Life With Iron Giants V: Mollie

When I lived in Los Feliz I spent my share of time in local cafes and there were plenty of good ones, including the much-touted Alcove, and my favorite, the delightful French patisserie and purveyor of scrupulously researched organic delicacies, Figaro's Bistrot.   Their delicate and saucy apple tart tatin with organic cream and a caramel finish was a treat I always looked forward to on a lazy Saturday afternoon.   

        But I never actually felt connected to the pleasant but aloof staff or any of the very hip customers who always looked like they were either in the entertainment or music business with the unmistakable but subtle class distinction that comes with being in the arts. Casually dressed in something just the other side of the fashion curve, they were always engaged in lively discussion with their friends or hidden in Moorish solitude within the depths of the New York Times whilst feeding tidbits to schnoodles tucked inside Prada pooch purses.

     I am in the arts.  In fact I'm a bonafide working artist (not a poseur like some were), but I never felt at home in this group. There was something about the energy surrounding them that reminded me of high school cliques; they were focused inward as if to protect themselves from the fringes, the unpredictable, the un-vetted.  To be on the outside was to feel the change in air, to feel loneliness creeping into the void, to be at the window looking in, longing for the warmth and companionship spread so liberally within that circle.

     In short, I was never a member of the community, whether in small or large doses, whether on my street, in my garden apartment building, or my neighborhood.  Not politically, not socially, not as an activist nor even as a lone speaker on a box, voicing my opinions and being heard.

     This was my fault, but not for reasons as I understand them now.  As with everything in life it's all about passion.  Passion for the things that you can truly connect to: life, reason, love, the man on the street, the tramp at the backdoor, the act of breathing life into the places and things around you, the need to connect and be heard, to listen and to feel the tendrils of understanding reach out and take root.  To hear the past speak and to reach out to the future as it bonds people together.  To find commonality and to nurture it.  

Case in point:

Soon after we moved into our house it became clear that all things in my life were under construction.  For us it was missing doors or kitchen cabinets, unshod floors and the absence of a working shower.  But as I began to make myself visible to the community I realized this building process was the way of things for everyone.

     I met Mollie* one afternoon at a little strudel shop that had quickly become my local hangout. The owners, Mishi and Aniko opened their new Hungarian-style bakery/cafe shortly after we'd arrived in the neighborhood.  They needed customers and I definitely needed their flaky homemade strudel in 16 delicious flavors. With their blessing I set myself up on one of their comfortable lounge chairs with my laptop every afternoon to write.  They even put a framed photo of our daughter up on the cafe china cabinet and fuss over her like doting grandparents when she comes in to visit. In this congenial atmosphere striking up conversations with strangers has become easy.

     Like most openers here in Pedro the first things you talk about follow along these lines: how much we like it here, how many generations we go back (I cheat and count my in-laws who arrived in 1945), the politics of urban renewal, how things are changing for the better for the worse, the influence and congruence of the bemouth Port, and the definable, beguiling essence of small town life that has survived here despite everything.  After Mollie and I had gotten all of the pleasantries out of the way she became reflective, quietly sipping her tea.  After a moment she began to share her story with me.  

     A thin, slight woman in her 70's with a deeply lined face, my new acquaintance confessed she'd been housebound for almost six months and had only recently ventured out to walk the block down to Mishi's for strudel.   By the paint-spattered yoga pants, black turtleneck and colorful yarn skull cap jammed over her thick white curls it was apparent she was an artist.  Her studio was nearby, she told me, and when we looked up her bold, modern canvases on the gallery website I saw how talented she really was.  Her work was not cheap, her respectable dealer located on the Westside.

     She looked at the images of her paintings wistfully and said despite the fact they were constantly being rented for use as set decoration on various films and television series, not many were selling.

     "But that's okay," she added, "I haven't done anything new for a while." And then she whispered, "It's been hard....my daughter.....I've had some grief and it's been terribly hard to go on." She looked at me searchingly.  "She was so beautiful and talented.  She could do anything she put her mind to and do it better than anyone I knew."

Mollie became an artist in the thick of the original bohemian movement, living in New York and then in Mexico where her writer husband drank a lot of tequila, sold jewellery in street markets and ultimately left her to raise her daughter, Zora*, alone.  Zora shared her independent streak, threading together a patchwork career as a writer, painter, and documentary filmmaker.  But at forty she was still unmarried, close to broke, and desperately depressed. One day she left her mother's house where she'd been staying temporarily and moved into the Zen Center in downtown Los Angeles where they found her.

     "She killed herself." Mollie's voice was quivering, the loss was still raw.

Then she looked at me. "She left so much unfinished work. So many pieces for me to put together.  I need to do that to honor her, to keep her spirit alive. Maybe you could help me write her story."

     I didn't think I could.  

     But I wanted to help in some way.  I gave her my number and after we had finished our meal and a cup of tea I went back to work certain we'd cross paths again.

Next:

Mollie asks for a favor

*I've changed Mollie's and Zora's names to protect their privacy.