named John
upon his desk was an ancient newspaper clipping from the Daily news. Attached to the article was a red post-it from his boss that read, “ Your next assignment: Eva Allen, a 90 year old lady should be turning 100 on Friday.
If she’s still alive, this could be an interesting story.
Give her a call; see if she wants to talk. If it’s a compelling story we will run it in the June issue, pick her brain and try your best to be on time. Her is number: (818) 356-8972.� He put the note aside and continued with his daily mundane activities in the office.
John insisted that we sit down and get started with the interview.
I asked him to grab a
I kept in the closet next to the umbrellas. I had forgotten how that raggedy old thing had looked: a broken hinge, travel stickers, venue stickers, and scuffed like crazy. I could imagine how cheap it would have been back in the day compared to now.
I sat the pile of mementos on my lap; I thought that John would love to see them. Each item that I had collected over the years and stuffed into this suitcase was dear to me, and reminded me of precious moments.
Bakersfield
He leaned over to light my
as I began to d
off the frame on top of the pile.
In it was a butterfly that I had caught in my mother’s garden one fourth of July. It was 1918 and I was about six years old, my parents and I lived on a long stretch of land in Bakersfield California. Oh how beautiful it was, If you were lucky you could catch
the sun meeting the rolling grassy hills. It filled the sky with all of my mother’s favorite colors: deep purple, a rust orange, pink, and yellow. Her name was Betsy; I can see her then clear as day.
She was gorgeous:
blonde hair to her shoulders, prominent cheekbones, full lips, and hips that swayed when she walked
I remember one of my mother’s birthdays, my father had planned a day of all her favorite activities, we went sight seeing, had a barbeque, and when we went into town he surprised her with the piano we had
fancied for quite some time. She was breathless; my father made her so happy, I only wished that one day I would meet a boy just like him. She loved to play, everyone was very fond of her music.
she would play at parties and our guest would
the piano just to enjoy it.
On Sundays we’d sit at the piano by the window, she would play our favorite song and I would sing my little heart out.
The Monarch
Under the frame was a picture
I always thought that was so
The next morning my mother
of us standing in front of the
strange, it was almost like it
broke the news to me. “Your
old barn. That day I had been
had just given up on life and
father had a heart attack,”
playing in the fields with my
handed itself over to me. I
she said. The night I found
neighbors kids trying to catch
scooped it up in my hands and
him would be the last day we
butterflies. It wasn’t long before
ran into my father’s workshop.
spent together;
I gave up; you know I was never
But when I went inside my
really the athletic type. As soon
father was lying on the floor
as I had went to sit down,
and I couldn’t wake him up.
we believed that he was now in
Without my father we could no
and hung it over his workbench.
longer afford the house, she
Although I enjoyed the idea
planned to move to the city so
of “city life�, I feared that I
she could get a job. Before we
would forget all of my wonderful
were to leave I went into my
memories on the farm.
fathers workshop, on the floor next to the spot where I had found him was my butterfly. I put it in a frame we had in the house
Under the picture was an old broken record of Irving Berlin’s called “Alexander’s Ragtime Band.”
My feet began to to the music that played in my head
as I remembered all the good times. It was 1928; my mother and I had just moved into a new apartment over a diner in the city and were unpacking our things for the kitchen cupboards.
We loved to play records, together the sound was amazing; something like a Broadway street scene. I attended a large public school a couple blocks away, eventually my mother allowed me to walk by myself and on the
weekends I didn’t have to be home till the street lights came on. My mother got a job working as a secretary for a recording company in a very large building down town. She worked long hours and often had to stay in the office as long as her
boss did. It seemed like the older I got, the more responsibility she allowed me to have. By the time I was 12, I became far more independent than my peers. It was obvious that I had what I would call big city dreams!
When I was alone in the house I would play my mothers piano, over time she taught me how to play and I had become fairly good. For practice I would listen to the tunes on the radio and try to mimic the melodies.
My neighbor
hated when I played,
I think he would hit the walls with a frying pan if I played past 8:30. He was a mean man, grumpy all of the time; I didn’t know a woman in the world that would put up with him! After a couple complaints to my mother, she pretended to yell at me so he would leave her alone.
That was a funny night, we watched movies and ate a whole carton of ice cream in one sitting.
Those were the good old days: when I could eat dairy without any repercussions.
Used as a bookmark in one of my middle school playbooks, was a pink fold out brochure from my first show. The well-illustrated cover read “A Shoemakers Holiday! Starring Eva Allen an Fredy Mack!� I had got lucky and beat out Brenda
Dawson in the auditions for the lead role of Rose the Mayors daughter. I had taught myself how to cry on cue just for one scene, they loved the realism and I loved how it worked its magic with my mother when I was in trouble!
she showed up almost an hour early to get
and at the end she surprised me with a rose bouquet.
From that moment on I wanted to be a star, and thought that I had just the right amount of talent to pull it off. I pursued everything possible that was related in any way to the performing arts, I even tried my hand at painting, never got good
at it but loved the historical background. I was always pushed to do well in school, after hard work and dedication I improved my grades to become top of my graduating class, all the while taking outside singing, acting, and piano lessons.
