Helena Clare Pittman, one of the Center’s most dedicated teachers, has written, painted, and taught her entire life. In her monthly Helena Writes series, she shares a lifetime of wisdom, one pearl at a time.
In her 55th post, Helena offers the conclusion of the continuation of scene from her beloved young adult novel, Ruthie Pincus of Brooklyn. Enjoy!
Fact and fiction in writing about Ruthie
I can paint, I can write, but organizing papers is not one of my gifts. I realized tonight while searching through my blog file, not on the computer, but in the plastic file box where I keep all the columns I’ve written for almost the last five years—a thing of wonder, that I’d written the ending of Ruthie Pincus, “The Science Fair” for the November 2022 post.
So any reader that returns to this blog will know that Ruthie has won two prizes for her Science Fair projects: First Prize for her rock collection, and a prize that required its own category, a Special Award of Extra Credit for “Birds of Brooklyn (and the Tri-State Area).” When I was Ruthie’s age, I collected rocks, always looking for a fossil, as Ruthie is, and I did win an award, an Award of Superior Merit. I remember the moment clearly, my surprise, and my sense that I’d pulled something off. Why? Because I was simply using what I loved, my rock collection, for my Science Fair project, and I won an award; while others, my peers, had worked hard, I assumed, on their projects. Looking back from here, I’m thinking of Stuie, who brought his snake to school for his project in that Science Fair. I was really David Mendelsohn, and my father and I built the recording thermometer together. That was my father’s joy; he was a scientist and a teacher and did most of the work.
So all kinds of lines of conduct were blurred as I look back. And memories run together. I can’t remember which year was the year of the recording thermometer, and which year was the year of my rock collection. “The Birds of Brooklyn” project came as I wrote. Ruthie, after all, is a work of fiction, based on my childhood memories.
That experience of having gotten away with something was one I would have again when I drew or painted, something I lived to do, and received acknowledgement. I remember a project in Color Theory class, at Pratt, the great art school where I was so fortunate to have studied. Miss Buckley (my Color teacher) asked us to do a painting in whites—something I would ask my own art students to do when, later, I taught Color Theory. I remember being so thoroughly absorbed in the project, I don’t remember looking up to see how other people were solving that problem. What are whites? How could white become a plural? Isn’t white white?
I began with shapes painted in different colors, and overlaid white on each shape. The underpainted shape showed through; it influenced the look of the same white casein paint. And I discovered the beauty of allowing the edges of the under-color to remain, here and there. Miss Buckley liked my piece! I was amazed. She held it up to the rest of the class as an example of whites. I do love painting in whites now: white roses, white carnations, peonies. I often paint white flowers. But the revelation came from that problem I solved, and thought myself a cheat. I loved teaching working in whites. I did it with collage. I asked my students to bring to class all the white papers they could find, paper towels, tissue paper, magazine papers—any papers that could be called white. Together, on a page, the whites vary. You can compose the most beautiful compositions using whites. The results of the assignment were always mind-bending for my students and for me. I think the sense of cheating is such a bad and automatic rap one imposes on themselves, at least when a person is really manifesting their gifts.
Another piece of the science fair from Ruthie Pincus
And speaking of gifts, I will include here another piece of the chapter in Ruthie Pincus of Brooklyn about the Science Fair, the one part of that section of Ruthie I didn’t include in November 2022’s column, or from February’s or March’s continuations, all that writing taken and elaborated upon, from The Science Fair section of that book.
Here is “Gifts”:
Aunt Dorothy was so enthusiastic about the idea of my feeding the birds and drawing them for my Science Fair project that she went to Benny Pitt’s Butcher on Troy Avenue to get suet for Ella, her canary, named for Ella Fitzgerald, the singer Aunt Dorothy adores. My aunt put the suet in the bottom of Ella’s cage.
“Did she love it, Ruthie!” Aunt Dorothy told me on the telephone.
“Ruthie is gifted,” Aunt Dorothy tells my mother when Mamma worries about my collections—the rusty pieces of things I find in the street, the rubber bands, and, of course, the fat from Benny Pitt’s.
Aunt Dorothy tries to assure my mother that I’m artistic. She also says this about my other projects. For instance, when I sewed together a skirt and blouse that I hardly ever wore, curious to see if they would make a dress. It almost worked, but not exactly. The waist seemed a little low and it was longer on one side, and when I shortened it, it just seemed longer on the other. I worked on it until finally it was a little too short to wear, so I wore it in the house after school. This made my mother frown. It made my sister, Rebecca, roll her eyes. “We can’t even give it away!” said Mamma. But Aunt Dorothy thought my mother should buy me a sewing machine and get me lessons to learn how to use it. “You have a gifted daughter, Miriam, stop worrying. Ruthie’s creative!”
“Use your gifts, Ruthie,” my aunt tells me. “They’ll make you a good life.”
Aunt Dorothy
I loved my Aunt Dot, as I called her, she was so full of love and acceptance. She was different than my mother, who did worry about me. Aunt Dot just wasn’t a worrier. I called her Aunt Dot because my mother called her Dot, or Dotty. Some of my cousins did call her Aunt Dorothy, and that’s the name that always comes when I write about her. My mother and Aunt Dot were very close to one another. Devoted sisters. I imagine she did counsel my mother, with my mother’s many worries. Worry was the character of my mother, my father, and me. Not of Jolene, my sister. She walked forward in the world without looking back. From here, I’m sure my sister didn’t understand what it felt like to worry.
Aunt Dot was one of my advocates. I think from here, it was this: she really did believe in me. I understand my mother’s worries. How does a creative person make their way in the world? But it was Aunt Dot who was right. I have a good life.
Who has been your advocate in life? Who believes in your creative endeavors? Write about it, or share with us in the comments about that person and what you thought of Helena’s latest post.
Related reading: Helena Writes
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