Mimi Stuart, American Artist of the 20th & 21st Century

         Most artists discover their talent and their desire to paint when they are in their teens or twenties, some even much later in life, or when they aren’t under pressure anymore to make a living. Mimi discovered hers when she was a year old. She was to nap in my cabin—we happened to be on a sail boat at the time—when she found my lipstick and set about painting her face, then her t-shirt, and her legs. Then she fell asleep with the happiest of smiles.

Throughout her school years her paintings won many prices. But not so at Berkeley University. Her art teacher at Berkeley wanted to see big blobs of grey and black; he deeply frowned upon her bright and cheerful colors. 

Mimi’s father objected to her painting ‘on principle.’ In his eyes, painting was a waste of time. Being an only child—his father had died when he was four years old—he was not even allowed to play with other children; he had to read books. When Mimi was hired during her summer vacation to lead a class in painting, he was furious and did not allow her to accept it. He wanted her to have a ‘proper’ job. He made her get work in a library.

I often wonder where Mimi got her talent. Not from me. My talent for painting is less than non-existing. We had a wonderful art teacher, though, a gracious and lovely nun. She appreciated art and felt its impact with all her heart and soul. I’m still puzzled that she gave me an A-.  I suspect that she loved my dancing—I did many solo dance performances/fundraisers for the Convent school I went to. Dear Sister Euphemia, she must have said many Pater Nostrums to atone for giving me an A-. And I can’t help thinking that it was her who saw to it that my daughter Mimi would be endowed with a great talent for art.

Mimi enrolled in Art School, but never went there—her father found out and made her go to Berkeley and enroll in Economics. After graduating, her father made sure she worked in a library. But luckily dear Charlie came along and married her. They found an old house that was affordable but totally dilapidated and needed every moment of Mimi’s time to restore it. But at night, Mimi sneaked into her study and painted. I was a great admirer of her art work and created a website for it. A few months later we discovered that a person in Texas was selling her paintings for good money. He had discovered her website, made photo copies of her paintings, put his name on them, and sold them. He certainly was “creative,” well, dishonestly creative.

One day, a gallery owner in Maui discovered the quality of Mimi’s paintings and offered to exhibit them in his gallery in Maui right by the ocean’s edge; and this is where they have been hanging and selling now for many years. 

Mimi still travels the world showing her paintings, which by now are in many galleries. She has lost track of the number of paintings she has painted or sold. She’s too busy painting and completing commissions. In the meantime, Charlie, her dear husband, has turned into a marvelous cook. “You know,” he told me the other day, “Mimi is so happy when she’s painting! She wouldn’t eat if I didn’t cook.”

Until next time,

Rosi

Visit from Russia

        At last the telephone rang. Natascha had safely arrived at the San Francisco Airport. I had prepared a sandwich and a bag of fruit for her since she had been traveling for two days and two nights and was bound to be hungry. 

And there she was, sitting on the designated bench outside the Airport. Very pleased I hopped out of the car and embraced her. “Welcome to America, Natascha.”

In spite of her tiredness, her shock at my demonstrative greeting was obvious. She looked at me sternly and embarrassed, and mumbled something. Probably just as well that I didn’t understand it. But then her face relaxed and she looked not unfriendly. 

We stowed her smallish suitcase on the back seat. It was tempting to put her next to it, but I resisted the temptation.

I handed her the bag of food I had brought. “Eat and enjoy. You must be hungry,” I said, “and then close your eyes and sleep if you like. We’ll have plenty of time to talk.”  I had to grin about my long speech, knowing full well that she didn’t understand a word. On the other hand, much of the meaning of what we say comes from the tone of our voice. It conveys our feelings and emotions, much more so than words can do.

It’s strange and challenging to have a guest with whom you cannot communicate. I turned on the classical music station to soothe the embarrassing silence. 

She did not open the bag of food I had brought; so I opened it for her and took a good look at her features while encouraging her to eat. She was much shorter than I, about 5’1” and slightly hunched forward. Her expression was stern, tired and emotionless. She looked a bit intimidating which was probably the way I looked to her. She wore no make-up and her skin was remarkably unblemished, though quite wrinkled.

She still was not eating and I urged her again to do so. At last she took a bite and her face brightened. 

It was time to drive home.

My office is Natascha’s room now. It’s the only warm room in the condo and the only one that has a door. All the others, kitchen, library and living room, and my upstairs bedroom have high ceilings and are open and difficult to heat. I usually spend the day in my office, happily working at my desk. 

The week of Natascha’s visit passed quickly and pleasantly. We walked the beach, went sightseeing and cooked. I taught her a few English words. She enjoyed learning, but it remained a big handicap not to be able to communicate! There was so much I wanted to know, and I’m sure she did too.  We used Laura to translate for us, but Laura was a busy lady and most of Natascha’s questions as well as mine remained unanswered.

When the time for her departure arrived, another obstacle raised its head. Natascha could not get a boarding pass. She had no valid visa; no way she could go back to Russia, they said. Besides, she had entered the country as a refugee.

What now?

We went to the Russian Consulate and sat there all day. And then to the German Consulate. Both visits in vain. 

One last avenue, the Office of Immigration. They looked at me in disbelief. Apparently, no one had ever petitioned NOT to be admitted to the USA. And that was what I requested; it seemed to be the only way to get Natascha home. As much as Natascha liked it here, she did have a granddaughter in Russia whom she fervently hoped to meet one day. We went from office to office, explaining her sad story over and over again—she was homesick and didn’t speak English … 

To my surprise, Natascha was eager to go home. She missed her comrades, and the little place she called her home. But most of all she missed hearing her language, the familiar sound of Russian.

On our third visit to the Office of Immigration I ask for someone who spoke Russian; and that did the trick. The lady was most kind and helpful. She spoke with Natascha and wrote the perfect letter for her, explaining that Natascha could not immigrate to the USA—she had to go back. And so, after a month in this country, Natascha was able to return home to Russia. I was delighted she had come. And so was she. 

       Would we ever meet again?