Arte Mexico Museo

Arte México Museo

A Virtual Museum

Featuring

Mexican Ceramics & Art

From My Private Collection

Travel is the best education.

– My father, borrowing from Euripides, Mark Twain and other wise souls

Hello and welcome to my museum!

My name is Doranne and I have been collecting Mexican art and ceramics for the past 25 years, since I was a young ESL (English as a Second Language) teacher in Mexico City. I lived and worked there for six years. That is when and where my intrinsic collector was born. Why is a more complicated question to answer.

For those of you who are interested, I am about to recount the tale of how and why I became a collector as best I can. I have reflected a considerable amount on the topic, attempting to understand the genesis of the unanticipated permutation of myself, to pinpoint when, why, and how it unfolded. I’ve wondered how my love of Mexico and its ceramics and art became a fascination that strongly took hold, transforming my life and my home with so many treasures. Looking back, it is clear it wasn’t a decision I consciously made. Rather, it seems to have sprung organically. It was a journey.

If you’re in the mood for a read, grab a cup of coffee and settle in. Come along with me as I tell the story. Once I start writing I have trouble stopping! (There’s a clue to my collector’s personality.) If not, no worries. Feel free to jump around and take a look at some of the goodies in my virtual museum. All are welcome!

The Simple Joys

Nothing is for sale on these pages – this is not a commercial enterprise. The purpose of this virtual museum is simply to share the wonder I have discovered in the works of art and ceramics, handmade and decorated in Mexico, that I have the pleasure and privilege of savoring in my life.

Some are humble, some grand – yet each, regardless of price or author, speaks to my heart in some inexplicable way. They are all like jewels, and equally dear, to me. Each piece is unique and, because it was borne of the imagination, talent, and hands of its maker – a flawed human being, as we all are – the work produced was also beautifully imperfect. To me, their vibrant colors and joyful, inspired designs brighten and enliven the spaces they inhabit, as if the spirits of the artists who made them reside within their creations. Simple joys are the best, don’t you agree? 

While you are here, I hope you will hop around the pages and take in some of mine, and I hope you enjoy them. Thank you for reading my story, and thanks for visiting. If you’d like, please share your own collecting story or thoughts with me. Message me, I’d love to hear from you! Whatever form yours take, I wish you the many simple joys of life….

Sending love your way…. Doranne xoxox

I hope you will stay with me. I am starting way back in time….

Lessons From Childhood

During my childhood my father often said, “Travel is the best education.” For a spell during my pre-teen years, he wrote the maxim on a note card he taped to the corner of the bathroom mirror in our home, along with a vocabulary “Word of the Day” that my brother and I were tasked with memorizing while we brushed our teeth. Two of the letter P words I still remember from those makeshift daily lessons are the gems peruse and purloin.

For that I am profoundly grateful to my dad. With his handwritten note cards taped to the mirror, he at once instilled in us the lifelong passion for travel and education. From his simple exercise grew a love of words and language, starting with our native American English. He fostered the underpinnings of a rich inner life centered on continual reading, writing and study.

The notion of travel as education became fixed in my psyche – and in my brother’s as well – spurring us both to live in foreign countries later on, to fully embrace the culture of the people there by learning and speaking their language. Of course, not everyone has the opportunity to travel internationally, to live among the extraordinarily creative people of a fantastic, culturally complex and rich country like Mexico. That is a central reason why I decided to undertake the construction of this website.

My brother and I both held a reverence for books and the printed word. A kind of book habit, I suppose you could call it, took root deeply within. Books were important to us for the knowledge and pleasure they brought, of course. They also offered a measure of refuge from a turbulent family life. Reading became a treasured pastime for me. Beginning my 11th year, I would tote around various carefully chosen books over the lonely summer-vacation months. I would spend hours on end absorbed in literary works such as the Brontë sisters’ Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre, Les Miserables by Victor Hugo, Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, The Stranger by Albert Camus, Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar. And so many others. I especially adored Simone de Beauvoir, Colette, Anaïs Nin, Lawrence Durrell, Herman Hesse, D. H. Lawrence – all introduced to me by my brother.

Homage To Drew

Drew’s room was a haven for me. Detached from the house, the former garage at the end of the driveway had been converted into a bedroom for him. The tiny breakfast nook adjoining the kitchen served as my sleeping quarters. Outfitted with a curtain strung across the wide, arched doorway, there was no door to close, no means to mute the raging of an inebriated parent. I feel certain he pitied me. He generously shared his private oasis. He gave me permission to spend time there when he wasn’t at home. It was heavenly.

His room was a magical place, filled with music, art, and literature. Salvador Dali, Marc Chagall, and René Magritte art posters hung on the walls. Alone, I strummed his guitars, I played his drums. I played his records. His bookshelves, home-made of wood planks set on concrete blocks, were inadequate to contain his many books. Spilling over, a line of books formed on the floor, snaking along the wall around the room. At night, candles placed nearby shimmered, creating a darkened, intimate atmosphere. The small reading lamp next to the bed gave just enough light to illuminate a page. Ah, sweet respite. Books of poetry, philosophy, historic biographies, fine literature, art. The books I read came from those shelves. I devoured them all.

