This I Believe ~~

My mother was a deeply religious woman, and never shied away from living and practicing the teachings of the church.

For instance, Mother thought it was a sin to gossip, and therefore, refrained from its dangerous pull completely. She believed by ‘doing the right thing’ her children would be protected from unfounded or hurtful gossip from others. She simply believed that.

 There were so many things she taught us. She embodied the essence of style and provided us with insight to the principals of a cultured life; manners, speaking well, art appreciation, reading, playing outside, singing together and practicing good posture.

There is one principal that has had a great influence on me, and has become a personal belief; it’s taken from a church teaching my mother followed religiously throughout her life, administering God’s Grace in times of illness, merely stated as   – ‘Visit The Sick”, which of course included, the old, the infirm and anyone alone.

Always on her missions she would take one of us along; there was never a discussion about what she was doing, we learned this principal by example - she would just gather up whichever one of us was around, and off we would go to see whomever was in need of company, food, or a helping hand.   

It is so ingrained in my sisters and brother that we just do it. Visiting the sick, the elderly and the infirm is a natural part of our life.

Another principal I learned from my mother: that of social behavior; the front runner of manners and social behavior is how we greet our fellow human beings. Simply recognizing one another as we pass through this tragic comedy of our lives, reassures all of  us we are not alone while traversing daily pitfalls,  disappointments and indeed our most joyous triumphs -  

I believe it is our duty, one to another, to acknowledge each person who crosses our path, be it a nod, a smile, a wave, and ‘Good Morning, Good Afternoon, Good Evening, powerful words, easily said, slide trippingly on the tongue.

Manners, behavior, deportment – Upon presenting my report-card to my mother, her eyes would pass over all the subjects, I was an A-B student, occasionally the dreaded C would appear, but the subject line for Deportment, as far as she was concerned, should always show an A.

Of course, we don’t grade manners anymore –I mentioned deportment recently in conversation, several adults were not familiar with the word; a pity certainly.                

 

 

 

 

David Bowie

A career marked by continual re-invention, musical innovation and I love him so much for his striking visual presence -  not to even mention his brilliant mind, and I quote:

"I'm looking for backing for an unauthorized autobiography that I'm writing. Hopefully, this will sell in such huge numbers that I will be able to sue myself for an extraordinary amount of money and finance the film version in which I will play everybody."

I'm Writing, I'm writing . . .

No I Am Not

All day yesterday to write, I have today free to write - Can't seem to put ANY thought or scrap of a sentence together.

I read Larry McMurtry's essay he published on storytelling for the Texas Classics literary series  where he talks about 'the woman' who as a young girl was swapped for 50 skunk hides - he saw her many times as he was growing up - his dad sometimes would give her a ride into town - she never spoke, never uttered a word, just stood by the side of the road until someone picked her up so she could do what ever she had to do in town; 'she lived to bear the trapper many children.'

The essay is full and rich in detail as he goes on to tell how his grandparents arrived in the vast open empty country to settle and populate the land with children that scattered far and wide. Rich rural stories, we have all read and loved, like ."Lonesome Dove" to name one of about 30 novels.  See what I mean - I know, give it up, Helen, take the high road - be honorable - just fall on your sword.

His '(My) grandparents were - - potent word - - pioneers.'

I see a glimmer of hope here - my grandparents and parents were pioneers of sorts. Traversing an ocean to reach the land of the free but instead of wagons to reach the far reaches of  Texas, my grandparents  traveled by train where factories were waiting for the men, land too, precious land that would take years of toil in those factories to purchase their prized pieces of of that rick black loam, because like the McMurtrys  - land, owning it - made them  free, not beholden to any other man.

My grandfather and father were business partners, the women were rulers of the house - my mother, was exceptionally beautiful, so young, raised by the nuns in Italy, knew only books, music and fancy needle work. My grandmother, her mother-in-law knew only hard work, raised to take care of the men and children,  to cook, clean, tend the fruit and vegetable gardens. The women raised in to two different worlds, one of privilege and one of laborers.

My mother was beautiful, my father was handsome. My grandparents were the rock and foundation of our lives . . .

(I won't fall on my sword today)



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Florence - Written and Photographed by Helen Martin

First published in the November issue of FD Magazine -

Florence -

     It's raining, a slow, steady, refreshing kind of rain that wakes up my sleepy self as I hurry to one of my favorite cafes' in the heart of Florence.

