While attending the garden party luncheon of my friend Muffy Stout in Georgetown, I met a group of Art patrons. Expecting the event to be a crashing bore, I had dressed in a silk suit and wore high heeled sandals. While there, I met a guy from New York who lighted my cigarette.
As I was separated from my husband, I met him for dinner several times, during which time he invited me to live with him in New York. Thriving in New York had long been a dream. Seemed like a good idea at the time. Later, I found out, he’d only begun to search for an apartment, so I assumed he’d want me to join him, finding a place for two. Seemed logical. Fell in love with the guy and made do with the apartment he’d found alone. What would I do in a studio apartment? Well, it did come with a large lobby and a doorman. That would be tight with my easel, and large supply of paints and brushes. We planned to be married as soon we obtained divorces from former spouses. Then we’d find a larger apartment.
Upon settling into my new life, I continued to paint. Without room for an easel, I pounded nails into the wall to support my stretched canvases. The opportunity was set to find a gallery. How should I begin? A friend from my days at The Museum School in Boston was working on her Art History Master’s at NYU and she provided me with a list of dealers and galleries whom she thought would be good matches for me. However, she was studying conceptual art and, as
I worked perceptually, the rounds of gallery hunting proved to be unproductive. Exhausted and disappointed, I went to the then Bonwit Teller’s department store and bought a fetching wool wide brimmed hat, then took the subway to the Village to check out galleries here. The first one that caught my eye was large enough to display my giant paintings, so I ventured inside, propped myself upon a desk and asked to meet the owner/manager. A short balding man told me he’d look for him. After half an hour, he returned, alone. Told me “Muldoon” was in a meeting.
“I’ll wait,” and I did.
At long last the Muldoon appeared. He told me to bring some of my work in for him to see, that he didn’t value photos or slides. Yet another friend took me downtown with four of my paintings. The Muldoon asked me to leave the paintings so he could assess them with clients. Told him I was going home with my friend and left.
These were troubling but wonderful times. Neither my lover nor
I had achieved a divorce. I discovered that I was pregnant. Our daughter was born later that year.
My pediatrician told me that I was hitting all the numbers. Her father and I then took out a lease on a Park Avenue apartment, expecting to purchase it. That turned out to be fortuitous, for Wally unexpectedly, tragically, died just before we were to move there with our daughter. With the help of my siblings, I, as a single mother, moved into the Park Avenue apartment with my baby daughter, Claire.
Finally got a call from the Muldoon a month later. He wanted more time. Told him I was going to Florida to see my parents for the holidays. Took my baby daughter with me. When I returned to New York, he called to report that he’d hung them and sold two.
How did I survive as a young unofficial widow with a baby? I propped my tiny daughter onto the sofa while painting my grief and anger onto huge canvases until I found a nanny to care for her while I worked, for what would be my first of many New York exhibitions. (Yes, the Muldoon had sold even more of my paintings.) So many that he insisted on an exclusive contract. He also happened to wed a successful art dealer who joined him as a business partner, plowing in tons of profits.
My relationship with the Muldoon was profitable for both of us; even through Mayor Dinkins’ financial NYC depression when nobody seemed to buy art. The Muldoon paid my rent on a five -room apartment for a year. However, when finances resurged, I wound up suing him for stealing my paintings. Long story short: I moved into another Park Avenue apartment, remarried, divorced again, then finally married well.
