THE NARRATIVE ARC
A Startling Realization About My Mother
A visit to the Museum of Modern Art with Mom
Mom and I obtained out tickets to view the huge art exhibition of fin de siècle Vienna at the Museum of Modern Art (MOMA). I was spending part of the summer of 1986 in New York, taking a break from expatriate life. I had suggested to Mom that we come to MOMA to see the exhibition because I knew she liked the work of Gustav Klimt.
We rode the escalator up to where the exhibition was. I supposed the organizers knew that the most popular Viennese artist in the exhibition was Klimt. And thus his works greeted us as we entered the main room.
Mom took in the expanse of works and, as if drawn by a magnet, headed straight to the famous, and enormous, painting, “the Kiss.” I followed her and stood before it. I was not a great fan of Klimt, preferring instead the stark, somewhat emaciated figures of his contemporary, Egon Schiele. The two great artists represented two very different directions in the Viennese “Secessionist” art movement of that time.
Mom was artistically inclined, although she had never done painting. Her color sense was extraordinary and tasteful, whether decorating her apartment, and now house, or choosing what she would wear. People often commented on her appearance, everything well-coordinated but not obviously so. She had a knack for creating subtle color themes in her attire and jewelry. Mom definitely had an artistic sensibility.
Klimt’s most famous works were a riotous celebration of brilliant, rich colors. I had certainly noticed this before, but I had never stood so long in front of “the Kiss.” That Mom was fixated on it prompted me to examine it more closely. The title alone revealed that this was a painting expressing passion. Of course, so do many paintings. But this one, I now saw, had a highly erotic element that was at first masked by the panoply of colors and designs that overwhelmed the two embracing figures.
I was ready to move on, but Mom was still closely examining the work. I had never before noticed the woman’s ecstatic — orgasmic? — expression. It was more than just a kiss. The two figures were, in effect, engaging in a sexual act. While that alone made me feel uncomfortable, for I couldn’t remember ever watching a film with my parents that involved intense sexual passion, what jolted my mind was that Mom was enraptured by this highly erotic painting.
I then recalled that Mom was very fond of the film, Last Tango in Paris, which some women found offensive because of the male character’s aggressive sexual conduct. Of course, Mom, like many women of her generation, adored Brando. But the film featured rather steamy sex, unusual for a mainstream film in the early 1970s. And Mom liked this film!
I knew Mom was very beautiful, even then, approaching 60. I recalled my brother telling the story from when he was in junior high school. After pointing out Mom to his friends, they gasped incredulously, “that’s your mother?” I had always taken her beauty for granted but never thought of her as a passionate woman.
Three years later when my parents visited me in Berlin, the surprising recognition I had that day in the museum would be confirmed. A highly sensuous Yugoslavian woman, after briefly observing my mother, told me that she seemed to be a very passionate woman with “temperament.” I was at first startled by the woman’s remark. But then in a memory flash, I remembered my reaction that day at MOMA.
Another childhood memory jumped into my head. Our Siamese cat once got into the cabinet next to my parents’ bed and started playing with a box of condoms. For some reason, we were all gathered in the master bedroom just talking. My mother gave a look to my father that made me very uneasy. I didn’t want to think about my parents having sex, even though it shouldn’t have been surprising that they did. But who would want to think about that?
I reflected on all this during those very uncomfortable moments when I was standing next to Mom who wouldn’t take her eyes off the figures in that painting. This was a side of Mom I never considered. Even now as an adult over 30, I still saw Mom only as Mom, not a sexually active, passionate woman who enjoyed looking at a highly erotic work of art.
I was relieved when she finally was ready to move on. She paused in front of the famous painting “Judith and the Head of Holofernes.” Mom didn’t focus on the decapitated head nor did she seem to linger on the half-naked body of Judith. But I noted her glance was directed to the seductive face of Judith. Coming right after “the Kiss,” and Mom’s long gaze on it, I wondered if she felt some affinity with the seductress. I certainly wasn’t about to ask her.
As I stood there, I reflected that Mom never dressed in a revealing manner. She was brought up well by my very proper grandmother. Yet I had just discovered that Mom had a passionate side and here she was giving a great deal of attention to an obviously seductive, sensuous woman.
My musings were cut short. Mom was ready to move on.
We made our way through the exhibition not lingering very long at any particular work. Mom occasionally pointed out a certain quality that she liked in the painting. I realized that was something she regularly did, even when just walking around. She offered her interpretation of everything she saw through an artistic lens. I recalled Mom often saying, “I try to see beauty in everything.” Klimt’s dazzling, luxuriously rich colors clearly appealed to Mom, and I expected her to mention it when viewing his paintings.
Thinking about her silent absorption — without comment — in “the Kiss” and also in the Judith painting, I was convinced that my uncovering of Mom’s passionate side was accurate. She wasn’t about to voice to me whatever she had experienced while viewing these two paintings.
Not surprisingly, Mom showed little interest in the works of Schiele. She dismissed them as depressing.
After having viewed most of the works, we were ready for the sumptuous treat of authentic Viennese apple strudel in the special café MOMA had set up in the outdoor sculpture garden. A string quartet played Viennese waltzes and other light music and the waiters wore white dinner jackets. Having been to Vienna, I didn’t feel that we had been magically transported to the imperial city on the Danube, but Mom was much more imaginative. The Klimt art extravaganza propelled her into an imagined world of fin de siècle Vienna.
As we sat there, I tried to remove from my mind the disturbing acknowledgment that Mom had a sensual, erotic side. Sorry, Freud, I can’t go there. I was glad that she didn’t talk about the paintings that attracted her the most. We were both focusing on the delicious and expensive Viennese treat.
After our refreshments in the café, we left the museum and took a taxi to Lincoln Center where we would be meeting Dad. We walked to the fountain, the famous meeting spot, where next year, the transformed Cher would be meeting a handsomely groomed moonstruck Nicholas Cage.
Dad asked us how the exhibit was. I was relieved that Mom kept her comments very general. For, Dad had no interest in art. He was, however, very interested in hearing about the apple strudel.
Then the three of us walked to Central Park for a stroll before dinner. Mom, walking alongside Dad, holding his hand, was no longer the passionate woman transfixed on highly erotic art, but just Mom.
