questions were shot off  in a sarcastic-meets-accusatory tone. 

I tried to rapidly recover from the sting. 

“Let me clarify,” I began. “It’s that many of your students may not have had the chance to practice their spoken English, and they will be concerned about formulating the correct answers prior to saying them aloud.” 

I went on to explain that English classes in Japan generally—especially at that time—didn’t focus on speaking skills, but  instead primarily on grammar and writing. 

I didn’t look directly at him, but scanned the audience. The group nodded in what appeared to be understanding. However, according to my memory, that man in the front row with the ponytail and corduroy jacket unthankfully grimaced. 

The rest of that workshop is blurry to me. But I do remember vividly that later, at break time, as we gathered next to the large coffee pot, sipping from white Styrofoam cups and eating delicious homemade peanut butter cookies, the Aunt Bees graciously thanked me, and apologized for their colleague’s behavior.

That was when I became aware of two things: I was judging them all based on my personal collection of preconceived notions and, well, they were doing the same thing. 

So, what does this have to do with “comerse el coco?” Well, that expression means—literally—to eat your head; to ponder many things at once, and have these thoughts crashing around with jagged edges. Rumination.  I think we all do this—especially these days, when so much is going on immediately around us both locally and globally. This pondering is not necessarily a bad thing. But it’s a thing. 

I’m back to the present. I’m still under the tree. Suddenly, I feel something lightly tap my head, and think, “Wow! Bird droppings! This could mean good luck.”

I take off my hat to examine, and immediately discover that it’s a small twig. 

Still, I feel lucky.