Later he earned multiple advanced degrees in music and English at American and French universities. His PhD thesis in Comparative Literature was accepted at the University of Poitiers in France. He was a professor in the French public education system for many years. In his seventeenth year he became a professional guitar teacher, teaching music and all guitar finger-picking styles. He was a musician’s musician: An impressive guitarist, highly accomplished in classical and flamenco guitar, a singer-songwriter, poet and performer, of immense talent. He scored music for two Hollywood films, he played on a Jerry Lee Lewis album recorded in London. He mentored and was admired by many students and colleagues. As his little sister, from an early age I was the lucky beneficiary of his deep devotion to the arts and letters.

The book habit carried into my adult life. Books were my favorite companions. They remained ever-present confidants in the backdrop of my days. As soon as I finished relishing one, I began the next. The writings of august authors provided a pathway to explore, to experience another’s internal existence, struggles, joys, and personal adventures. They swept me away. I traveled the world. I grew emotionally, I expanded intellectually, all without leaving home. Truly I can’t fathom a life, a home, without books. A stack of books on a reading table is a visual delight, a warming emotional comfort. Books are friends beckoning. Today my own bookcases house many splendid books, especially art books. I revere them. Yet I did not become a book collector. Ironic, huh?

Fate & Fortune

At 17 I concocted the most unoriginal and brilliant notion that school was irrelevant. Certainly there was nothing useful to me there, I thought, and I took little enjoyment in the overall experience. The mandatory Phys. Ed. classes were especially intolerable: Our gym suit was the most ghastly shirt and shorts combo imaginable. I realize that sounds like a minor point now, but it was important to adolescent girls. We felt the eyes of the world were on us… Well… we felt the boys’ eyes were on us, let’s be honest. To my young sensibility, that outfit was egregiously distasteful. It was humiliating. Suiting up with 30 other girls in the humid, smelly locker room, jogging around the dirty, dusty track with the scorching L.A. sun beating down, the sweating…! No, no, no. That was definitely not for me. I didn’t need it.

Plus, doncha know, I was a Fotomate! I had been working for Fotomat Corporation since15 1/2, the legal age with parental consent. You may remember the little, yellow kiosks that processed film, situated in shopping center parking lots throughout Los Angeles. My shift was from 3 to 8 p.m. on weekdays, plus some weekends. With some trepidation, one day I asked my mother if I could quit school. Surprisingly, she said yes. I thought about it long and hard. Underneath my teenage bluster, I may have secretly hoped her answer would be no. Perhaps my mom had used reverse psychology by giving me permission. Her acquiescence released a pressure valve that simultaneously siphoned the air out of my ardor. Also, an aversion to failure, which I intuitively equated with surrender, was etched in my nature. No, abandoning school was never a serious question. It had been more of a girlish fantasy. After high school, I was moved out of the little, yellow kiosk, into a position on the corporate side of Fotomat. I remained at the company for three more years as an assistant auditor.

Within its walls, John Marshall High School held more worth than my immature mind could fathom. It turned out to be a godsend. What great fortune I encountered in my first shorthand class to find a masterly teacher, Mr. Dobrian, who taught like a wizard. From that day forward, I chose shorthand, transcription, and typing as my elective classes each semester. Mr. Dobrian taught me shorthand and business-letter writing. Those skills turned out to be crucial to my future: Without them, I never would have landed my dream job. I will tell you about my dream job later. For my mother’s role in my decision – intentional or not – I am forever grateful.

English, shorthand and typing courses guaranteed me many easy A grades in high school. My maternal grandma had been a court stenographer in the 1920s, when court reporting was still done by hand. It’s quite a curious thing: It seemed stenography and other language-related skills were hardwired into my DNA. Marvelous Mr. Dobrian would demonstrate how to write a shorthand character on the black-board. Do you remember those relics, written on with screechy, dusty chalk, folks? Somehow watching the demonstration clicked a switch in my brain that cemented the character in my memory. I scarcely needed to crack open the text book.

Learning Gregg shorthand, joining the characters and symbols together to form fluid, cohesive sentences, was a natural, instinctive process for me. Perhaps my brother Drew felt he was born with a ‘music gene’, that music was implanted within his DNA. It may be a shared human experience for those with certain innate abilities. I wonder if you have had a similar feeling…?

The next semester I concentrated on speed, building up to 130 to 140 words per minute in dictation, and 80 w.p.m. in typing. After high school I used shorthand for note-taking of all kinds. It was an especially useful method of keeping private notations I wouldn’t want anyone else to understand. I used it in all of my jobs to speedily jot down essential information. When I worked in a restaurant, it was excellent for taking cocktail and food orders, for example. As the popular saying goes, if you don’t use it, you lose it. Each year that passed after high school, my skills diminished. I got rusty. To keep up my speed and fluidity, I needed to use those skills regularly in a professional setting.

I do believe in fate. Do you?

The Collection Addiction

Now, by this time in my story, you’ve probably been wondering what any of this has to do with my collection, and asking yourself when we’d get to the point of this website. I believe that if we are open, as sentient creatures our life experiences shape us, they drive us toward our destiny. Every moment and experience in my life until now has informed, and formed, me to become the person I am today. Certainly each collector has undergone her own individual, complex process. That is why I started my story as a collector far back in time, before I had acquired a single pot or plate. My goal is to delineate the progression of the principal overriding experiences and influences in my personal development. Are you with me?

