was just a kid in L.A. he was content to wander around the junk shop, fixing whatever his father thought was irreparable. Gilbert transformed a dark corner of the garage into a lab, where he had an impressively low number of nuclear near-explosions, and every science class he took at Dorsey High he ended up teaching until, in his senior year, Puppa decided that Berty deserved to study at the very best college in the country, within a reasonable distance. On a full fellowship in physics, he went to the California Institute of Technology.
Annette did not go to the California Institute of Technology. She went to UCLA. Any girl, if she is able to secure a parking space, can attend UCLA. And Annette wasn’t even plagued by this problem, since she was living at home and hitchhiking to school, something which very few other “Uclan co-eds” were doing. Something which even fewer of them were doing but which Annette was doing, with deep, unapproved pleasure, was smoking two packs of Kents a day through a filter, if indeed Kents were in circulation in 1942 and, if not, two packs a day of another equally strong brand through a filter. Something which no one, absolutely no one else in all of Westwood except Annette, was doing was being the managing editor of the
Daily Bruin.
She did very little all day other than call up the police station and correct proof sheets, then hitchhike home in the dark.
Whenever she had a couple of hours to kill, she’d walk across campus to her studio in the basement of the Art Department, where a certain professor of Post-Impressionism would invariably stop by to speak very favorably of the work she was producing in clay. Nearly all professors of Post-Impressionism are sexual in the extreme; this nice man probably just wanted Mother to put down her piece of clay and kiss him unconscious. Mother avoided such implications, if she was even aware of them, and concentrated, instead, on her statue, which she took very seriously. Spending a couple of hours when the spirit moves you does very little to enhance the quality of a work of art. Upon graduation, Mother had created only one small sculpture, and even it wasn’t quite finished. The left foot had only four toes.
Mother was proud of that piece of clay, despite its flaws. I think it was the only thing she ever made with her hands and she wanted other people to see it. When she married Father, she thought it should appear over the fireplace. Father agreed, though he thought it more properly displayed in the attic. When we moved north, she paid the Bekins moving man twenty dollars to wrap it carefully and hold it in his lap while he drove. Mother was disappointed, however, in how he handled a few plates and felt she had to file a protest with his employer: “Despite my repeated requests for the use of extreme care in handling and packing our fine set of imported china, these dishes were stacked together and wrapped only in coarse paper, unprotected by any kind of separating cushion. I was shocked to find this gross negligence, especially when such items as a plastic measuring cup were packed with more care than that accorded Limoges china.” She could certainly take the high road.
She placed the sculpture in the middle of the mantel, the first thing guests saw upon entering. I’ve avoided describing the figure because it’s so difficult to describe without making it sound grotesque. It was sort of a tragic self-portrait in red clay: an adobe woman with eyes of lead and hair of rock, her head bent sadly and impossibly between her legs. Her left foot was still missing a toe, her
mons Veneris
was curiously box-shaped, her breasts had the appearance and texture of acorns. I don’t know whether this was the artist’s intended effect, or whether it’s in extremely bad taste to comment upon the private parts of your mother’s sculpture, but I was touching those acorn breasts, thrilling to their strange roughness, when Adobe Woman fell from the
Annette did not go to the California Institute of Technology. She went to UCLA. Any girl, if she is able to secure a parking space, can attend UCLA. And Annette wasn’t even plagued by this problem, since she was living at home and hitchhiking to school, something which very few other “Uclan co-eds” were doing. Something which even fewer of them were doing but which Annette was doing, with deep, unapproved pleasure, was smoking two packs of Kents a day through a filter, if indeed Kents were in circulation in 1942 and, if not, two packs a day of another equally strong brand through a filter. Something which no one, absolutely no one else in all of Westwood except Annette, was doing was being the managing editor of the
Daily Bruin.
She did very little all day other than call up the police station and correct proof sheets, then hitchhike home in the dark.
Whenever she had a couple of hours to kill, she’d walk across campus to her studio in the basement of the Art Department, where a certain professor of Post-Impressionism would invariably stop by to speak very favorably of the work she was producing in clay. Nearly all professors of Post-Impressionism are sexual in the extreme; this nice man probably just wanted Mother to put down her piece of clay and kiss him unconscious. Mother avoided such implications, if she was even aware of them, and concentrated, instead, on her statue, which she took very seriously. Spending a couple of hours when the spirit moves you does very little to enhance the quality of a work of art. Upon graduation, Mother had created only one small sculpture, and even it wasn’t quite finished. The left foot had only four toes.
Mother was proud of that piece of clay, despite its flaws. I think it was the only thing she ever made with her hands and she wanted other people to see it. When she married Father, she thought it should appear over the fireplace. Father agreed, though he thought it more properly displayed in the attic. When we moved north, she paid the Bekins moving man twenty dollars to wrap it carefully and hold it in his lap while he drove. Mother was disappointed, however, in how he handled a few plates and felt she had to file a protest with his employer: “Despite my repeated requests for the use of extreme care in handling and packing our fine set of imported china, these dishes were stacked together and wrapped only in coarse paper, unprotected by any kind of separating cushion. I was shocked to find this gross negligence, especially when such items as a plastic measuring cup were packed with more care than that accorded Limoges china.” She could certainly take the high road.
She placed the sculpture in the middle of the mantel, the first thing guests saw upon entering. I’ve avoided describing the figure because it’s so difficult to describe without making it sound grotesque. It was sort of a tragic self-portrait in red clay: an adobe woman with eyes of lead and hair of rock, her head bent sadly and impossibly between her legs. Her left foot was still missing a toe, her
mons Veneris
was curiously box-shaped, her breasts had the appearance and texture of acorns. I don’t know whether this was the artist’s intended effect, or whether it’s in extremely bad taste to comment upon the private parts of your mother’s sculpture, but I was touching those acorn breasts, thrilling to their strange roughness, when Adobe Woman fell from the
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