A Dream with Brad Pitt

 I was alone in my kitchen.   I was a younger girl still living with my parents, but they weren’t home.  As I worked over the sink, everything seemed to shift and then fall apart.  Then, suddenly the dishwasher fell through the floor into the basement. 

Suddenly, I was outside, looking and feeling wretched, when Brad Pitt and a friend (who was also a cute/handsome blond fellow) ambled over and began to hang out with me.  I showed them the destruction and they didn’t offer to help, but rather wanted to have fun.

My parents came home.  My father had had some kind of surgery, but he was nonetheless full of energy.  I showed him the mess and he immediately began to “fix up” the basement.  Outside of this dream, my father is someone who can never live with the ways things are, always rearranging rooms and furniture to make them better.

Brad and the blond fellow found him amusing.  He made a large tableau out of the junk and placed it in the yard facing the neighbors house.  “Hey (some name I can’t remember), how do you like this?"  The neighbor and his family were in their yard celebrating their son’s bar mitzvah.  All were in clown like, bright costumes. 

I showed my father how their basement was arranged since the door was open and we could see inside.  In a secretive manner, my father said that it was arranged as a bedroom since someone was living down there, seeming to indicate that there was divorce or some family problem.

I cavorted with Pitt and his friend, but Brad and I were falling in love.  I remarked at how amazing it was to me that he should find me.  I said that I’d always loved him but I’d never, in my wildest dreams (how ironic) thought I’d meet him, much less be in love with him.  We caressed and kissed.  I also made a point of saying that I thought his friend was very attractive and that I’d be attracted to him if Brad were not around.

Brad told me that in order to meet him, one had only to give him a business card.  So, as joke, I gave him my business card.  We laughed. 

There was some disturbance with people yelling at us and telling us to be quiet.  He yelled back, “Hey, don’t you know who I am?  I’m Brad Pitt.”  Then, I yelled, “and don’t you know that I’m Paula Maliandi, Executive Director of Marketing?”  (That’s what I said, though that never was and is not my current title.)

We all seemed to be bored and looking for something to do.   Brad and his friend were used to a much higher level of amenities than I could provide – my TV was old fashioned etc.  Suddenly I realized that my father had reorganized all my CDs in what seemed to be the frame of the old dishwasher.  This was no surprise to me since my father has always been obsessed with adaptive reuse, even when the reuse is illogical.  So the CDS were stacked horizontally going deep into the back of the dishwasher where the titles could not be seen.  I remarked at how typical that was of my father.

After that, the dream fades.  I wake up.  Brad goes away.  I am no longer a young girl living with my parents.

Alive

I have experienced the death of a close friend, the change of my job, the possible change of my residence along with other transitions within the past few months.  I honestly thought I'd forgotten how to feel.

Last week, out of the blue, I got a call from a friend/colleague, an artist who's been integrally involved in the success and survival of the Aljira Gallery in Newark - Cicely Cottingham.  Cicely is a role model in so many ways.  She's an artist who is perhaps just beginning to get the recognition she deserves for her gift.  But, with Victor Davson, she has been instrumental in keep Aljira alive through the crash and recession - no small feat.

She called me to ask, so gingerly, if I might be interested in attending a luncheon to brainstorm about the upcoming Aljira Gallery auction, an event that last year netted $100,000 to keep the gallery afloat.  My kneejerk reaction was immediately to say yes.

At the lunch today, with Cicely and two other ladies whose devotion to art, Newark and Aljira were clearly evident, I poured out my ideas and suggestions about how to attract attendees and buyers to the auction.

It felt great!   There I was.  That was me!  The person who's been struggling with so many issues over the past few months was back!  I'm back!

Driving back from Newark I felt alive again with enthusiasm about art, about attracting young people to support young artists, about keeping a small gallery in Newark alive because it's been part of the Newark renaissance and brings such great talent and energy to that downtown area.  Yes!

The auction is March 17.  The work that is available for purchase is the best.  Artists who have donated their work for auction have become recognized and celebrated for their gifts.  Cicely told a story today about a young artist whose work was not initially appreciated when first offered for auction, but when offered a few years later, was scooped by savvy collectors.

Why support art?  Why devote time to such an endeavor when there are perhaps more compelling causes?

Art will never be at the top of anyone's list.  Health care . . . even animal rights (a cause very near to my heart) will always tug more at the heart strings.

But, I believe that young artists and the passion and perspective they bring to the world present a voice that we must respect and support.  They represent our humanity in the most profound way, no matter which art form they represent.

So, today I felt alive because art is in my heart.

For more information about the Aljira Auction and Gallery, visit http://aljirafineartauction.org.

Visiting the Folks or The Power of Parents

I visited my elderly parents yesterday.  It is always a fraught experience for me and one that I know has been brought about, for better or worse, by the miracle of modern medicine.  I love my parents and it is amazing that at almost ages 87 and 88, they continue (with some modification) to move about, drive (you got that right), eat out, be with friends, be with family and function.

They also continue to be who they are with age's inevitable deepening of opinions and beliefs.  And they express themselves with greater certainty and with a desperation that, I believe, comes from their knowledge that they are entitled to say anything they like and better say it quickly while they can.

So, yesterday at lunch my father once again asked me how much I weigh.  He has made allusions recently to my weight which is his "subtle" way of telling me that he thinks I'm fat.  At this same lunch, my mother looked at me and said, "Your hair, it's . . . . (long pause as she studies my hair and I'm wondering - do I need color, does she notice I'm going bald - what, what, what????)  . . . . messy."  My hair is messy.  I am 62 years old and my mother is telling me my hair is messy.  What's worse is that on some level it upset me.