Although I didn’t fully realize it then, it was around my second year in Mexico when the collecting bug bit me. The first piece I bought was a modest, charming dish, hand-made by an unknown artisan. There were four or five to choose from in the shop that day, in similar styles, by the same artisan. So it was a hard decision. I agonized over it. I couldn’t get them off my mind, so I went back for another one about a week later. But they were gone, all sold. I never saw any like them again. I regretted not having bought all of them. I love the sweet, little dish today as much as the day I bought it.

After that first dish, my collection grew over time, one piece at a time. Like any addiction, it snuck up on me. My collection addiction was well underway before I became aware of it. Stunning Mexican ceramics were everywhere. It was intoxicating. In my daily travels around Mexico City, I would spot a shop or market or gallery that caught my eye. I just had to make time to stop in. If stopping was impractical at the moment, I’d make a mental note and circle back. I talked to the owners, the buyers, the artisans, whenever possible, listening and learning from them along the way. I combed through bookstores and magazine racks, and read anything on the topic I could find.

This is where I should issue a warning to would-be collectors: Collectors, beware: Your collecting wont could be deleterious to your relationships! My man wasn’t always in agreement. He sometimes viewed my desire for a new piece as excessive, or greedy. He would say: ‘You have so many, why do you need another one?‘ Or: ‘You already have one like this, why do you need this one? ‘ But I could see that they were different. I wanted both. Perhaps my wants were excessive, perhaps I was greedy. But I always wanted a new design. I always wanted more. Now, don’t get me wrong, many addictions cause bankruptcy and destruction in the lives of their victims. Mine wasn’t like that. For the record, I didn’t overspend. I was careful and didn’t go crazy, I kept well within our budget. I believe my better half would concur.

Our home gradually filled up with ceramic pieces and art and artifacts. They filled the walls, the table tops, the shelves and bookcases. Then I needed more and more walls. And more table tops, and shelves, and bookcases. I needed more mantles, and more art niches! Our homes grew in size to accommodate the collection over the years. Today there are pieces boxed up in storage, awaiting their turn to be displayed. There simply is no room for them. Yes, my friends, my collection has grown to the point of rotation. As every curator knows, one must edit. The display cannot be too busy. The pieces must be arranged appropriately, sparingly. Distance between the pieces is key, in order for the eye to appreciate each one. Otherwise the space becomes overwhelming to the senses.

Collection Confessions

There were times when my other half was less than enthusiastic about a new acquisition. And, there were times when he put his foot down, reining in my impulses which, at the moment, you might say I did not appreciate. It’s true, though, my tendency was to go overboard: I loved almost everything I saw – nothing was enough, no amount of ceramic pieces or paintings was too much. Early on, there were some arguments. There were tears – mine, of course. In more than one passionate discussion, should I say, it was suggested I was a hoarder, and I was referred to a psychologist for professional help. Imagine, so harsh! I insisted I was not a hoarder, but a collector – there is a clear distinction, is there not? I do admit that I could benefit from some good therapy, couldn’t we all? However, a hoarder I most certainly am not! In all honesty, perhaps there is a fine line between the two, though. Of course, it was necessary to exercise self-restraint, and, sometimes, he would remind me of this. There were times he would implore: ‘Where is the money tree?‘ ‘Where are we going to put that?‘ Or, ‘How are we going to get that home?‘ He drew the line at masks, Tree of Life sculptures and candelabras, and Day of the Dead calaveras (skeleton figures). They were explicitly verboten, and my collection contains not one. I have no regrets though. I don’t miss, or even remember, the pieces I instantly adored and felt I couldn’t live without, but didn’t buy. The ones I have fulfill me. Lucky for him! Hehe, a little joke there….

With age comes wisdom, hopefully, and I have come to acknowledge my husband actually improved my collection by encouraging me to limit, and therefore define, its focus. For the most part, he has been supportive, especially in recent years, after being worn down over time, I suppose. He has surprised me more times than I can count, arriving home from a business trip in Mexico with a new Uriarte piece or a RaCe painting (oh, joy!), stashed in his carry-on bag. And, I am happy to report, he has come to enjoy the beauty of our ceramics and appreciate their contributions to the warmth and charm of our home – a happy ending!

Before telling you about my time in Mexico, I am going to retrace the primary events that led me there. Feel free to skip to the Mexico years, if you prefer. I do hope you will keep reading, though….

My Cocktail Career

At first the cocktail server job had appeared glamorous, in certain ways: The long, free week days when everyone else was at work, arriving for my shift at 6 p.m., the late hours, the hearty ambience of fine food and drink. To a night owl and outlier like me, for a while it held considerable appeal as a lifestyle. Frankly, I was flailing a bit at that tender age. I felt lost, career-wise. I didn’t feel ready for a serious, 9 to 5 job, and I hadn’t yet found my calling.

Waitressing was a hard job, but provided the instant gratification of a thick chunk of cash in my bag at the end of my shift. It was demanding, fast-moving. The pros in the restaurant industry were unforgiving toward the less experienced. They were cliquish. I sensed it was a strive-to-survive situation: I would need to earn their respect and acceptance. Organization, efficiency, and velocity were essential to being successful. It quickly became clear to me that happiness in this job would require toughening up. I was far too sensitive, too fragile for my own good. I learned to handle many difficult types of situations, and people, that I wouldn’t have dealt with otherwise. I learned diplomacy. I learned to diffuse tense moments under pressure. I learned resiliency.

