 Gina Gallo's Songs to Aging Children Second of Three |
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Colette only wanted to fulfill
her dream: To be an artist
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A very wise woman (okay, it was my mother) once told me that the only limitations that exist are those we place on ourselves. By her example, I learned to envision goals without limits, and to appreciate those who refused to allow limits to hamper the pursuit of their dreams. Somewhere along the way, I learned that age is just a number tallied only in the final accounting of what we've done and how we did it. And while our exterior appearances may age, youth remains eternal - in the dreams that ignite our hearts, and the knowledge that there is a love beyond reckoning watching over us all. The stories to be presented as 'Songs to Aging Children' are odes to those who followed their dreams. Gina Gallo |
of TheColumnists.com
She was from France by way of New Jersey. Colette Tessier
was her name, and she’d been a baroness in her home country.
Not that such a title made a difference in East Orange. It was
where she’d landed in the States back in 1940, where her
life as an American began.
She’d been just 21 then and pregnant, the widow of a French
soldier. With the enemy sweeping the Coast of France, she fled
just before the family estate at Biarritz was bombed. She’d
been lucky to escape with her life and a few family heirlooms.
It was one of those heirlooms that brought us together.
The cherry wood mirror was exquisite with cathedrals of graining
in wood that glowed deep as mulled wine. Elaborate rosettes of
gold ormulu outlined the edges and shimmered in the reflected
light. A fanciful piece that might have graced the Sun King’s
palace at Versailles, but not what you’d expect to find
in a senior citizen’s efficiency apartment.
She was selling it, she said. In fact, she was selling all of
it, and, if I was interested, she’d be willing to negotiate
a rock-bottom price. Slightly built, barely taller than the silk-upholstered
fainting couch she perched on, this 80-year old neighbor of my
aunt was ready to make a deal.
I’d seen her a few times before on my weekly visits, spoke
to her when she waved from her doorway. She was an artist. Most
days, the sharp tang of linseed oil and turpentine filled the
building’s hallway as much as the opera arias she played
while painting. It was her accent that intrigued me most--the
barest Gallic whisper sharpened by the staccato cadence of New
Jersey. The neighbors thought she was very outspoken, somewhat
bohemian, more than a little eccentric. I found her charming.
I’d find out later that she’d asked my aunt about me,
and that her interest was more than simple curiosity. She was
looking for a curator of her dreams.
On this particular day, she’d been waiting for my arrival,
and waved me into her apartment with an impatient hand. She was
moving, she said, and was in the middle of packing. It was all
because of her son. Stepping over piles of file folders, around
easels and stacks of canvases slashed with colors, she gestured
brusquely.
“Does this look like I can’t take care of myself?”
she demanded. “My son thinks so. Thinks I don’t have
all my marbles and wants to put me in a nursing home. Says it’s
not a good idea for me to live alone anymore.”
The scornful sniff that followed spoke volumes. The baroness
Colette had no intention of letting someone else dictate her
life.
She’d buried three husbands, she told me. The second was
the dentist in New Jersey,
a kind man with a good heart and a weak disposition. He’d
provided for them, loved her son as his own, but left her widowed
again at age 35. For three years after that, she worked at an
office job that fed her family but starved her soul. Single parenthood
left very little time to indulge creative urges.
By the time her son finished high school, she’d had enough
of East Orange. It was time to move on--preferably to a place
near the ocean. Somewhere she could paint the sunsets in vivid
streaks of scarlet and carmine and bold bright orange. She’d
done that back home, watching the tangerine skies gild the coastal
waters of Biarritz. Each setting sun was a little glimpse of
paradise her paint strokes could capture on canvas.
She fully intended to move, just after she got her son settled
at college. He’d won an engineering scholarship to Purdue
University, a Midwest academic bastion nestled into the rolling
green fields of Indiana. After more than a decade of east coast
industrial gloom, Colette was delighted. The heartland’s
beauty and homespun charm were almost as engaging as her son’s
French professor she met during Parents’ weekend. Although
he wasn’t a native Frenchman, Henri Saint-Martin’s
family tree was deeply rooted in the wine country of Avignon.
He reminded her of home, old memories and new beginnings. Four
months later, they married.
Her transition to country life was easy. She could paint landscapes
just as well as ocean sunsets, she reasoned. Hadn’t Van
Gogh created some of his best work at Arles? And even when her
Tessier originals were more frequently pedaled at flea markets
than galleries, she didn’t care. It was the creative process
that nourished her.
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was easy. She could paint landscapes just as well as ocean sunsets, she reasoned. |
A year later, her husband’s career led them to the University of Chicago and his department chair in Languages.. They traded their country farmhouse for a loft in the clouds. The view from her windows showed more skyscrapers, a city that never seemed to sleep, and, to the east, the glittering great lake.
Colette embraced city life with a vengeance. It was compatible with the restless energy that had her prowling the museums, haunting the galleries, strolling miles of beaches. Chicago was faster, edgier than anywhere she’d ever lived. There was a certain tempo here that fueled her work, prompted her to explore new creative vistas. She signed up as a docent at the Art Institute, leading groups of awed tourists past the collection of French Impressionists. The children’s hospital came next and her volunteer work with oncology patients. This time, it was art as therapy.