     I love the sounds of the city: the glorious church bells that ring out from dozens of church towers, reminding me to smile as I pass a gentleman playing a plaintive 'O Sole Mio'  on his accordion.

     The cool and sleek interior of Cavalli's coffee shop just beside the signature store became a regular hangout for my morning espresso or cappuccino, and with my morning coffee, I was treated to another unmistakable sound of the city: the clatter of cups and saucers being continually re-cycled as they are washed, dried and stacked.  The baristas stack the white smooth china with such  flurry and style, design and balance all the while creating symmetrical art displays.

     The whole of this Etruscan city is a museum.  The grand palazzos, the expansive piazzas, framed with soaring arches; public buildings designed to endure centuries, architectural elements that dazzle: fountains and sculptures abound; around every corner, another feast for the eyes as one marvels at the changing light playing on the ancient stone. Florence is alive every hour, offering Americans the perfect European street life we crave.

     For years I dreamed of leasing an apartment in Florence.  My beautifully furnished one bedroom was on the 3rd floor of the Palazzo Rimbotti, which dates back to the 14th century, each apartment lovingly decorated by the current elegant Countess of the same name. I traversed Via Tornabuoni, which houses Georgio Armani, Gucci, Roberto Cavalli and Hermes which occupies the first floor of the Palazzo Rimbotti.

     Leaving my street and walking toward the Ponte alle Gracie, I pass Salvatore Ferragamo's headquarters, housed in a splendid, ancient, dark brownstone palazzo along the River Arno.  I'm on my way to visit the Uffizi Gallery and view one more time Botticelli's "La Primavera".  I pass a performer of street art in front of the Prada store--a lone, beautiful girl encased in white--I saw her several times during my walks around the city.

     The sight of El Duomo with its huge dome provided a landmark to navigate the dozens of winding streets.  The Gothic, marble facade is breathtaking, Another landmark to guide me: Ponte Vecchio. The ochre  tones
of the shops glow.  The Pharmacia Antico just off S. Maria Novella on Via della Scalla enchants me.  Opened in 1612, the ornate 17th cintury building boasts a tall carved arched entryway, marble floors and fine art lining every wing, each one devoted to a single department such as perfumes, handmade soaps and skin care.  A stroll to Via Spiriti offered another memorable uniquely Florentine moment; watching the fireworks display over the Arno, in honor of Saint John, the Patron Saint of the city.

     I visited, jewelry designer, Angela Caputi, knowing full well I probably could not afford any of her amazingly colored pieces.  She was in attendance and helped me select earrings for myself as well as a bracelet for my sister, each piece between 35 and 45 Euros.  Her couture collection, showcased in the Pitti Palace Costume Collection ranges into the many thousands, but this stunning Florentine artist designs for 'us' as well.  I treasure the photo I had taken with her.

     When one talks about Florence, for me, anyway, it comes down to the food, sensuous and sumptuous; one falls in love with its unforgettable flavors.  I had a pasta dish everyday - all excellent!  If I had to choose an absolute favorite, it would be from a wonderful trattoria along the river; plain large shells, make in house, with fresh, slightly cooked, pressed tomatoes, flavored with picorino romano cheese, a drizzle of olive oil and fresh basil. (I did not add cheese. (I did not add grated cheese. The chef and my waiter approved.) I also visited the restaurant, Boca Lapi, just around the corner from my apartment for the world famous Florentine grilled steak: a T-bone, cooked 'undone'.

     I took a day trip north with my friend, Giuseppe, to walk along the Carrara Mountains, and as I marveled at the hugh marble mountains exposing their treasures, I wondered, did Michelangelo imagine David when he chose a piece of gleaming stone?  Most say no. Legend has it, the master discovered his brave David as he chipped and cut the white marble; it goes on to say, the Lord himself touched his hand.

     In Florence, I gazed at "David" and when I could gaze no more, with eyes lowered, I paid homage to his maker.

     Soon afterwards, I said goodbye to the stately city on the Arno.