The upscale, attractive environment at Shaker Mounain Inn was pleasurable. A trendy steak and scampi house, it was a beautiful, earthy place, tastefully designed. A huge, two-story chalet with high, slanted shiplap walls and vaulted, beamed ceilings, rich, deep woods, warm burgundy carpeting, and real, solid brass accents throughout. The two bars, a very long one upstairs where the musicians performed at night, and a small one downstairs near the main dining room, were gorgeously appointed, luxurious and handsome.

I viewed my shifts on the floor of the restaurant as a kind of performance art. I was an an actor, and the uniform was my costume. I felt wearing a uniform was degrading. But, thankfully, I liked the look of it. The skirt, not too short, was loosely ruffled, a wrap-around piece in burgundy. Lucky for me, deep wine colors were among my favorites. The top was white, embellished with sprays of delicate burgundy flowers, gently gathered across the chest just below the collar bones. The sleeves were gathered at the top of the elbows, then slightly flared to a couple of inches below. It was evocative of a maiden, which I suppose was the idea. Perhaps the inspiration for the uniform choice was a Swiss mountain girl, which was befitting the chalet style of the architecture. Anyway, I liked the sweetness of it. The blouse was worn tucked in, the wide waist band of the skirt cinching the waist snugly. The affect was winsome and demure. It flattered my figure without being revealing, or sexy. Aside from the concept, I didn’t find it too objectionable. I wanted the job, and I could live with it. In any event, as I mentioned, I thought of my role as a cocktail server as acting: The uniform was part of the performance.

Not only was I expected to deliver liquid refreshment and appetizers timely to the patrons at their tables, my job was also to enhance their dining experience. Tips were our bread and butter, after all. A bright smile and cheery demeanor were essential. A bit of charm and humor went a long way. Going out for a lunch or dinner at Shaker Mountain Inn, or for cocktails in the evening to enjoy live music, was special. It was a very popular restaurant. On weekend evenings, there was usually an hour and a half or so wait for a table. Occasionally I filled in as hostess and cashier on those busy nights. I seated the guests, I rang up their checks and made change for the servers. I answered the phone. It was extremely fast-paced, running a million miles an hour. So many people. It was gay and lively. Fun! The restaurant was frequented, and beloved, by many from all around the area. I vicariously took pleasure from the festive energy of the guests dining out on the town. I took satisfaction in contributing to the merriment of their experience. Time at work flew by. The free meals – we were allowed one per shift – were a tremendous benefit, so delicious! I ate better on work days than on my days off.

It was a youthful atmosphere. Most of the management and staff were young and fun, and we all shared a sense of camaraderie as restaurant workers. We understood and supported each other. If one of us needed a hand during our shift, we happily stepped right up. There was competitiveness for the best shifts, sections or tables, for the highest tips, of course. But there was also solidarity between us. Over time, my early strive-to-survive instinct was replaced by a more tranquil strive-to-thrive mindset. I enjoyed the sense of belonging when I entered the front door. I felt accepted and trusted by the management, and by my colleagues.

There were many compelling facets to the restaurant business. It was lucrative. I had learned a great deal of practical and social skills that would serve me well in my life. But I didn’t foresee my future in the industry. Something was missing: I believe it was the written word. During the day I was attending school at Pasadena City College, taking captivating courses: American Literature, Advanced French Conversation and French Literature, Shakespeare, and American History. In my job, though, my intellectual side went unnourished. I felt a restless stirring inside myself, some inner force nudging me forward. It was time for something new.

The French Experience

Three years before, my brother had persuaded me to spend over a year at a French university. He was living in the small city of Angers in the luscious Loire Valley, a five-hour train ride southwest of Paris. At the time I was working as a cocktail server at Shaker Mountain Inn, the stylish, trendy steak and scampi house in Glendale, California. I saved my tip money from my cocktail job to fund my sojourn and studies abroad.

Drew had encouraged me relentlessly to join him, but I was resistant to the prospect for a long time. At first it had seemed impossible to afford, too big a leap in every conceivable scenario I could conjure. Truthfully, affordability wasn’t my only obstacle. I lacked confidence, and I lacked courage. I couldn’t envision myself in the environment of a French university. I believe I feared failure most. But I also feared the unknown. Crazy, I know. He persisted over a couple of years, through phone calls and letters, and finally I agreed. I thank the Heavens for my beloved brother. My older brother, and only sibling, he passed to the other side in 2007. It’s no secret, I idolized him. He was a most positive presence. He lent a gentle, steadying, guiding hand, steering the direction of my life in immeasurable ways. Time and again, he believed in my potential when I didn’t. What would have become of me without him? Undoubtedly, I would have lived a different life, I would have been a different person.

