Where design was concerned, my mother was indefatigable: a passionate classicist, a committed modernist, she had a mind that never quit and the aesthetic fervor to match it. Back then, she was my adorable visual mother. Today, she’d be running her own design studio.
In the days before the DIY revolution, it wasn’t so easy to make things unless you were either dexterous or entrepreneurial, and my mother was both. If she favored historical references, it was more as a provocateur than as a plagiarist: in her view, everything was grist for the mill, and she borrowed from everywhere. There was the time, for a friend’s wedding, that she yearned for a hat — the kind that the other Audrey wore — and not being flush enough to buy her own at the time, she found a basket for a dollar that she reshaped over a steamy stove. Indeed, on the Helfand-Hepburn issue, resemblance to her namesake was striking, requiring little effort on my mother’s behalf to make passers-by look twice. Let’s just say the hat was icing on the cake.
When I was about ten years old, our family moved to Europe, and suddenly my mother was the wife of an international corporate executive. If her wardrobe shifted into high gear, her essential attitude about herself did not: she was, after all, someone who had grown up during the Depression, and her sense of style had never been brand or label-dependent. Indeed, like so many of her generation, she was frugal beyond belief. She credited her beautiful skin to home-made facials made with witch hazel and wheat germ. She never once in her entire life set foot in a spa or, for that matter, a salon. The only thing my mother ever paid top dollar for were bed linens which, unlike fashion, do not date, and were, in her view, a justified investment. (I still have those linens. She was right.) She was not only smart, she was practical.
My mother was also, it must be said, extraordinarily feminine — in that way we think of movie stars from the ‘30s and ‘40s — and looked great in everything, particularly during the theatrical 1970s, when she discovered BiBa in London and Andre Courrèges in Paris. Long before the visual excess of Lady Gaga, my mother — by then in her mid-forties — had platinum hair and wore platform shoes. A woman ahead of her time.
My mother saw design as art history writ large, and believed everything held an educational opportunity. It was Audrey who introduced me, as an eight-year-old, to the work of Charles and Ray Eames; Audrey who provided me with Froebel blocks to play with; and Audrey who bought me my first Aaron Copland record when all my friends were reading Tiger Beat. It is her fault that I am entirely too invested in Downton Abbey, having come of age, at her heels (did I mention she only ever wore heels?) watching romanticized British mini-series on television. It is because of my mother that I often see design as more about the past than the future because it is, after all as much an expression of who we’ve been than about who we will become. And it was under her influence that I grew to acquire a love of portraiture (the ultimate visual biography), beginning with painting but ultimately grounded in her collection of vernacular photographic portraits, many of them badges and pins of forgotten people. At my wedding, she wore them all.
It bears saying, finally, that my mother belonged to a generation of women who did not divulge their ages. (I would never have known how old she was had I not peeked at her passport once.) Untethered to such specificity, she was ageless — and like anything that is itself well-designed, timeless. She died ten years ago this week, and I think of her constantly: in my studio, in my garden, driving, drawing, thinking. We would all do well to be remembered as I remember her: for her intelligence and intellectual curiosity, her kindness and wit, but perhaps most of all, as someone who understood that design thrives as a function of the people who give it meaning. She taught me many things, but most of all, she taught me that.