My First Love

Here I am with my mother in 1981. She was my first love. Truly.

But, I was never her favorite. She loved my brother more than me. This was obvious and there was nothing I could do about it--no matter how hard I tried, no matter how many Valentine’s Day cards I made, no matter how many spectacular birthday and Mother’s Day gifts I created.

Nonetheless, I tried. I saved up all my tip money from my waitress job at Howard Johnson’s to take her to New York City--to the Miracle Morning spa at Elizabeth Arden, followed by a Broadway matinee to see The Boyfriend with Twiggy and Tony Tune--followed by dinner at the Russian Tea Room.

I was that kind of girl—studying the reviews in the New York Times and saving my pennies.

Nothing really worked. For years, I tried to figure out the reason behind my non-favored child status. Was it because I was too big, too loud? Was it because I couldn’t carry a tune? Because I was born a girl? Because I was the youngest? Or was it because I looked more like my father than her?

Here’s what I’ve come to understand--if I had been my mother’s favorite, I would not have spent my life perfecting the seductive powers of the arts. Performance and costume. Story-telling. Dance. I would not have perfected the application of red lipstick. As the favorite child, I might have rested on my laurels, and just enjoyed the spotlight as if I were born into this world with the god-given right to be adored.

I had to work hard, hone my talents and develop skills.

Creative Friends—the practice of art-making is all about getting love. However, it’s the kind of love that will always elude you. That’s what makes you tough. That’s what keeps you returning to the dance floor, the piano, the paint brush, the page. The practice.

In other words, thank the gods you were not born the favored child, get busy, and go make some art.

Love,

Jamie