Elizabeth Blew Did Not Meet My Legs
Thursday, April 03, 2014
Since I could remember my mother told me that I had a younger, sister, a redhead, who was born dead. I think I have been fascinated by redhead women since, perhaps to the point of obsession.
In my profession as a portrait
photographer, now waning, I always had a dearth of opportunity to photograph
women with red hair. My interest in such an endeavour came from my inability to
ever record on film the true, almost translucent skin of such mysterious
people. Only in the last few months, with the advent of my owning a Fuji X-E1
digital camera do I have the ability to finally achieve my goal. In a few
weeks, if Karen Gerbrecht, a violinist for the Vancouver Symphony writes her
essay, I will put up her picture as the latest in my red shawl series.
Of late I have been reading lots (in my NY
Times and in the National Geographic) of the almost-proven theory of how our
universe inflated after the first 10 to the minus 32 milliseconds. For reasons
that escape my puny intelligence this theory raises the possibility of several
big bangs before our own universe’s Big Bang. If that is indeed the case we
could be living in a multiverse. It is then not just science fiction that if
there is a googolplex (a very large number) of possible universes there could
be one where my sister had not died and I would then not have been an only
child.
Today I checked my first Argentine passport
and it is dated 1953. This confirms that I left Buenos
Aires that year for Mexico
City. I was 10.
I remember many things of my life in Argentina until
1953 but my memory of my cousin Elizabeth Blew (who must be two years younger
than I) is that of a girl that I would have ignored. She wore a ribbon on one side of her hair. I know this because I can see her in one of my group birthday party
pictures in our garden in Melián
in the Buenos Aires
suburb of Coghlan.
 |
| Elizabeth Blew is the girl in white almost in the centre. You can see her hair ribbon. |
Considering some
important events in my life in 1965 I am ashamed of my faulty memory. It would
seem that Elizabeth Blew’s memory of me (or at least that of my mother’s) is
very good.
She recently read this
blog. Elizabeth and I are facebook friends. This is what she wrote:
Alex, I read your
story and looked at the various photos. I think all the ladies in your family
are very attractive and to me, there is a lot of Aunty Nena in Hilary, also in
your looks. Don't know about the legs though, I have not had the pleasure of
meeting them, but will take your word for it!
The first thing that
hit me is her use of the word Aunty. It seems that word evokes for me an era of
nuclear families, no divorces, afternoon teas, and Anglo/Argentine accents that
were more British than the Queen of England.
The second thing is a
bit more intimate and I will proceed gingerly and hope that I will not embarrass
my first cousin, who does happen to be a blazing redhead!
In 1965, I have a hazy
memory of some of the events I used to go to my first cousin/godmother Inesita
O’Reilly Kuker for dinner once a week. I usually showed up in my Argentine Navy
sailor uniform. The table at the Kukers was huge as it had to accommodate
Inesita, her husband Dolfi, Inesita’s four children (she was a re-married
widow) and Dolfi’s four daughters (he was a re-married widower). Since many of
these siblings were teenagers they invited their respective boyfriends and
girlfriends. There was another guest. And this was Elizabeth Blew, one of the
most strikingly beautiful redheads I have ever met. Part of her charm was a
voice that somehow (to me) resembled the voice of Deborah Kerr. Whenever I see a
film with Deborah Kerr my heart palpitates. I have no idea if I ever spoke with
Elizabeth at
the table or if we had after dinner conversations.
What I do remember is
that we somehow met (I was in my uniform) at one of those Buenos Aires bar/restaurants that are on a
corner. I was sitting with her at window table. I was completely transfixed and
tongue-tied. I was completely smitten. I don’t think that my thoughts may have
descended into the realm of incest, but perhaps my memory has erased it. It must have been summer as the window was open. If Elizabeth had brought a parasol it would not have seemed out of place. She was my Estella and I her Pip.
The magic moment was
broken, a snap it was, when a very tall young man appeared in an Argentine Army uniform
(he was Norwegian but he looked like a perfect blonde member of the Wehrmacht).
I was introduced to the man perhaps by the expression, “….is my fiancé.”
Elizabeth and I are
now first-cousin-type of friends. I have seen her every time that I visit Buenos Aires. I once
visited her at her apartment in Martinez,
not far from the train station. But I usually see her for tea at Inesita’s who
also invites our other first cousin, Dianne. Dianne pouts if you happen to
pronounce that Dy-anne. It has to be Dee-anne.
I am happy to report
that Elizabeth’s
hair is still red (she says she colours it) and that she still sounds to me
like Deborah Kerr.
If you re-read her
latest message to me I do believe that her mention of my legs is sort of a
piropo (a much milder Spanish word for flirt or a come-on). I wonder what she
thought when we were sitting at that café before her soldier jerk showed up.
I have enclosed here a couple of pictures with my mother so that Elizabeth can have the pleasure of meeting my legs.
Not too long ago Lord Gilbey told me of a drink he called Primos Hermanos. I wrote about it here. The concoction is terrible but I would drink on now if Elizabeth were on the other side of the table with, of course, a parasol.
Not too long ago Lord Gilbey told me of a drink he called Primos Hermanos. I wrote about it here. The concoction is terrible but I would drink on now if Elizabeth were on the other side of the table with, of course, a parasol.