Ciao, Firenze -    





eve

first draft -  excerpt from an essay in my book

I was profoundly affected by Cathy’s death as were all my sisters and brother. She was the eldest and we all worshiped her, looked up to her and knew her to be a special person, so pure and kind; we would remark that God mixed up his angels and humans one day and sent Cathy to earth by mistake.      

Cathy and I lived and pursued our careers together as roommates in Chicago, she in business with a firm on LaSalle Street and I started my fashion modeling career as a photographer’s model and runway model. Those were heady days, filled with fun and laughter. The energy of the city was palatable, you could taste it, touch it, feel it all day and through the night. Chicago could easily boast about their glamorous night-clubs. The Rush Street scene throbbed and shimmered with world-class entertainers. And the best and always the most fun: dinning in Booth One of The Pump Room at the Ambassador Hotel; restaurants were everywhere. Often, on Sunday mornings after brunch, we would hop on the Michigan Ave. bus to meet friends and spend a few hours at the Art Institute of Chicago; one of our favorite go to venues in the city; we loved taking out-of-town visitors to Field Museum of Natural History.

Chicago Theatre on State Street—that great street. And there was Oak Street Beach, where the stately Drake Hotel stood to our right, anchoring ‘The Magnificent Mile’, the sand warm under our towels as we gazed out on the gleaming lake, turning our bodies to catch the sun, clad  in our tiny bikinis,  and always, always on the look-out for eligible young men. God, we were young! Lincoln Park with its own zoo, within walking distances from our apartments; whenever we moved, we always stayed in the same neighborhood.  Oh, and I remember the ice shows at the Palmer House on Michigan Avenue, where mom and dad would stay when they visited Chicago.  

Our father had instilled in his children the love of baseball, but somehow, instead of choosing his beloved Chicago White Sox, we became Cub fans; boarding the steps of the Clark 22 or Broadway 36 bus at Wrightwood, we would head to Wrigley Field, step off the bus and almost immediately, each of us had a hotdog in one had and a beer in the other. I introduced my husband-to-be to the art of baseball and the way of the ‘Cubbies’. He loved his first ever professional football game and then he was astounded at how much he liked ‘authentic Italian cooking’, declaring early in our relationship how he did not care for Italian food. He was ‘American’ as my mother called all non-Italian beings, so how could he know, poor thing. (Povorino)

  

             

Jennifer Lopez on the cover of "W"

The photo shoot took her back to the Bronx and 'the street where she lived.' Elizabeth Taylor, whose performance in 'Butterfield 8' inspired the photos are- of course - amazing!  My favorites are the black and whites - they remind me of the photographer, Victor Skrebneski's work in the 60's. Although that color shot in Marc Jacobs dress and bolero is definitely something to write home about!

The Curse of the Three Piece Polyester Double-knit Pant Suit

If you recall, perfectly fashionable women started buying these monstrosities in the 1970's, I know because I was paid thousands of dollars to be photographed in them during my modeling career.  All my pictures in those double knits are stunning; accessorized beautifully, photographed in wonderful settings: at a restaurant, in the park and yet, I could never bring myself to actually purchase one. WHY? Because the fabric was not real - it was faux fabric.  Fabric must move with your body, feel good against your skin, the bust darts on the 'shell' should fall somewhere around your breast line. It is not a good thing that when one removed their pant suit, there was no need to hang the garment on a hanger, 'Look, I can stand it in the corner!'

But the worst thing about the look -- most women's derriere hung out beneath the jacket line, and women, if they ever checked themselves in a 3-way mirror, would be horrified.  Oh, and because women  were ladies, also bought into the control-top panty hose debacle,  Oh my Gosh. So the derriere was camouflaged into what? To appear as a shapeless footfall! All femininity was lost.

And now, another curse has come upon the land.  Leggings - I will skip over jeans and just insert this piece of conversation I over-heard. "I finally found a pair of jeans that would fit me."  My response would have been, Maybe, just maybe, jeans are not right for you.

But back to leggings, in reality, the so called leggins I am referring to are not leggings at all...they're TIGHTS, the same old thing we used to wear to our work-outs.  A whole on-line industry has emerged, TV shows and infomercials encouraging women of all shapes and sizes to don skin tight 'leggings' and 'just add a clever top.' Are they insane!

Have we lost all sense of appropriateness, of image and style, of what a flattering silhouette means? Yes, yes we have.