Colette spent endless hours with pre- and post-surgical patients, offering them the gift of their own creativity. Through the mediums of paint and crayons, she provided a diversion from the children’s frightening hospital experience. More than that, it was a way for the kids to express their dreams, their fears, and sometimes, their farewells.
Later, Colette organized that art work in a special exhibit called “Heart Art: Loving Creations That Heal the Inner Child.” When a terminal eight year old patient saw her own drawings in the exhibit, she flung her arms around Colette and cried. Maybe now her mother would be happy, she told her, instead of sad because she was dying.
When her husband died a decade later, Colette was still working with the children, still emphasizing the importance of dreams. She thought there was nothing more captivating than the hope in a child’s eyes And while she soothed patients still groggy from medication and endless procedures, she told them stories about ocean sunsets and tangerine skies. Whispered French prayers and spoke of American dreams, -the importance of thinking big and believing in magic.
It was the kind of magic they created themselves, she explained, as long as they believed that anything was possible.
A mild stroke at age 70 ended Colette’s work with the children. Her son insisted she sell her loft and move to his home in Arizona. She wasn’t capable of caring for herself any longer, he argued. Why not live out her golden years in the warmth of Phoenix?
But Colette had other ideas. After months of rehab, she returned to her own home. There had to be modifications, she knew. No more five-mile beachfront strolls at dawn to begin her day. And maybe she’d have to cut back a bit on the tennis games. And, because seniors are easy targets for muggers, she decided it might be time to pull up stakes again.
The senior citizens’ apartment complex in Romeoville seemed the obvious choice. Still a romantic Frenchwoman at heart, the name enticed her even before she saw the lush green country hills and the small lake circled with silver maples. She chose a corner unit large enough to transform into an art studio. And while the neighbors were friendly enough, they didn’t appear too motivated. Most of them seemed content enough to spend their days playing bridge or splashing in the complex pool, with an occasional game of golf to break the monotony.
Colette saw that her work was cut out for her. She organized a Senior Art League,
taught oil painting and watercolors and lobbied the Romeoville Town Council to establish an annual art fair. Her own paintings had taken on a distinctive blurry style that some called neo-impressionism, but Colette thought was caused by her new tri-focals. When an ophthalmologist diagnosed a cataract and macular degeneration, an irreversible condition that results in blindness, she remained undaunted.
And now her son was at it again. This time, he’d flown in from Phoenix to take charge of her life. Had even taken her for an interview at the nursing home he’d chosen, a place she described as ‘a bin where blue-haired vegetables are wheeled from room to room.’ Round -the-clock nursing care, he’d told her, just in case she needed it. Plenty of people to talk to.
“I’d be bored out of my mind and end up talking to walls,” she countered. “I’m not sick or senile.” In spite of his best intentions, her son had no idea what was best for her.
Which was why Colette was moving. In the space of two days, she’d packed what was absolutely essential and had it shipped to South Carolina. She was moving to the beach, she confided, the perfect place to paint. Somewhere her son would never find her, unless she decided to tell him. At the moment, she wasn’t sure when she’d be so inclined.
So she was ready to make a deal. Anything in the apartment I wanted could be had for a song. She wanted the pieces to go to someone who understood. In fact, forget the money--she’d be happy to give it to me. It was something to consider.
With two kids, two dogs, a cat and a tumultuous lifestyle, my home furnishings could best be described as Early American Chaos, not quite the setting for priceless French antiques. But it wasn’t furniture the Baroness was offering as much as the symbols of her spirit. So she gave me her mirror, the one that reflected the dreams in her fading eyes. That evening, she taxied to the airport, bound for her new life.
A week later, the first of my letters from Colette arrived. They were written in meticulous script on fine flowered vellum, scented with French lavender and ocean breeze. She was happy, productive, eager to share the details of her new world. In all, I’d receive almost 50 of those letters. Each of them outlined her life in the artists’ community where she resided, the exuberant sunsets and hypnotic call of the sea. Later, she spoke of a meeting with her son and his acceptance--at last--of her independent lifestyle. Always, she wrote of the joy her life brought, and the importance of following dreams.
When the final letter came, it was a single white sheet with ‘Steven Tessier’ embossed in
black letters. In a brief note, her son informed me that Colette had died, what he described as a peaceful passing in her sleep.
Four days later, the package arrived--one Colette had mailed herself. It was a glorious oil waterscape at sunset where hot colors pulsed in the tangerine sky, glinting off the lapping waves. It was the final legacy of the Baroness: a young French girl’s glimpse at paradise, an aging child’s chronicle of her dreams.
© 2001 by Gina Gallo. The illustrations are from IMSI's Master Clips Collection, 1895 Francisco Blvd. East, San Rafael, CA, 94901-5506, USA. The Gina Gallo caricature is © 2001 by Jim Hummel.
You can comment on this column or contact Gina Gallo with an email to: talkback@thecolumnists.com
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