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Travels With Mom

Art — like beauty and stars — is in the eye of the beholder

By C y nthi a a damS Nobody in our town, nick-

named Hell’s Half Acre, talked or thought about it. They talked about the price of soybeans. We didn’t need to think about art.

A r t w a s u n a mbig uou s; wh at a n a r t i st f r iend c a l l s “ac c e ssible .” A r t work m at c he d t he s of a a nd r u g s, u su a l ly pu r c h a s e d i n t he sa me pl ac e .

Only Ruth, my mother’s f r iend, ow ned act ual ar t. Hell ’s Half Acre’s sole sophisticate chose abstracts, not the matadors and tear f ul clow ns that dominated other homes.

For this, Ruth aroused quiet suspicion.

With flair matching her Julie Chr istie look s, she k nitted plum and pink throws when ever yone else chose ugly avocado g reens, brow ns and har vest golds that matched their k itchen appliances.

D ur ing Europ e a n summer st udy w it h a g roup of te ens a nd ar t te achers, I d isc overe d t hat ar t ac t ua l ly provoke d somet h ing. S e eing. T h in k ing.

Soon af ter Ruth lost a battle with cancer, my mother str uggled with the same. Post-surger y, she chose a tr ip to a place where she hoped to see stars lolling around crap tables. Mom didn’t dream of seeing g reat ar t or cities. She wanted to “do Vegas.”

Steve Tesich quipped in a review of L ar r y McMur tr y’s Deser t Rose he hoped the deser t would take L as Vegas back. Me, too! L et the sand swallow it — the gaudy flash, splash and obsession with cash.

In Vegas, Mom showed remark able stamina for a cancer sur vivor. T he first evening, we sat at a one-ar med bandit while dow ning Bloody Mar ys. Light headed with booze, I jumped as the machine er upted in explosive honk s.

“You won! How much?” Mom tr illed as it spat quar ters into a plastic cup.

“I don’t k now,” I shr ieked. “Too much to count!”

Black streaked my cheek s f rom touching the filthy lucre and clap ping my hands to my face. It was 40 quar ters.

Mom played all night; cer tain she would spot celebr ities. A las, no.

I did encounter ar t in Vegas when fate ret ur ned me to the wasteland the deser t would not take back. Mog ul Steve Wynn had opened a museum in the Bellag io Hotel.

T he (since closed) Guggenheim Her mitage Museum in the Venetian Resor t Hotel was mostly void of tour ists, however.

A nd Mom’s health battles continued. Post hear t surger y, Mom was deeply depressed. A geog raphic cure was needed once more.

W hen an old debt was suddenly repaid, I of fered to go wherever the windfall would af ford us. She chose L os A ngeles.

Great, I thought gloomily. Mom might glimpse a star.

A nd there was a splendid new Gett y.

Day one in L os A ngeles was consumed by Mom’s request for a hairdo and my dread of f reeway dr iving.

Day t wo, a f reshly coif fed Mom could not comprehend my desire to see the Gett y. I tr ied to sell her on its cinematic views of Tinseltow n. Soon af ter ar r iving, Mom shr ugged of f the museum. I found her on an outdoor bench star ing into space. She waved me of f,

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claiming tiredness.

Yet she mag ically rebounded when we decamped to Nate ’n A l ’s, a Beverly Hills deli once f requented by stars: Dor is Day! Tony Cur tis! L ar r y K ing!

Day three, we refocused on Mom’s idea of a well-spent day. We booked a Gray Line tour, trolling the homes of stars f rom yesteryear. She loved the g uide’s spiel: Hitchcock ’s mansion, L ucille Ball ’s ranch, A aron Spelling’s compound.

Steve Mar tin’s moder n home stood apar t. Filled with L .A.’s most impor tant pr ivate collection, its windows were or iented to protect the ar t f rom damag ing light. (A n embar rassing encounter with Mar tin years later is a subject for another day.)

We continued star stalk ing — which had not produced a living celebr it y — book ing the Dearly Depar ted tour. Tooling around L .A. in an old hearse, visiting infamous cr ime scenes, star-soaked stor ies of overdoses and untimely deaths, we event ually entered the Holly wood Forever cemeter y. Within its mausoleum lay Rudolph Valentino and Mar ilyn Monroe.

Proximit y to dead stars was nearly as soul-satisf ying for Mom as a br ush with a living one. We paid quiet tr ibute at celebr it y g ravesites.

A television and film museum had opened near our boutique Beverly Hills hotel, but at the word museum, Mom shuddered.

Instead, we visited Rodeo Dr ive, where cer tain retailers employed the Vegas tr ick of f ree dr ink s as a means to lower inhibitions. Giorg io’s on Rodeo, where Mom’s favor ite (Elizabeth Taylor!) once shopped, spr ink led fair y dust over us. We sipped champag ne and spent money we didn’t have.

Window shopping on Rodeo Dr ive, Mom exclaimed, was much more thr illing than any museum, her yellow-and-whitestr iped Giorg io’s bag swing ing in time with her excited step.

Weren’t displays of inaccessible, beautif ul things also visual ar t?

Aware at last, I smiled. OH

Cy nthi a A d am s is a contr ib ut ing e dit or t o O.Henr y.

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