by Betty Marvin
“Courtenay, your brother is out in the garden smoking marijuana.”
“So?” she said. “He’s been smoking pot since high school. Why are you so upset now?”
“I swear I didn’t know.”
“Mom, we all were experimenting with pot. I stopped when I went away to college. I got tired of feeling stupid. I guess Christopher enjoys feeling that way.”
I was surprised by her candor. She left the room and Cynthia appeared.
“What were you and Courtenay talking about?” she asked.
“About Christopher.”
“Did she tell you?”
“She didn’t have to. He had the nerve to light up a joint in front of me.”
“I’m not talking about Christopher. It’s about Courtenay. Anyway, she wanted me to tell you.”
“Tell me what?” I said.
“That she’s a lesbian.”
“Anything else I should know before lunch?” I sat down to catch my breath. “Why didn’t she tell me herself?”
“She wasn’t sure how you’d take it. She thought you’d be mad.”
“Well, I’m not. Just surprised.” I had never known Courtenay to be secretive, let alone timid. I went up to her room and knocked. She opened the door, wrapped in a bath towel.
“Can we talk?” I said, sitting on the edge of her bed. “Why didn’t you tell me you were gay?”
“I thought you’d be upset. Most of my lesbian friends got hell when their parents found out. Some were thrown out of the house.”
“Courtenay, I just want you to be happy. I don’t think your life will be easy, but I will always support you.” We hugged.
A couple of weeks later I came into the kitchen and found birth control pills on the counter. Cynthia walked in behind me and snatched them up.
“Are these yours? Are you having sex with Josh?”
“No, Mom,” she said indignantly. “Josh and I are just friends.”
“Well, then who?”
“No one, yet. But I want to and I just want to be ready.”
“Oh, Cynthia, please slow down. Promise me you won’t rush into sex just out of curiosity.
“Don’t worry about it, Mom.” She went out the back door.
I was dumbfounded. My perfect children were growing up in ways I had not expected, and I barely recognized them. Right after dinner, I took two aspirin and went to bed, jamming a pillow over my head to block out the Beatles blaring downstairs.
Claudia, now fourteen, out of the blue began to have adolescent rages. One morning she followed me into my bedroom screaming obscenities.
“I don’t care about your fuckin’ rules! I’m not cleaning my damn room! I am going to the beach!”
“Claudia, please don’t be vulgar,” I said quietly.
“You think you’re so damn perfect. No wonder Dad always got drunk. He probably couldn’t stand you if he was sober.”
Without answering, I went into my bathroom, turned on the shower, and stepped in, hoping the sound would drown out my daughter’s voice. But she was undaunted. Opening the door, she screamed, “I hate you, you bitch! I’m going to Dad’s!”
Lee called later. “Claudia wants to live with me. If I’m going to be responsible for her, I want custody. My attorney will draw up the papers.“
I talked with Claudia, and she convinced me she wanted to be with her father. Reluctantly, and against my better judgment, I gave in.
I was relieved when that summer was over and everyone, myself included, went back to school.
27
My Studio Life inVenice
I WAS WORKING on the thesis for my Master of Fine Arts. In the middle of creating an autobiographical installation, the studio I was renting in Venice was sold and I had to find another large space to finish the piece. I passed by an old building on the boardwalk with a “For Sale” sign outside. All my kids had left the nest, so I mortgaged my house for the down payment, then rented it to cover the loan payments. I moved to Venice, created a live-in studio for myself, renovated three other spaces in the building for rental studios, and put in a restaurant for lease.
In front of my studio, 1976
The homeless were hardly noticeable on the west side of Los Angeles in 1976, except in the poor street community of Venice. I had not been aware of this rugged lifestyle, spending most of my time as an adult in the safe, sheltered environment of Santa Monica, never straying too far east of Beverly Hills. I was nervous about moving into this area, but I was in my last year of graduate school and wanted to make art full-time. My alimony would stop completely in two years, and I was actually looking forward to being financially independent.
I knew no one in the Venice area but was fascinated with the characters on the boardwalk. At sunset I would climb up the ladder from my loft, open the submarine hatch that led to the roof, sit on the deck, have a glass of wine, and watch the street life. A thin, weary, old man with long, gray hair and a beard, dressed in rags, sat on the bench under the gazebo directly below. The gazebo was his home. Every evening before dark he removed a lamp, rug, bedroll, various appliances, and utensils from under the bench to furnish his open space. Of course, there was no electricity and no food to prepare or serve, so the ritual was redundant, but perhaps this daily routine brought him a sense of order and some hope. His mangy German shepherd was always by his side. The local police made a routine weekend sweep of the homeless in the area, picking up the old man on a regular basis. But in a day or two he always returned to his spot.
One afternoon about a month after moving into my studio, sitting up in my safe perch, I noticed the wind had picked up and black clouds were moving onshore. It was only a matter of time before the predicted storm would hit. The old man had a bad cough, and the gazebo offered no shelter against the storm. I climbed down and went out to his spot.
