Memories abound where my mother is concerned, but I do have a favorite. Although it is a singular experience, when we attended Alexander McQueen’s retrospective, “Savage Beauty,” that summer day in 2011 exemplifies noteworthy traits that my mother had in droves.  Although the Metropolitan Museum of Art allowed its members to skip the monster line or attend on Mondays, there “closed” day, just to be part of the fun, my mother (who was a member) and I, stood on the 2 hour line with the masses. This curated event of a hundred ensembles and seventy accessories was unprecedented and there was no way my mother would not be part of the crowded excitement; “By the time the exhibit closed, over 650,000 people had seen it, making it one of the most popular exhibits in the museum’s history, and its most popular fashion exhibit ever” (Savage Beauty Exhibition). #1: My mother loved a well-dressed party.

My mother voted Republican, that is until President Bush II made a mockery of his political party in a multitude of ways including sending soldiers off to die without near enough discourse in her opinion. Also she was fed up with gay bashing, especially because as a hospice caretaker she had witnessed firsthand the prejudice so many AIDS patients had experienced even during their last days. But the final straw came about when several of her country club family and friends unleashed their bigotry while denouncing presidential candidate Barack Obama solely on race. Time to intermarry she would say. Somewhere along the last few decades of her life the “other” became increasingly important to my mother and this caused her to change both her conservative parish and her political party. With great joy she discovered new forums to express her spiritual and civic self. #2: She championed outsiders, those whose voice was silenced by greed or neglect, skin color or gender orientation. She sought out new stories. Alexander McQueen’s queerness only endeared him further for her.

My mother lived just a few miles into New Jersey via the George Washington Bridge, so popping into New York City for a concert or an opera, a luncheon with friends or to view a new exhibit, conveniently filled the free time in her calendar. On that July morning we drove down the West Side highway, surveying the broad Hudson for tugs and chatting up the day’s adventure. We parked underneath the museum and made our way to the snaking long long line. She was 84 but was definite, oh no, I don’t need the bathroom or a stop at the water fountain or a bench to rest on. A two hour wait for a two hour exhibit yet she was all set. I, on the other hand, visited the ladies room twice, and each time I came back, she was even more knowledgeable about either the museum pieces we were inching past or the people lined up around us. My mother made fast friends where ever she was, waiting in airports or restaurants, during any social engagement and handily on a slow moving queue. As much as she liked to talk, and yes, she was a talker, she marveled in your story. #3: Your life sounded far better in her retelling too.

Finally the moment came when we donned our audio guide and stepped into the first gallery. Within seconds my mother was swallowed by a swirling mass of people and was lost to me. Think crowded-metropolitan-rush-hour-subway-car, then add people moving in different directions, like a slippery serpent or an outstretched octopus, with no synchronous rhythm, no defined direction, just willy-nilly being drawn from one shiny figure to another, and my mother disappearing into that. I spent ten minutes somewhat frantic, unable to concentrate on McQueen’s masterpieces behind me, only squeezing between bodies and looking between shoulders to locate the one person I felt responsible to get home safely. When I did find my mother, she was intently studying a wall of objects. She asked if had I taken my time, had learned about his revolutionary construction, had fully appreciated the first room. So you’re okay, I screamed into her ear, because along with the crowd was the deafening music. She beamed this smile that was just her happy face. Jostled. Bumped. Stepped on. All true, yet she was unbothered and moved on fearlessly. She was a scholar absorbing all she could in the midst of genius. #4: Curiosity drove her toward all expressions; she was exactly what artists hoped for in an audience.