He arranged for me to rent a room in the home of a kindly, older French couple. Monsieur et Madame Briant were empty-nesters who rented out their grown children’s former rooms to university students. It was a large, beautiful, traditional French home with lavish, meandering, manicured gardens. A footpath running through led to the guest house Drew rented in a secluded back corner of the stately property. I saved and planned, and finally took the big bird across the Atlantic. Next I boarded the overnight train from Paris to Angers with my two trunks of belongings in tow. Many French gentlemen helped me maneuver the heavy trunks along the way. Lucky me, am I right, ladies and gents?

It turned out to be the best investment in myself and my future I could have made. I proved to myself I could achieve something I had previously viewed as impossible. This boosted my self-confidence. My studies culminated in a degree from the Université catholique de l’Ouest d’Angers, and a special diploma from the Sorbonne Université in Paris, the Diplôme d’études en langue française. This mademoiselle graduated with honors – yes! Thanks to this experience, I discovered I possess a natural facility for foreign language. That is one of the infinite rewards for not having given up. The greatest reward of all was the credentials I earned there. They opened boundless windows of knowledge I had never dreamed of, and would open boundless windows of opportunity for my future that didn’t exist before. Drew knew that.

Afterwards, out of funds and realistic options to stay and work legally, I returned home to Los Angeles, eventually finding my way to my dream job at Zeitlin & Ver Brugge Booksellers. My experience in France, becoming a Francophile, a fluent French speaker, engendered an undeniable intellectual expansion in me. Thank you, Drew.

The Interview Of A Lifetime

How did I get my dream job, you ask? Let me tell you… I found the ad in the Los Angeles Times. In those days I often picked up a copy of the Sunday edition of the Times on weekends. On Sundays the voluminous tome provided an entertainment event, for just $1.50. Usually accompanied by a breakfast of Earl Grey tea and toast, I would leisurely peruse the arts and films sections, the large, unwieldy pages spread out on the floor in a circle around me. Those were dreamy Sundays.

The jobs ads were supremely interesting. I was fascinated by the listings. They seemed so sophisticated. The notion of joining a publishing company, or a music company, was alluring to me, for example. Those ‘glamour jobs’ rarely appeared in the employment ads, though. When they did, a bachelor’s degree was required, or other qualifications I couldn’t meet at the time. A glamour job was the kind of job everyone who loved the arts wanted, despite those types of jobs notoriously not paying well. The pay was not the draw of that kind of employment: A glamour job offered the chance to work in the enchanting art world, in a museum or fine art gallery, for instance.

I would pore over the various categories to find skill sets that matched mine. Invariably I ended up in the secretarial jobs section. I would fantasize about the job descriptions, what the companies and offices must be like, how I would fit in the role. I loved office work: The papers, books, binders, folders, files – anything written! – typing and typewriters, organization. All of it. I had a penchant for writing instruments also: pens and pencils – all types and colors, the more the better. But the company mission was important to me. I wanted to work for a company that aligned with my interests. You might say I was afflicted with ‘delusions of grandeur’: I imagined myself working for someone, or something, important.

One fine day the ad appeared in the newspaper. It was a blind ad, meaning the name of the employer was not stated. An executive assistant position. This seemed mysterious, and signaled it was highly desirable. It was a glamour job. I met the qualifications. This sounded like what I was looking for… Could it be…? And, most importantly, could it be mine?

Casting my nerves and insecurities aside, I made the phone call to inquire about the position. The call went well, and I was given the details and job description. I was definitely interested. I hung up the phone with an interview appointment for the following week. At once, a sense of glee and panic overcame me. The days until the interview dragged by, they seemed unreal. Suddenly, I felt my whole life was hanging in the balance. In a way it was.

Ready or not, the day finally came. When I arrived I was told there would be testing after the interview. Oh no, I thought! But, yes. You know, the basics for all secretarial positions. First there were spelling and grammar tests. I passed with flying colors. Next they had me take dictation and type up a letter, ostensibly for Jake to sign.

Oh, how nerve-racking the job interview at Z & VB was, and oh, how I wanted the job! The testing was terrifying. Somehow I managed to conceal my nerves outwardly, but inside I was a wobbly, quaking mess. Once I began taking dictation, I quickly regained my capability. It was second nature to me. My confidence returned. I knew I had nailed the letter.

During a brief tour around the shop, I was awestruck by the opulence, the air of erudition, in the place. The high ceilings with the large expanse of wall-lined, glass-enclosed books, the art gallery. It was magnificent. I was introduced to Josephine Zeitlin and some staff. Oh, yes. This is what I wanted. I left the interview feeling proud of myself for having fought off my fears of failure and rejection, for having made my best effort. I felt cautiously hopeful. At the same time I thought: Dare I hope? Certainly numerous qualified candidates had been interviewed. But two weeks passed, and my hope waned. When week three arrived, truth be told, I expected never to hear from Z & VB again. When I got the phone call informing me I was hired, it seemed like a dream: ‘Good morning, Doranne. We’d like to offer you the position. When can you start?’ That’s how it happened. It was an unforgettable moment, a highlight of my life. Success!

A Dream Job In Los Angeles

Five years later came the jolting impact of a tremendous loss. It was August 30, 1987. My boss, Jake Zeitlin of Zeitlin & Ver Brugge Booksellers, co-founder and first half of its namesake, died. Jake’s passing was mourned by many around the world. During his lifetime he was an iconic figure in the rarefied world of rare books and art. His departure left a figurative hole in the arts, and in our hearts, the size of his home state of Texas.

