Family legend has it that when I was two years old I stormed up and down the hall shouting “Damn damn damn, I can’t find my car keys,” imitating a phrase commonly heard around our house. I got an early start looking for whatever it was my mom had lost.
When I was packing up Mom’s house following her death last fall, I found boxes of single earrings. Reuniting them with their mates felt like one last way to help her recover something she was missing. As I was going through them I found a small box carved from stone, clearly the home for something precious. Nestled inside was a pair of earrings I had given her many years ago with an admonition not to lose them.
I don’t think my warning had much weight, it was the preciousness of this particular pair. An intricate design of tiny peach colored pearls, their delicacy a contrast to her usual more ethnic style. These were special earring for a pretty woman, given with confidence that they would not be lost.
After I spread out my mom’s jewelry collection on a table in my studio, I decided to add my collection from the late 80’s and 90’s, the early years of my profession when I was trying to figure out my own style. Short hair and shoulder pads meant big statement earrings. Remember Tabra and her long swinging beads and silver cut outs? Also in the box marked “old jewelry” were piles of costume jewelry from the early 60’s that belonged to my grandmother.
Now the table is covered with three generations of jeweled necklaces and broaches made of pearls, turquoise, glass, crystals, rhinestones, and chain. It’s a lot of sparkle. The shelves and cabinets that usually display paintings hold racks of earrings and bracelets. I’ve been hanging out with these treasures that are so full of memories and mysteries. Friends see the collection ask: What do I plan to do with it all?
I’ve given a few things away, but mostly I just like to hang out with it. Every time I look I see something I’ve never noticed before, like necklaces from my childhood, things I had outgrown and discarded. A small strand of pink plastic and glass beads attached to a bell missing its clapper and a symbolic Indian pendant are necklaces I remember from summer camp.
My grandmother Esther’s collection is the most intriguing. She and my grandfather had fallen on hard times, and she had gone back to work at the May Co in the purse department. After her sudden death at age 66, I can remember my parent’s shock to discover that she had box after box of costume jewelry, at the time called “paste”. Fake pearls in a multitude of hues, some strung with crystals and other glittering beads. Broaches in every color and dozens of clip earrings, one barely distinguishable from the next.
Why so many? And so similar? Was she buying something with every paycheck? Was she shoplifting? I feel the pathos of her situation, to find yourself in a life you didn’t expect. I’ve experienced some of the same feelings in my 60’s. I imagine Mom did too. I wish we could all talk about it.
As I pass the jewelry collection on my way to my easel, I feel that we are continuing the conversation.
I sort through the pieces and feel compassion for all of us. I also feel amazed that I am in a profession where I work with jewelry as part of my image consulting services. I find joy in collaborating with designers to create just the right piece of art to wear, something that will make the recipient feel more beautiful and last far beyond the outfit it was originally worn with.
It’s been 9 months since Mom’s passing, and I still look at her earrings, hoping for one more match. Even though our styles are different, I’ve worn a little bit of it to feel closer to her. Perhaps I’ll start giving some of it away soon. Perhaps.
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