Benchmark
Written as a “toast” for my mom on her birthday; November, 2021.
As some of you may already know, my mother is a treasure huntress. She is also a trailblazer where taste and design are concerned, seeing and celebrating beauty where others can’t yet appreciate it.
The “prey” she hunts must also be very unusual and meet certain criteria:
“a bargain”
things with history
especially well loved or down trodden in a Velveteen Rabbit** sort of way, thus saving them from a dull and lonely future or landfill, far from the entertainment she and her “Loft Museum” offer up.
Well, many years ago- at least 35 (cough), my mom and I went trudging over to the 26th Street Flea Market as we did weekends and most of my childhood. I should mention that she would insist we go at 4:30 or 5am to get first pick of the litter with the dealers. In spite of it being so early that there was little light, and everyone else looked bedraggled, or that she wasn’t a naturally early riser, my mother’s lipstick, mascara, hair and outfit would always be purrrfect- because “you never knew who you are going to meet, Jen, and we better fucking be ready...”
I’m sure she found some other goodies too that morning—as she rarely left empty handed—but what I do remember clearly is that she insisted that she just had to buy a rather large wood and metal bench. Like of the iron variety. Even though we had no practical way of getting it home. And probably didn’t have any particular need or place for it. But love is love, and when my mom was and is determined it’s best to just get out of the way. Or...pick up an end, which is what I did, carrying it block, by block... by block, all the way from 26th Street, down to her loft in Tribeca. About 2 miles.
It’s funny, because I can’t recall what that bench even looked like. I do however very clearly remember it was damn heavy- especially after our giddy hysteria wore off and we’d gotten two blocks or so away from our launching point. We were resourceful, though, and she had enough determination for both of us. So we angled it just right, in the sun, or near a restaurant we liked, where we could stop for yet another coffee, or lemonade, or another little bite to eat. And definitely near another glass of wine.
We even planted it at some bus stops that we had no idea were bus stops, but other people certainly did and were very happy to have a place to rest, so they joined us too- my mom cheerily reapplying a lil bright red lipstick as her color of choice was then, smiling her gorgeous smile, and scooting on over to make room for one or two or how ever many needed to sit down- no matter what age, or color, or burden of struggle. And that too, that openness of heart, and delight in the potential of magic and their unique stories that every person from every walk of Life holds is also something that my has always known and held dear.
So we shared a few stories with new and old friends we ran into by chance, or watched as others went on their way, got on a bus to a world we would never see first hand, then walked a bit more, sweating, aching, determined, laughing, probably arguing a little bit, maybe crying, definitely laughing some more, and also admiring the way the light hit a building or someone’s face…because my mom will stop time to make the rest of us pay attention to such a miracle. I mean, is there anyone who appreciates the gift of light more than my mother?
Then onward a few more blocks finally in Soho, struggling, where she reminded me yet again, “We’re almost there, Jen” before bringing my attention to a particular tree growing miraculously and in spite of things out of a cement and asphalt world... or making sure I noticed some incredible outfit someone was wearing, or, while whispering and leaning into me, “How great would that person look if they just cut their hair into a bob? Imagine, Jen, a little salmon colored lipstick, some new glasses- maybe black, rounded, some shoulder pads and more black; definitely black…and not that frou-frou floral gunny sack for God’s sake.”
(This was the 80’s).
Til finally, finally, we were home, prying that thing out of the sunlight and the adventure we shared and settling it, for as long as that love affair would last into some spot in the loft where it would be well appreciated, nestled among so much Living with a capital L.
* * *
Happy birthday mom. I love you very much, along with your iron will, and all the many ways you leave a trail of beauty, laughter, love, and even mascara smeared tears.
A benchmark toast…to my mother!
My mom, West Murray, and a friend.
** “Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand.”
― Margery Williams Bianco, The Velveteen Rabbit
INVITATIONAL EXERCISE:
Please grab some paper, a pen, some old magazines, scissors, glue, and colored pencils.
Now write, draw, collage and/or Mind Map a memory of an experience that offered up an unexpected adventure. How were you changed by this? (And/or others.) What was the boon, or loss…
P.S. If you do the prompt, I would be honored to know how this process made you feel, even sending me writing and images of your creation/s if you feel called. Gratitude.
❤️ Jenny
Top: My mother’s photography hung up in her loft; lower: details of her collections.
Photos: Dutch Vogue