For the last five years of his life, and mine, I was employed as his assistant. I had worked closely with him, along with the tight-knit Zeitlin & Ver Brugge family, who were my colleagues. My life had revolved around Jake, his wife and partner Josephine Ver Brugge, and their legendary book shop, Zeitlin & Ver Brugge Booksellers.

People had long come from places near and far to seek out Jake Zeitlin. They hoped to catch a word, or one of his famously rakish grins. Or even better, to sit a spell and share a good story, an anecdote or joke, about books, of course. If they were lucky they would find him among the tall, wooden stacks of books. Or perhaps he would be found seated in his wood chair in front of the brick fireplace. He would hold court there. If he happened to be in the mood, he would recite one of his poems. Jake loved nothing more. He was a poet and raconteur of the highest order. His knowledge bank was notoriously vast, his humor wry, his wit razor sharp – to the end of his days.

My Boss Jake Zeitlin – Giant of L.A. Arts & Letters

Many days I made the quick walk to the Zeitlins’ home on Alfred Street so that Jake could dictate his letters from home. We would sit together at his dining room table. Usually he had a barely-touched, cold cup of coffee and a half-eaten slice of toast on a saucer next to him, and the telephone to one side.

He was kind and gentle with me, soft-spoken. He always greeted me as “dear” with an exchange of pleasantries and a kiss on the cheek. But beyond business talk and those short interactions, he was mostly remote. His mind was churning, thinking books and art – always cooking up the next sale.

J.Z. was known as a prolific, poetic letter writer. His letters had a flair about them, and he signed them with a strong, artistic flourish. I believe a person’s signature reveals a lot about the individual. Jake signed his letters with a thick fountain pen. His signature matched his large personality. It reflected his indomitable charisma and charm. The initial letters J and Z of his names were over-sized. Sometimes a bit shaky-looking, they were tall and rounded on top, with large bottom loops dipping far below the other letters. His signature was his personal stamp, the crowning touch of a missive he had artfully crafted. I imagine many recipients have saved them, perhaps carefully folded, tucked inside a book purchased from his shop.

As I sat with him taking dictation, during a pause or a brief phone call he would answer, I couldn’t help but take in the framed engravings by Pieter Brueghel, and drawings by Käthe Kollwitz, on the walls all around. Magnificent art, impeccably framed. Their home was as discreet and unpretentious as Jake and Jo. Yet they were grand collectors in their own rights. It was never mentioned. One would never suspect: Their home on Alfred Street was also a veritable museum.

I would head back to the shop and prepare the letters for Jake to sign, or type the draft of a talk or speech he was to deliver. Today Jake’s letters and papers are preserved in the special collections of distinguished libraries and universities, such as U.C.L.A. The days I went to Alfred Street were some of my favorite times.

Illuminated Manuscripts & The Getty

The heady atmosphere at Zeitlin & Ver Brugge, and the extraordinary people who inhabited the wondrous place, imparted innumerable memorable experiences. One of those times was when Jake made what was then the largest sale in the history of art to the J. Paul Getty Museum in Malibu. The unparalleled Ludwig Collection of Illuminated Manuscripts was assembled by Peter and Irene Ludwig of Aachen, Germany. The Ludwigs first brought the collection to H.P. Kraus, a renowned rare bookseller in New York. H.P. Kraus enlisted Jake as co-broker. Jake was the Los Angeles nexus who was able to make the monumental sale to the Getty.

This was soon after the Getty had received its full bequest of business tycoon J. Paul Getty’s fortune. At the time of his death, J. Paul Getty was the richest person in the world. The staggering amount of the endowment to the J. Paul Getty Trust for the museum instantly transformed it into the wealthiest museum in the world. The Getty established its Department of Manuscripts with the acquisition of the Ludwig Collection in 1983. That was a very big deal.

One afternoon Jake arrived at the shop late, and came into my office. We exchanged our pleasantries and greetings. Jake, as always, sat in the wooden chair next to my desk, sifting through the stack of mail and messages awaiting his attention. I captured the moment to let him know a juicy tidbit I thought might pique his interest: I had been to dinner at Burton Fredericksen’s home the evening before. He was the curator of paintings at the Getty at the time. Jake’s ears perked up. “Oh, really? Burton Fredericksen… How is Burton doing?” As I answered, adding a bit of description about the evening, he nodded and smiled. Clearly his mind was already elsewhere. He continued looking down at his mail. Nothing in the stack seemed to enthuse him. Then, as he was leaving my office, he turned and said with a sudden burst of energy, “Get me Burton Fredericksen on the phone, would you dear?”

I dialed Burton Fredericksen’s office and he answered. We had a brief conversation. I thanked him again for the lovely dinner at his home with his wife, then I put the call through. I listened to be sure Jake picked up quickly. He was seated alone at his table in front of the fireplace. A high bookcase that functioned as a wall stood between us. It was a quiet afternoon, one of those rare afternoons when no one was in the shop. The phone call lasted perhaps 15 minutes. Though it was tempting, of course I did not eavesdrop! It struck me Jake had been mulling who to approach at the Getty about the Ludwig Collection. Perhaps that was the spark. I’ve always wondered….

