Auntie C n' Me

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1959 Spring

Chicago, Illinois

Peggy Standish (almost...12 years old)

       I’ve heard people say that you pick up the traits of your godparents. There are ways I wouldn’t mind being like my godmother, Aunt Cynthia, but there are other parts of her personality that I’d rather not inherit.

      Though she was sophisticated and smart there are other behaviors of hers that leave something to be desired. Mom said her sister could be a tad bit eccentric at times, Dad said that she was a kook, which is simply a kinder way of saying someone was just plain crazy. 

      Despite this, there is one thing I had to admire about my godmother. She's brave enough and bold enough to be herself. Something I was having quite a lot of trouble doing lately. 

************

       It was Friday night when a startling ring from the telephone sent all of us kids stampeding into the kitchen. Rarely did we receive calls after ten o'clock in the evening.

       I was the first to reach it and grab the receiver off the wall.  The voice on the other end didn’t wait for the standard introduction, “Hello, Standish residence, this is Peggy.”

      “Lionel will be by with the limousine on Saturday, nine AM sharp. We’ll get a nice early start for our special time together,” My godmother said, reminding me of our weekend plans. “And don’t forget to wear your sneakers!” 

     Somehow the words, limousine, and sneakers didn’t sound like they belonged in the same sentence together. But coming from Aunt Cynthia, I mean Auntie C, as she likes us to call her, this is perfectly normal. She was a character of contradictions.

      I was about to hang up the phone when she added, “Oh, and bring that sketchbook of yours. They’ll be lots of things downtown to inspire your drawings.”

      Outside of my family, Auntie C was the only person in the world who knew of my hobby. Mom and Dad thought I was pretty good at drawing, even my older sister, Babs. They all told me that I was like an artist. But when family members tell you that you’re great at something, you don’t know if it’s really true or if they’re just being nice.

                                          ************

      Except for the family car, bikes and buses were the modes of transportation for the people on my block. Even Taxis were an expensive uncommon occurrence in our neighborhood. So, when Lionel, Auntie C’s chauffeur, drove up to the curb in a limo, it stirred up enough excitement to bring people out of their houses.                                   

      “Your visit will do your Aunt a world of good,” Mom said, handing me her overnight bag the next morning. “Be nice, and on your best behavior this weekend.”

      I sighed, rolling my eyes at her. “Mom, I’m not a little kid.”

      I said good-bye to my parents, waved to my friends who stood on their front porches gawking at the long black automobile, and nodded to a pair of binoculars that were poking between the living room curtains of Mrs. Pearson’s home.

      My little sister rushed out of the house with one of her own drawings. “Here you go. I did this for you in my happy color,” she said, giving me her latest masterpiece. “Take this to remind you of me, in case you get lonely.”

      Lionel hopped out of the car and opened the door, tipping his cap as I slid inside. You might think that sitting in a fancy limo with your own radio and a cabinet filled with cold pop and chocolate is an extravagance, and I suppose it was. But honestly, the real luxury was the fact that I got to ride in the back seat of a car all by myself, without being crammed between my brothers and sisters.   

      I looked at Katie’s picture and smiled. The colors weren’t what they were supposed to be. Everything was red, the grass, the trees, the stick figures. It was my little sister’s special color of the week.

      As we rode on the highway through the city, the streets zoomed by.  I knew we were finally close to Auntie’s C’s apartment when we hugged the tight curve of Lakeshore Drive.  A canyon of tall buildings was to my left and the endless Lake Michigan to my right.

      “It’s OK, Lionel,” I said, as the car slowed to a stop in front of Auntie C’s high-rise. “I know the way up.”

      “Just as you like, Miss Peggy.” He looked at my reflection in his rearview mirror, tipping his cap once again.

      Being called “miss” made me uncomfortable; I wasn’t used to all of this attention. Dad says that you belong to either one of two worlds, the world of “haves” or the one of “have-nots”. My family wasn’t poor, but we were far from rich. I like to think that we were from the world of “have-what-we-need–but-not-always-what-we-want”.