“Hello, I’m Betty, your new neighbor,” I said, bending down. He did not look up. His dog’s growl stopped me in my tracks and told me to keep my distance. “I came out to invite you in out of the storm,” I said timidly. No response. “I’m making a pot of hot chicken stew.” I refrained from calling it coq au vin. “You can sleep on the floor of my studio.”
After a time he looked up. His low voice was barely audible. “I won’t come in without Tim,” he said, motioning toward the dog. “And Suzie.” He produced a kitten from under his tattered coat.
“That’s fine.” For a brief moment I wondered if it would be.
When the rain began to fall, the old man ventured into my studio with Tim and Suzie in tow. He looked around carefully, then put his gear down in the corner of the large open space and followed me into the kitchen. I began setting the table. “It’s good you came in out of the storm. Sounds like you have a bad cold. Could catch pneumonia.” He did not look at me or respond.
“There’s a towel by the sink if you want to wash your face and hands.” I indicated the bathroom. When he returned there was a noticeable improvement. He took his place at the table and we began the meal in silence. Tim was not much friendlier than his master, staying by him at all times and growling if I came near. I pretended not to notice and poured us each a glass of wine.
“Thanks,” he said, not looking up from his plate.
“You’re welcome.” I was determined to have a conversation. “I just moved here and don’t know the area very well.”
“I know,” he said. So he had been watching me as I had been watching him. He avoided my eyes. “Venice is like a patchwork quilt. We live in the best part, Dudley and Ocean Front Walk. You have to know which streets are safe and those that are not. Don’t walk on the Speedway at night. Don’t go east of Pacific. Don’t go alone between Market and Washington. Those areas are not safe.”
“Thanks,” I said, surprised by his intelligent response and grateful for the advice. We did not speak again for a while.
He finally looked at me. “Where did you study art?”
“Otis Art Institute.”
“Abstract Expr
essionist, right?”
“That’s right,” I said, amazed. “Now I’m working in environmental and performance art.”
He nodded contemplatively. “That’s good. At last art is no longer confined to museums and galleries,” he said solemnly. “I believe it’s a sign of the times. Artists have an obligation to address real issues, not just make entertaining objects. After all, artists predict the future.”
I was delighted by his commentary. Tim, now feeling more relaxed, came over and lay by my feet.
“I’ve never seen him do that before,” the old man said. After dinner he looked at his plate. “That was delicious. I’m sorry I have nothing to give you.”
“That’s not necessary,” I replied. He excused himself and went out the studio door. He returned with a sample pack of Salem cigarettes and handed it to me. Being a smoker at the time I accepted the gift happily and together we smoked all six cigarettes over coffee. After clearing the table, I handed him a towel and a couple of blankets.
“Perhaps a hot bath would be good for your cold,” I said. “I’m off to bed.” I climbed the stairs to my loft, praying I did not have an ax murderer for a houseguest.
The sun was shining when I awakened the next morning after a sound night’s sleep. I peered over the balcony. The old man and Tim were not there. I followed the sound of his kitten and eventually found her downstairs in my photo lab. On the way to my car I took her out to the old man in the gazebo.
“Suzie got stuck in the darkroom,” I said matter-of-factly. The old man neither looked up nor spoke. We never spoke to each other after that.
One afternoon I arrived home and found the old man and Tim sitting in front of the door to my studio. When they saw me approaching, they moved back to their regular spot. According to other neighbors, they had positioned themselves there when a gang threatened to break in.
A year later, the police took the old man, Tim, and Suzie away and I never saw them again.
The Christmas holidays were upon us, and Christopher, Courtenay, and Cynthia came to visit me at the studio. Christopher had become a full-time musician and lived in Sonoma. Courtenay had stayed in the Midwest, a political activist working at the Women’s Press. Cynthia had given up her plan to be an anthropologist and had returned to her first love, costume design. She was studying at the San Francisco Institute of Design, living in a large Victorian house in Berkeley with four male roommates. She loved the arrangement and they, in turn, loved her. Why not? She was beautiful, could cook, and got along famously with them all.
Sadly, Claudia was missing from the family. Since I had given up all legal custody when she went with her father, I was forbidden to have her with me. She called from a boarding school in northern California asking for help, but unfortunately I could do nothing.
The children didn’t care for my studio lifestyle, but we made the best of it, sleeping in my loft, with Christopher and Courtenay in sleeping bags and Cynthia in bed with me.
“Mom,” Christopher said the next morning, sounding very paternal, “I don’t like you living here. It’s not safe.”
“I feel perfectly safe,” I said. “The street people look out for each other.”
“But, Mom, you’re not a street person. You have a big studio with a lot of valuable equipment. Remember Woody Allen in one of his first films? He had a record of a growling dog at the door of his apartment. I think you should either get a killer dog or the sound of one.”
“Sweetheart, don’t worry about it. I’m fine,” I said, wondering where I could buy such a record.
My friend Tris finally had his drug habit under control and had become a guru with AA and Narcotics Anonymous. He was looking for a place to hold meetings on Saturday nights, and I offered him the use of my studio. A lively group of drunks and addicts, ranging from bikers to Beverly Hills attorneys, gathered there on a regular basis. Because of the diversity in that street community they fit right in.