The sale was a momentous event. There was an intense swirl of emotion and activity around the Ludwig deal and its aftermath. It was in the news. It was international. It was dramatic. This sale alone made Jake and Jo millionaires. I felt fortunate to be part of the Z & VB team, doing my part in facilitating Jake’s communications between H.P. Kraus and the Getty, and the administrative process of the sale. Like everything great in life, all the stars and planets had aligned perfectly in delicate balance for the Getty to acquire the Ludwig Collection. If the mention of Burton Fredericksen’s dinner party was the impetus needed at precisely that moment in time, if that particular phone call set in motion the play, all the better. But I will never know.

The Copernicus

Another thrilling occasion was the day Jake landed the sale of an original Nuremberg 1543 first printing of Copernicus’ De revolutionibus orbium coelestium. This was Copernicus’ revolutionary alternative to Ptolemy’s model of the universe, a highly coveted book of nearly unmatched importance. It was astronomically expensive at that time and would bring possibly $2,500,000 today. The Copernicus had resided in the formidable vault for several months. It was only brought out for a few lucky visitors to admire. I was among the fortunate ones who had a chance to hold, and behold, it. Buyers of a book of this magnitude did not walk into the shop every day, of course. The day it sold was a huge day! Excitement was all around, and Jake beamed with satisfaction as he received congratulations and compliments on the accomplishment. Now there was another epic book story to tell.

A Particular Project

The Zeitlins’ young, eminent, rare bookseller extraordinaire, Jeff Weber, took me under his wing. Jeff was the resident expert in rare books in the history of science and medicine, and a renowned authority on fore-edge paintings. Jeff invested time teaching me the trade. He left me in charge of the large art book section when he traveled on bookselling trips. One day he put me to work cataloguing the extensive art book collection that filled floor-to-ceiling, wood book cases in the large art book room. He would arrive at my office door with a stack of books in his arms, and place them on my desk. In between assignments from Jake, I would type the description of each book, whittling away at the stack. Another pile would soon appear on my desk, and on it went like so.

For nearly a year we collaborated on the writing, production and publication of the Zeitlin & Ver Brugge catalogue of the collection. Each step in the process was labor-intensive, and slow-going. At last the catalogue was printed, and towers of boxes stacked high were delivered to the shop. Jubilation! Then we set about the distribution of the catalogues, and selling the books, shipping them off to their new owners. Over its lifetime, the Z & VB output of catalogues was enormous. Now they are pieces of history, prized and preserved by many book and art collectors, rare booksellers and art dealers, librarians, and bibliophiles. They serve as valuable sources of research material, and are appreciated for their distinctive Z & VB designs and fine printing. My name appearing in a Zeitlin & Ver Brugge Booksellers catalogue, as co-author next to Jeff Weber’s, is an honor I cherish.

The Z & VB Red Barn – Saying Goodbye

The building that housed the Zeitlins’ book shop and art gallery was a red Pennsylvania Dutch barn on chic La Cienega Blvd. in West Hollywood. It was befitting Jake and Jo’s bohemian sensibilities, and as uncommon as their business concept: A special blend of a rare book shop with a fine art gallery of old master prints and drawings. The looming, quirky structure appeared out of place on La Cienega, which was then known as Gallery Row. It was a barn, after all. Art galleries, fine book stores, and restaurants lined both sides of the wide, bustling boulevard. A few doors down on one side was the great Heritage Book Shop. Two doors down in the opposite direction was the then-famous, ever-so-elegant French restaurant, l’Orangerie.

Alas, the huge loss of Jake Zeitlin could not be overcome, and it was time. Josephine Zeitlin made the colossal announcement we all had dreaded: Zeitlin & Ver Brugge Booksellers, the 60-year-old historic and revered institution, would close for good. Little by little, with heavy hearts, we all went our separate ways. The red Pennsylvania Dutch barn sat empty and silent.

Eventually the barn’s facade was remodeled. Modernized almost beyond recognition, it became an interior design business. If you visited Zeitlin & Ver Brugge back in the day, you are one of the lucky ones. The rare book shop with the charming little art gallery in the loft, atop the wooden staircase, the Red Barn was a world unto itself. Surely there was no place else like it.

Edward Weston, Henry Miller & Jake

Jacob Israel Zeitlin was known by the monikers “the Impresario of the Printed Word” and “the Dean of L.A. Arts and Letters,” among others, for good reason. His historic contributions to the book and art world could – and should! – fill a book. Many benefit us as a society today. We take for granted the openness and availability of great art and literature we are fortunate to enjoy. This is largely due to people who came before us, like Jake Zeitlin, who made personal sacrifices and herculean efforts to make it so. Please indulge me, as I would like to share just two examples of Jake’s contributions that impact our lives in 2021.

First, he championed then-unknown photographer Edward Weston’s work as art in his gallery, before photographers were given gallery and museum exhibits. This pushed against the established convention in place, resulting in the inclusion of photography in the category of an art form. He was therefore instrumental in bringing acceptance of photography as art in California, and Weston into prominence. Jake’s instincts for greatness proved to be masterful. As you probably know, Edward Weston is now considered one of the most influential, important American photographers, a master of 20th century photography.

