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Wednesday, 16 May 2007

Chasing My Childhood

By Leah Aronoff

My first four years of schooling were privileged. The privileges came to a screeching halt with the onslaught of the Great Depression. The rest of my childhood was every bit as fortunate, but in quite another way, and would be a Part 2, if ever written.

Those early years flew by in Hoffman School, a progressive private school, housed in what had been a grand old home, located in what eventually became Fort Tryon Park. “Progressive” meant we studied French in the first grade, and could use either hand when we drew and painted. Sometimes I used both hands at once in abandon. (In general, at the time, using the left hand for writing or drawing was discouraged.)

Transportation was an enjoyable school bus ride from our apartment building, and traced the path of the heights along the Hudson River. It was rumored that one mansion we passed en route belonged to an unbelievably wealthy man, named Patino, who had made his fortune in the tin mines of South America. The ride gave me time to have all sorts of unrealistic dreams about people living in great stone mansions.

Hoffman School gave its pupils a choice between science and art. I picked the latter; the bohemian art world of the time was an integral part of my family’s life, but I remember frequently trailing a boy who made magic come out of something he called a “chemistry set.”

I loved studying French, which we did from the first grade on. Our text, which I still cherish, came from France. It was intended for use in French schools, and therefore completely free of English. We sang French songs, as well.

I marred the endpapers of my beloved book with a drawing of what I intended to be a beautiful blonde woman. She was blonde because I was not. Light hair, rare in my neighborhood, was envied and admired. (The drawing was probably acceptable for a six year old, but I am embarrassed by it every time I see it, and am distressed that I mutilated a book in any way.)

Our teacher was French, and from her I picked up an accent which stood me in good stead when I renewed my study of the language in high school.

A memorable experience of those pre-Depression years was my encounter with a man, whose home and sculpture studio were on the school bus route.

One day an itch to do what I felt like doing and consequences be damned came over me. That was the day I decided to walk home from school without informing the school of my intention. I knew this was wrong, and my walk was marred by a fear that the bus would overtake me, the driver catch sight of me, and punishment ensue.

At one point, I looked back, thought I saw the bus coming, panicked, and ran down the steps of a brownstone nearby, assuming a crouched position. The door of the house opened, and there stood a tall man, who asked if there were anything he could do for me. I said no, and didn’t hesitate to follow him when he invited me in.

I found myself in a grand, gloomy space, with gigantic statues, majestically posing, everywhere I looked. A soft light came through a window in the high ceiling, and I had my first knowledge of lazily floating dust motes. To my eyes, they were as magical as the statues.

I’m sure the man said a few words to me, and I wish I could remember what they were. After a time, sure that the bus had passed, I mumbled something about having to get on home. I hope I thanked the man before I left.

Off and on, over the years, I thought about the man and his statues, and came to realize he was the sculptor, George Gray Barnard. Several years ago when I saw his obituary in the New York Times, I was relieved to note that one of his places of residence was where I remembered it to be. I know the motes were real.

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