Tris dropped by one afternoon just after I had finished my daily tai chi session. Practicing tai chi gave me a sense of both physical strength and emotional calm. It also made me aware of the growing disenchantment I felt with my cumbersome implants.
“Hi, Tris,” I said distractedly.
“Did I come at a bad time, Betty?”
“No, it’s just”—I grabbed my breasts—“God, these things are so uncomfortable! I don’t know what possessed me to get them in the first place. I must have been out of my mind.”
“So get rid of them. They have nothing to do with you.”
I looked up at him in surprise.
“Having them removed is a completely safe procedure,” he said in his best doctor’s voice.
“You’re right. I don’t need them,” I said.
The following week they were no more.
28
Flying High
THE SKY STRETCHED before me, an endless arc of perfect blue. I could see the fields from an entirely new perspective. I took aerial photographs of the images and carried them from my flights to my studio.
I had learned to fly an airplane and loved being alone and navigating my own course. I had received a BA and MFA in painting and intermedia from Otis and left painting behind for the time being, devoting my time to video, film, and environmental art. I filmed Christo’s Running Fence project in Petaluma while still in graduate school, then rented out my studio in Venice and moved to Mendocino to design and build a solar structure on the coast overlooking the bay.
Learning to fly was scary, but my first experience of cruising over the Pacific Coast at sunset with a dashing pilot next to me was exciting. After a brief demonstration he gave me the controls, and by the time we landed I was hooked. I purchased the plane, a single-engine Beechcraft Sierra, lessons included. I was a nervous wreck each time I drove to the small airport in Little River for my training. My handsome, charming, ever-present teacher, Roger, helped, but I was still up there in the air.
I was very careful to familiarize myself with the equipment, systems, and controls. I made a thorough exterior inspection each time before entering the airplane, and once inside and before starting the engine, I would adjust and lock the seat belts, turn on the fuel shutoff valve, test and set the brakes, and be sure the electrical equipment was off. With the carburetor cold, mixture rich, throttle one-fourth inch open, master switch on, and propeller area clear, I would start the plane. Then before takeoff I would latch both cabin doors, check flight controls, move tab trim to Take Off, set throttle at 1700 RPM, and set flight instruments and radios. So far, so good. Ready for takeoff. This part always got sticky. Takeoff is always the most dangerous part of flying, and my palms were always wet. Nevertheless, with wing flaps up and throttle full open, I would speed to 70 MPH, lifting the nosewheel at 55. I would then pray a lot while climbing at airspeed of 75–85 MPH with throttle full open, mixture rich. When my prayers were answered and I was safely cruising at 2500 RPM, I was truly in heaven.
I felt very secure handling the controls as long as Roger was next to me. I became a good navigator—“right on the numbers,” as they say. It was encouraging to know that precise navigation is the most important quality in a good pilot, as I was convinced I lacked the other requirements, namely courage. I had a secret fear of flying alone and put it off as long as possible even though Roger began to push me.
“It’s time, Betty.” And then a few weeks later, “Come on, you’re more than ready.”
“I’ll tell you when I’m ready. I want just a few more hours. I don’t feel ready.” I stalled. There was nothing more to learn as far as the mechanics were concerned, but I was in no way ready emotionally.
I was now in the habit of flying to neighboring airports to practice takeoffs and landings. These maneuvers, called “touch and gos,” were a piece of cake as along as Roger was in the cockpit. One day in Ukiah I made a perfect landing and was about to take off again when Roger called out, “See ya later,” and jumped out of the plane. I was already taking off and I was alone.
“Shit!” I yelled while the adrenaline surged through my body. In the middle of takeoff at full throttle, with flaps up, at 75 MPH, the passenger door swung open. “Damn you, Roger!” I yelled, leaning over to pull it shut. It was tricky trying to keep my nose up, wings level, and mind focused. “To hell with the door,” I mumbled. “Let it fall off.” But once I was at cruising level I decided to circle the field a couple of times and correct the problem. After securing the door, I came in for a perfect landing, touching down the main wheels first, lowering the nosewheel slowly, and gently applying the breaks.
I set the parking brake, turned off the equipment, switched off the master switches, and descended from the plane crying, sweating, and swearing. I was glad to be alive. Roger was waiting with open arms and a big smile. After I calmed down, I reluctantly submitted to ruining a perfectly good top in the shirt tail-cutting ceremony which traditionally takes place after one’s first solo flight is completed.
In spite of my early fear of flying alone, I had jumped over a big hurdle. Soon I had enough hours to get my license. I flew a lot in the rural areas, gathering information for field paintings, but never felt secure about coming into major international airports in my little plane. Who wants to get lost on the radar screen?
Once I flew my mother from Mendocino to Santa Rosa for dinner. She was hesitant at first, not about the flying, but about getting in and out of the plane. When we were returning to Mendocino, just the two of us flying through the air, I looked over at her for a moment. So much had passed between us. Before I could say anything, she said, “Just think, I’m up here in the stars, and my daughter is flying the plane.”
I felt like Wonder Woman.
One early morning the phone woke me from a sound sleep. My mother’s voice was that of a frightened child. “Dick’s gone.”
I couldn’t grasp her meaning. “Gone where?”