************

      As I stepped into Auntie C’s penthouse apartment, it made me acutely aware that she was from the realm of haves. All of the furniture was sleek, modern, curved and quirky, much like Auntie C herself. Mavis, Auntie C’s maid, kept the place like a showroom, which couldn’t be easy. It could take you from now until Tuesday to walk through this place. On one side of her apartment, you’d look and see nothing but the blue of the sky and the blue of the lake melting into each other. But, if you walked across to the other side, you saw a panoramic scene of the Chicago Loop.

      Until Uncle Gabe died in a plane crash last year, the two of them traveled the world filling their penthouse with treasures. Sculptures, antiques, and paintings of every kind and every art movement clung to the walls. It was a cornucopia of culture. The closest I had to a collection of art was a scrapbook in which I’d pasted covers of the Saturday Evening Post and magazine photos of my favorite artists’ work.

      Mavis greeted me at the door and took my suitcase. It wasn’t more than a minute or two later when Auntie C swooped around the corner and into the foyer dressed in a black turtleneck and skinny pencil leg slacks.

      "Peggy!” She flung her arms around me, and pulled me in close for a big bear hug, one of her large hoop earrings brushing against my cheek. “How is it possible that you’ve grown so much in just a few months?” My godmother smiled. “Mavis, can you please take Peggy’s luggage to the...” then she turned to me. “Well, where will it be?” she asked smoothing back an unruly strand of hair from her pixie haircut.

      “The Impressionist bedroom,” I said trying to impress her with my artistic acumen, all the while knowing what my real reason was. I’d be looking down on the better view of city streets.

      "A great choice, don’t you think Mavis?” 

      “Yes, Mrs. Bolderman,” Mavis answered and then made the comment, “Miss Peggy has excellent taste in art, just like her Aunt.”

      I started to unbutton my fuzzy pink Robert Hall spring jacket when Auntie C stopped me.

      “Don’t bother to take it off dear, I want to get started immediately, we’ve no time to waste.” She grabbed her black duster coat, swung it around her shoulders, and I was out of the door as fast as I came in.

      Lionel was still parked out in front with Auntie C’s limo waiting for us.

      “What’s the rush?” I asked as the car took off.

      "We’ve much to do.” Auntie C reached down and pulled out a little black bag from a compartment at the bottom of the back seat. “This evening,” she said, kicking off her high heel pumps, “I’m having a soirée.” She opened the pouch and dumped out a pair of sneakers.

      I never heard this word and had to ask. “What’s a Swar-A?”

      She slid her feet into the canvas shoes and explained. “Soiree is the French word for a party.” Bending over, she tied her shoelaces and continued, “It’s an elegant event that usually takes place in the evening. I’ve invited my renaissance friends – writers, artists, poets, performers, thespians, and so on.”

      I didn't plan on this. Though I brought some nice clothing with me (you didn’t go downtown without getting dressed up) I hadn't packed anything like a party dress.

      Auntie C was uncannily good at reading people’s feelings, and it wasn't long before she told me, “Don’t worry. I’m taking you shopping right after we go to the exhibit.”

      The limo came to a stop in front of a large white building. I looked up to see the words, Art Institute of Chicago carved into the stone facade of a structure that looked like a Roman temple from the movie Ben-Hur.

      “There’s a display of works by Paul Gauguin, I want to see. He worked with another artist for a while, Vincent van Gogh. Although from what I’ve read, they had a rather stormy relationship.”

      Though I knew little of these artists, I had seen a print of van Gogh’s Sunflowers in the impressionist bedroom at Auntie C’s apartment. “Isn’t he the painter that cut off his ear?”

     “Yes,” Auntie C said. “There is a thin line between genius and madness.”

      I’d guessed she meant that he was a great artist who was kind of crazy. I thought of what Dad had said earlier about Auntie C. It was reassuring to know that she had both of her ears.

      Following my Aunt up the stairs, we stepped between two huge larger-than-life sized statues. Lions guarded the entrance, one lion looking as though he was watching something in the distance, and the other ready to roar and pounce.

