Under museum glass, framed in black, and on the wall. My mother, Shirley Morand, in the early 1950s, was an illustrator’s model who did print ads for newspapers for various department stores, but mainly for the May Co. I had this clipping at the bottom of a box for decades. I imagine my mom gave it to me, but I don’t physically remember when she did. She never spoke to me about this time in her life, except bits here and there. The most information on her life is from our friend Claudia Bohn-Spector, who sat her down in front of a tape machine, drank wine, ate cheese, and chatted while Claudia asked the questions. A son cannot go into a parent’s private life, at least not this specific son, but I’m thankful for Claudia and Shirley’s relationship.
But even listening to the tapes of their discussions, my mother is very much a mystery like my father, Wallace. As well as the son (I think), it runs in the family. People of mystery do meet, and I believe that is the drawing power between these two people. I cannot imagine what they planned for me in the scheme of things. Wallace was the focus of the family, and all agreed that was what it would be. When Wallace was killed in the car accident, it changed the roles that my mom and I played in the group. I had never experienced such a change in life as when I lost my father, and seconds after his death, I could feel the gravity pull pushing me into the center of the room. It is like one has no choice; you are thrown up in the air and land in that specific space in the room. And it’s not the most comfortable area of the room because there’s attention on you when at one time, there wasn’t. And one gets used to the position of an observer on the sidewalk watching the parade go by, but now, you are the parade. I guess this is what one would call reaching maturity, and I’m mentally there, but emotionally I still feel like a stowaway on a ship to an unknown destination.
As mentioned, I’m reading a compilation of short stories by Julio Cortázar, All Fires the Fire, and I’m struck by his ornate method of telling the tale in this collection. Proust has led me to read the more experimental writers such as Alain Robbe-Grillet, Ann Quin, and now Cortázar. And I’m still jumping into the charms of Proust, as I have two more volumes to read of his In Search of Lost Time. Early this year, I was thinking of seeing an analyst, but I concluded that I rather spend the money on records and books, and in theory, should be more beneficial for my well-being. Still, I want to see a Freudian analyst and go deeply into that world, but my finances won’t allow that adventure.
The odd thing with me is that I took my mom’s illustration to a professional framer and waited a week for the job to finish. I was anxious to see the final result, so I looked at the calendar to re-check the time and day I was supposed to pick it up from their shop. That whole day seemed to wait for the magic hour of 3 PM, the scheduled time to pick up the work. I did so, and I was thrilled that the job was finished, and I loved the simple frame and the elegance of it all. Then I placed it on a chair and forgot about it. Two days later, my friend Andrew came by and admired something on the wall. It was the framed illustration, and Lun*na, my wife, had put it up in a very visual and prominent place on our hallway wall. The funny thing is that I didn’t notice this until a few days later, only because my friend had pointed this out to me. This is something that I could discuss with a Freudian analyst.
A most satisfactory journal entry
This is so well written.