“Purple Prose”

One of the joys of having a home gallery is to be able to host different events in this small colorful context. My friend Zee Zahava has been bringing small writing groups to the gallery to respond to the art on the walls, which changes every month. Here is Zee’s story, a delightful (as always) auto/fictional account of coming to Ithaca so many years ago.

It was late August, 1968, and the drive from our apartment in the Bronx, up to Quarry Dorm in Ithaca, was long. Longer than it would be for any other family. My father was nervous. He had to stop and pee at every rest stop. Also, he had to smoke a cigar, each time we stopped. My mother was unusually quiet. Each time dad got out of the car mom would turn around in her seat to ask if I was okay. I always said that I was. But was I? I had no idea.

I was bundled into the back seat with my guitar, my new electric typewriter, a not-very-good record player, and all my albums: Joni, Laura, James, Judy. They were coming with me, of course. I couldn’t leave home without them.

I thought we’d never get there. But then, finally — finally — finally … we arrived.  

Dad refused to come into the dorm. He didn’t say why but I suspect he just didn’t feel safe being in upstate New York. So he stayed in the car and smoked more cigars. Mom helped me move my things into my room but I didn’t want here there when I unpacked. This was the beginning of my new life and I wanted to get started already. I begged my parents to just go off to the motel where they were spending the night, and they agreed. It was like a miracle.

The first thing I did, after waving good-bye to that smelly old green Dodge Dart, was to sit on my unmade bed and cry. A short burst, a purging. Then I felt better. I was ready. I was okay.

Time to unpack. First my records and my books. Then my shoes: Olaf Daughters clogs. Fred Braun sandals. Then my clothes: my two favorite jumpers, one navy blue and one forest green. A beautiful brown suede dress. My peasant blouses, denim shirts, blue jeans. Brown, blue, green. Those were my colors. I didn’t own anything yellow or orange. Certainly not pink. It wouldn’t have occurred to me to wear something purple. I only had one piece of black clothing: a Danskin top, it had a zipper in the back but I would wear it reversed, zipper in the front, unzipped — my version of a V-neck.

I wore it like that when I went down for dinner in the dorm’s cafeteria. I made my first friend at college that night. Her name was Diana. “Like the huntress,” she explained. “Let’s not wear our beanies,” she said, so we took them off and hid them in our backpacks. She said she liked my hair. (It was long, almost down to my waist. I was very proud of it.) She said she liked my shirt, “It’s so cool.” That was my secret intention, to look cool. She asked if she could borrow it sometimes. I said sure. But I didn’t mean it.

By the end of September I had made a few good friends and I had a nickname: “I.” I cut my hair short. I wore my black “V-neck” constantly. I swapped a pair of earrings I no longer liked for a dorm-mate’s purple beret. (Purple!!). I was almost successful in getting rid of my Bronx accent.

Painting in Terrible Times

As I write the world is focused on the terrible events in Ukraine, which demands the split focus of terrible events that are ongoing in Yemen, Afghanistan, Syria, Nigeria, and on and on. It’s humanly impossible to maintain focus and vigilance on so many levels, to say nothing of contributing meaningfully in ways other than financially. I’ve found myself painting more than ever and giving “value” titles to otherwise inchoate abstracts, an impulse that does nothing other than offer emotional support in the same spirit as prayers or local demonstrations do for others.