Having kids myself, and being the age that I am, I completely understand the drive to be honest and forthright.  After all, if you can't be honest with your children and your family, there is no authenticity in the world.  On the other hand, the power of the parent, no matter how old you are, is stunning.

I have spent many a conversation with peers who recount tales of their current relationships with parents and the effect words and actions continue to have on them.  Similarly, I observe the profound effect my words can have on my girls.  Sometimes I think the best course is only to offer opinion when asked, but that's tough for someone like me who's full of  . . . opinion.

The obvious conclusion is that I ought to have processed all of this stuff by my age, but I don't think the power of that first seering glance, that first "no" when a baby moves toward a harmful object, that first moment you realize you've disappointed or pleased a parent, ever goes away and becomes part of the fabric of all our relationships going forward.

Pauline Angelina’s Deliziose Polpette

 When my Nana made meatballs, she would always give me a couple before she put them in the gravy – polpette. To this day, when I make meatballs, I always treat myself!

2 lbs. ground beef (some folks use 1/3 veal, 1/3 pork – I don’t)
4 eggs beaten lightly ½ cup of flat leaf parsley – chopped fine
½ - ¾ cup of bread crumbs (I use flavored)
¼ cup grated locatelli romano cheese salt and freshly ground pepper Add milk to consistency.

1. Mix eggs, parsley, bread crumbs, cheese, salt and pepper.
2. Add to meat and work through with hands. Consistency should be slightly firm, yet moist. If too moist, add a little more breadcrumbs, but not too much because meatballs will be too hard.
3. Shape into balls 2” in diameter. ( I rinse my hands after each two or three balls and it makes the rolling easier.)
4. Brown on all sides on non-stick fry surface. 5. Once browned, continue cooking in gravy.

Broke My Heart

I will have to call in sick on Monday.

It seems that I broke my heart over the weekend. It was a very painful break and I went to the emergency room where they told me that they would be unable to apply any cast. I would have to just wait for it to heal.

In the meantime, the pain is excruciating and I can't put any pressure on it at all for a very long time.

That will mean that I will have to protect it at all costs from any stress or extraordinary pressure that will require it to function normally.

I feel like it may never function normally again. And that is what happens, I'm told, when your heart breaks.

Addendum to Izzy Guitarra

What I completely forgot to say, which was critical to the arc of this post, was that my mother, who was visiting me today and who has a penchant for clipping newspaper articles, somehow found Mrs. Fontana's obituary. I hadn't heard about her or from her in more than fifty years. I needed to toast her and, as it evolved, wonderful teachers.

Izzy Guitarra

I grew up in Park Slope Brooklyn in the same 6 family house that my father grew up in. My grandparents lived there too.

When it was time to go to school, I went one short block to P.S. 107, the same elementary school my father had attended. I had Miss Mooney for kindergarten, then Miss Curran in first grade (my father had had her too), Miss Ward in second (my father had had her too) Miss Donaldson in third (my father had had her too - are you detecting a trend?) and Mrs. Ott in fourth (and . . . need I say more?).

The amazing thing was these elderly and devoted, "cut from the original mold" school teachers (mostly unmarried) actually remembered my father. MY FATHER! It was one thing to follow a sibling through school, but I was following my misbehaved, mischevous, putting tacks on teacher's chairs father.

It wasn't till I reached the fifth grade that this pattern was interrupted by a miraculous occurrence. It was the entrance of Mrs. Fontana as my teacher. She was young. She was new. She was downright cute. And she was musical! She played the piano - an instrument I was attempting, without passion or inspiration. Mrs. Gastmeyer was my teacher - Janie Gastmeyer's grandma - a lovely lady, but not exactly someone who was exhorting me to great musical heights.

Mrs. Fontana immediately organized a chorus - A CHORUS! I was in my glory. We toured. Touring meant performing at the local savings bank on Park Slope's Fifth Avenue. We were all decked out. It was the holiday season and we felt like local celebrities.

The fifth grade went along like that. During that year, my parents had already decided to move from Park Slope - something about the neighborhood being in a negative transition. Oh well. Some folks don't read the trends well.

When Mrs. Fontana learned that my parents wanted to move, she recommended the best Brooklyn school districts and made contact with Moe (?), Principal of P.S. 236 in Mill Basin, reputed to be one of the best public schools in Brooklyn.

Correspondence was exchanged after my parents had decided on a house in that area, and so it was decided that I would go to P.S. 236, transferring from P.S. 107, leaving Park Slope and all my friends, and leaving Mrs. Fontana. A new phase of my life was to begin. I also learned that she was "instrumental" in finding Ms. Manasia, the piano teacher who almost turned me into a concert artist except that my adolescence kicked in and the piano and religion became foci for my anger.

I think of all that Isabella Fontana meant to one little girl who loved music. And I think of my daughter, a gifted and talented musical performer who passes along her love and passion to her students. It's an inestimable gift for a child.

I just bought myself a guitar. I've always wanted to play the guitar, and now I will take lessons. I have named my new guitar Isabella Fontana guitarra in honor of a young teacher who, perhaps unbeknownst to her, was instrumental in my love of music and performance, and in my life. Here's to you, Mrs. Fontana!