I came across my college diploma from the University of California in Los Angeles, getting into that damn school was the hardest thing I did in my life. The first years I spent in college weren’t so hot, my roommate Donna and I became regulars at a small dive bar in an alleyway off of sunset,
and my grades tanked soon after. Donna became my best friend, after we got through some small skirmishes, by junior year she and I were in separable. I finally got my groove back when
you’d think they would have a class for that? To be honest most of college was a blur, I remember once this guy took me on a date, the whole night we drove down Mullholland pretending to be the fortunate families that lived in those mansions; you
know he told me he would buy us a house like that, and the money he used would be nothing but pocket change. I believed him; his name was Mike Allen, he was a nice guy, we dated for three years before we parted ways when he graduated.
UCLA had just started establishing their official arts program as my senior year came around, so I picked up an easy job at a creamery to help me pay for an additional semester so i didn’t have to bug my mother for the money. A couple years after my graduation in 1933
my mother became very ill,
too old to continue working, she stayed home and we hired an at home nurse so I could keep my job. It wasn’t long before she could no long fight her disease and I would loose her.
young, motivated, reckless, and alone:
I planned to pursue my dreams. I set out to fulfill my mothers dying wish for me to make something out of myself by any means.
Rough Patch
John picked up a small jewelry box full of my show time pieces, oh the stories I could tell him about those. I was 23 and had a hundred dollars in my pocket and a little bit more in my account at the bank. I ran in to a
small rough patch
with my acting career in L.A. so I joined a poetry club that performed open mic at a small club.
They helped me find
my voice and a real sense comfort on the stage,
those are some of the things you can only get in front of a real crowd of people. The club asked me to travel with them to Chicago for a gig they were booked for, I had no idea what traveling with them would get me into. We took route 66 to Chicago; there we established
our own little fan base that we hoped would follow us to New York. In the big city we could only afford a small studio apartment for the five of us over a pizza parlor. Our living situation as you can imagine was my main motivation for a real change.
In New York I went to many auditions in an attempt to make it on Broadway. There was one audition that I will never forget. I had my lucky pearl earrings on and group of us were about to get briefed before an audition. The director of the show walked in the door, to my surprise
it was Mike Allen: my college sweetheart.
I never heard word of what happened to him after college but,
After addressing the girls, he approached me with a large smile and whispered in my ear that I had already gotten the spot. I took the audition as serious as any other to showcase my talents; Mike winked at me as I exited the stage
after my performance. I announced my opportunity of chance to the poetry club and we celebrated. Finally, I got my big break.
For a week straight after every show, Mike was at my dressing room door, flowers in hand and a limousine outside to escort us to dinner and the after party. As months past I fell hopelessly in love,
he had shown me a life of happiness and no regrets.
We wed on the anniversary of my parent’s marriage: traditional black and white attire, white roses, and a three tier red velvet and butter-cream wedding cake; my favorite. I was about 26
and he was 30, with only a couple years left in my career, I focused my sights on pursuing a career i had overlooked in the past.
I began to look forward to new beginnings.
On top of the pile of the mementos were two plane tickets to the Los Angeles International Airport. Those tickets for me marked the start of a new chapter in my life. I got the chance to pursue my dreams, I found love in an unsuspected
place: no matter how cliche that may sound, and lastly I fulfilled my mothers dying wishes. Mike and I spent 42 years in show biz until
we moved back to California.
We bought a house on top of a
this house was more than I could have ever asked for, mike had exceeded his college promise to me and I was very grateful. We enjoyed the life we lived together and didn’t want to have it any other way. With way too much time on my hands and money
not an obligation I focused my time on art history, a subject I was always very fond of in college. I became staff at the Getty Museum; there I would spend my days educating the younger generations on the great marvels and creations of our past.
In 1979 Mike past away with over 60 years dedicated to the performing arts, that same year I established a scholarship at UCLA in his memory for students enrolled in the arts program; he would love to see the younger generations excel in
an art form that he loved so very much.
With great pride in the masses I could have educated at the Getty I retired from my work, and tracked down my old poetry club. By this time
I was old,
but definitely young at heart.
I spent my weekend nights on stage, speaking the truth about life and all its uncertainties. Being on stage was just how I remembered, attentive and supportive crowds that hung on every word you spoke.
100 Years & Some Luck
Backstage, a local writer for the arts magazine approached me; he spoke of how much he loved what I had to say on stage and of course wondered how old I was. I was 89 years old and still able to do what I loved,
I lived a life of great fortune and I appreciated every minute I was gifted.
The reporter wrote a story about me and released it on my 90th birthday, that article was the same article that was sitting on Johns desk when he arrived for work, and the reason for his appearance at my door
ten years later on my 100th birthday. At the end of his interview John asked me, “what do you think was the key to your long lived life?” With a puff of the end of my cigarette I responded with the truth…
This book was created from the inspiration of a photo taken by John Long of Eva Allen. The original caption read: “
Colophon
Photographer John figured it was just another 100th birthday anniversary. Then he met Eva Allen, former politcal activist now rationed to one cigarette a day.� The typefaces use are Bodoni and Helvetica.
Breea Kelly Visual Sequencing 2012