      As we walked the palatial halls of this art museum, I felt like we were strolling through a time machine. The artists’ styles, the costumes of the people they painted, the places they chose to put on their canvases changed from one century to the next. We had flown out of Auntie C’s apartment so fast, that I hadn’t had time to unpack my sketchbook, and in a way, I was relieved. I wouldn’t have been able to decide what to copy. There was so much I wanted to see.

      Threading our way through long corridors, we finally came to the Gauguin exhibition. It only consisted of two paintings and one drawing, but Auntie C took plenty of time to look at it. Not too far from this was another self-portrait of Vincent van Gogh. I leaned in close.  It looked like dots of color raining across the canvas, but as I stepped back, I could see the picture of Mr. van Gogh fall into place. There were over seventy years between us, yet the red-bearded artist seemed to look back at me as if he was right there. It was fascinating. 

                                          ************

      We returned to my Aunt’s penthouse laden down with packages from our shopping spree. I headed straight for my weekend quarters, flung the garment bag across my bed, and removed a Rappi taffeta designer dress. Layers of raspberry-pink nylon floated on its skirt as I placed it on the hanger. Then I grabbed the shoebox, tearing at the tissue paper that revealed a new pair of white shoes. I looked at their squash heels shaking my head. Finally, carefully, I pulled a small red velvet box from the Marshall Field’s bag and removed a delicate strand of seed pearls, sighing at their beauty. Guess I could get used to being spoiled by my Godmother's attention after all.

      The very next thing I did was to take my sketchbook out of my suitcase. My head was spinning like a whirligig filled with visual information. I had to draw as much as possible while the images from the museum were still fresh in my mind. It’s difficult to sketch from memory. Would I render things the way they were? Or would I draw them the way I remembered? Too much thinking! I decided to plunge ahead and hope for the best.

      The afternoon flew by. Auntie C and Mavis had been busy for hours getting ready for her party. Furniture was being rearranged and caterers gathered in the kitchen while a jazz quartet set up their music stands near the grand piano. I’d been so absorbed in my artistic pursuits that I hadn’t left my room.

      “Peggy, it’s time to start getting dressed for the soirée,” Auntie C called out from the hallway, breaking the spell I’d been under from the flow of my pencil.

      The finery that my Aunt bought me was about as comfortable to crawl into as a deep sea diving suit. Only when my ensemble was completed from head to toe, did I dare take a look in the mirror. Is that me? I had to ask myself.

      Not only did I look different, I felt different. I was a skinny armed, lanky legged individual, struggling to grow into something that had quite a way to go. Stuck between being a girl and becoming a woman is an awkward place to be. Still, because the beautiful dress made me at least feel pretty, I thought there was hope.

                                          ************

     Walking into the dining room that evening was like walking into a different world. I felt like I’d just stepped into a surreal dreamlike painting by Salvador Dali. As I stared out the west window that made up an entire wall, I could see the moon high in the sky. Headlights glared, traffic signals flashed, neon colors lit up signs down below, and lights from surrounding skyscrapers set the city blazing. Downtown Chicago was a whole different world at night.

     The table chairs had been dressed up in light blue seat covers tied with giant satin bows. A white lace cloth was spread on the long table with an elaborate centerpiece of periwinkle blue and white mophead flowers in the middle. China plates trimmed in gold, crystal goblets that looked like sculptures, and sparkling silverware were set from one end to the other. At each place setting, atop the dinner platters was a card with a picture of an old man, painted blue, sitting cross-legged while playing a guitar. I opened the card and read the inside.

                       “Why was Picasso so Blue?”

     I placed it back on the plate and decided not to ask. Sooner or later, I was sure to find out what it meant.

      Auntie C waltzed into the room dressed in a black beaded evening gown. She had smoothed the curls of her pixie-do from her face and darkened her eyebrows and lashes. Her berry red lipstick made her teeth look extra white, and she had traded her gold hoop earrings for dangling diamonds. She glided around the room as if she was on roller-skates, I clunked in heels that I wasn’t used to, and we met in the middle.

      “You look lovely Peggy. Quite grown up!” She hugged me, patting my back.

      "Thanks.” Though the compliment was nice enough, I hoped for something more than “quite” grown up.

      Not long after that, the doorbell chimed and the first guest arrived. Music soon filled the penthouse while waiters weaved between the guests carrying drinks I couldn’t have, and French finger food I couldn’t pronounce. When we sat down to start our dinner, I found myself sitting with a tall, thin man at my right, and a short, round man to my left.

      “Picasso, he vas always trying somezing new, experimenting vas in his nature,” said Mr. Short-Round with a heavy foreign accent as he fingered the blue man picture.

      “Are you sure about that Rudolf?” asked Auntie C.

       So there you have it. The little card was something to get the conversation moving.  And move it did!

      “Frankly,” spoke Mr. Tall-Thin, “I’ve always found blue a rather depressing color.”

      After that, talk flowed around the table freely, right along with the food and drink. Taking up a spoon, I dipped it into a bowl of tomato consommé, which is (would you believe?) cold soup, when Auntie C asked me, “And what do you feel about it Peggy?”

      Though I realized I was about to learn more from their discussion, what I knew now about Picasso could have fit into one of the thimbles in my Grandmother’s sewing basket. The fact that my Aunt called on me, like an adult, to give my opinion, made this a definitive moment. Could I possibly come up with an intelligent sounding answer, and still tell them the way I really felt? Or was I going to take the safe route, go along with one of them, and agree with what I’d just heard?

     Glancing at the picture on the card, suddenly jogged my memory back to this morning.

     “Welllllllll,” I said stretching out my answer. I was hoping that what was inside my head would form into words, words that wouldn’t make me sound too ignorant. “I suppose it depends on who’s doing the looking.”

     “How zo?” asked Mr. Short-Round, which I believe meant, “How so?” In other words, “What do you mean?”

     I scooped up my soup, remembering to mind my manners and not slurp it down, and answered, “Maybe if you knew Mr. Picasso, and you knew something bad happened to him to make him sad, it could influence the way you see the painting.  But it could be that it just makes you feel sad when you look at it.” 

      “Ov course it vould, blue is often expressed as a color of sorrow.”

      “But, what if you didn’t know Picasso? And what if you didn't know that the color blue is supposed to make you feel sad? You might think he saw an old man playing a guitar, and just decided to paint him in beautiful shades of blue – like the sky and the ocean.”

       By George!” said a lady, sitting next to Auntie C, “it’s the old subjective versus objective debate about art once again!”

      “Why so it is!” Auntie C exclaimed. “A very astute observation on your part, Peggy.”

      From then on the conversation took on a life of its own. I tried hard to keep up with everyone’s opinion, but it was difficult. All this subjective/objective talk was new to me. I think objective means the way a piece of art actually looks, and subjective means how it makes you feel.  At least that’s the closest I could come to figuring out what they were talking about. All I knew for certain, was that I wasn’t about to ruin the impression I’d made on Auntie C and her soirée society guests by letting them know where I got the inspiration for my “astute” answer. 

      Some people could look at my little sister, Katie’s, picture and say that she just wanted to use the color red, but I knew that there was more to it than that.  Red was Katie’s color of the week, ’cause that’s what made her feel happy. 

                                     THE END

About the Photos ……………

Art Institute of Chicago: This beautiful building has been in existence on Michigan and Adams Streets in Chicago since 1893 and houses thousands of works of art.  There actually was a Paul Gauguin exhibit that took place in the spring of 1959. The photo is one of my own.

 Rappi Designer Dress: This is the dress that inspired the description in the story. Rappi was a dress designer of glamorous formal wear for debutantes, etc., of the 1950s. A special “thank you” to Couture Allure Vintage Fashion for permission to use this photo.

© COPYRIGHT , Joyce Pyka on written material and (my own) photographs.