Second, Jake was a political activist who actively fought against censorship of literature. He risked legal prosecution by exhibiting Henry Miller’s book Tropic of Cancer in the front window display of his book shop. At the time the book was censored by state law for lewdness. He challenged the book’s censorship in court and lost in the lower courts. So he, along with some others, took the case to the California Supreme Court. Jake’s testimony was weighty. A landmark decision lifting the censorship ban of the book was won. The decision protected freedom of speech against censorship – on the overly-broad basis of obscenity – of important literary works generally. Today Tropic of Cancer is regarded an important 20th century work. I hope I have conveyed Jake Zeitlin’s stature as a cultural icon and legend of his time, and beyond.

French Flair & Other Fortes

France was my first seminal experience, laying the groundwork and preparing me for all that followed. After all, surely my French language knowledge was top among the qualifications considered when the Zeitlins decided to choose me – over the myriad applicants they surely had – for the position as Jake’s assistant. My fluent French would be important in deciphering early manuscripts and books, for example. Also, in translating for Jake when he received distinguished French book luminaries who were not English-speaking, such as booksellers, librarians, or clients.

On one such occasion I was asked to accompany Jake to lunch with prominent father and son Parisian booksellers, François and Rodolphe Chamonal. Jake thought it would be helpful for me to go along to translate and aid in their communications. During that special lunch at Jake’s favorite lunch spot, Scully’s, I had the pleasure of translating some of Jake’s best book stories of the day, and even a joke or two from the Chamonals. Jake, of course, countered brilliantly with his own jokes, which he always had at the ready. We had a wonderful time all around, with lots of laughter, enjoying the good food and conversation. The lunch at Scully’s remains an exceptionally fine memory. How I wish I had kept a diary! How I wish I had written down the details of those events! Jake and Jo had provided me a pocket-sized cassette recorder for use in taking dictation, which I can’t recall ever using once. Do you remember those, with the teensy cassette tapes? I could have used it to record the Chamonal lunch for posterity.

With my shorthand ability, I could have captured verbatim conversations in many situations, jokes and all! In my 20s, most unfortunately, I was too young to grasp the import of the experiences I was living with Jake and Josephine and Z & VB Booksellers. Today I understand those moments as tranches of history, still of great interest to many people in the rare book and art world, that should have been preserved. They were opportunities lost. Try as I might, I cannot recollect the conversations and anecdotes in any detail. Such a shame!

After Z & VB closed, my underlying yearnings for foreign adventure crept up and tugged strongly within.

Mexico City – A New Life

Not knowing what to do next, a kind of wanderlust gripped me. I packed up my apartment, sold my car and scant possessions (no, not one single piece of ceramics among them!), and caught a one-way flight to Mexico City.

My new chapter had begun. Perhaps I was crackers, perhaps I was foolish – Mexico City was a chaotic jumble of a megalopolis teeming with 23 million people – and unknown dangers for a gringa like me. I was alone. My only foreign language was French, I knew no Spanish. I had no car, no telephone. There were no cell phones then, imagine!

But I had a plan. I rented a lovely two-bedroom apartment for $400 a month overlooking the lush Parque Hundido. The place was a short walk to the corner of Insurgentes Sur, where the buses and peseros (minibuses) stopped. One afternoon I put on a good, navy-blue, pencil skirt, a stark-white dress shirt, a blue suit jacket flared at the waist, stockings and heels. Yes, people, stockings – actually pantyhose – remember those awful artifacts?! Satisfied I looked smart enough, I headed out and caught a bus uptown, south along Insurgentes Blvd., to the upscale San Angel area. I hopped off at the Plaza Inn shopping center, in front of the pricey, private ESL school Interlingua, my much-eyed, prospective employment target.

Now was my moment. Taking a long, deep breath, I paused at the entrance, then walked through the double glass-doors into Interlingua. “Shoulders back, head up, fake it ’til you make it,” I told myself as I strode to the receptionist’s desk, wearing my best professional attire and a big smile. I asked if they were hiring, and it turned out they were. After a round of interviews with higher-ups and intensive testing – it was tough, they weren’t playing games! – they hired me to teach English to executives. After three weeks of eight-hour days of training – unpaid! – I began teaching advanced English classes of 15 or so students per class. I started out with six classes a day, plus a few on Saturday mornings. Just like that, I was employed in exciting Mexico City – what luck! My plan was becoming my new reality.

Becoming Almost Mexican

San Angel, considered one of the most desirable neighborhoods in Mexico City, became my new home. Immersed in the community, as time passed I became – at least I felt like – a local, a chilanga. I learned to speak Spanish – with great difficulty and suffering. I took six weeks of immersion courses at the prestigious Instituto Mexicano Norteamericano de Relaciones Culturales in la Zona Rosa. I studied hard. But six weeks didn’t provide the solid Spanish foundation I needed. I was stumbling. I realized my approach to gaining fluency wasn’t working. So I decided to take a more Zen-like tack: I gave up trying for a while. I hoped if I let go of the struggle the language might seep into my subconscious through a sort of osmosis. I watched telenovelas on TV! Thankfully, it did. Cocky me, I had thought it would be easy to learn Spanish!

Mexico City was my home for six years. All the while, I was absorbing Mexican life – the people, the language, food, music, culture, art, architecture. Stepping outside my door brought constant surprising interactions and experiences. A walk down the street, a trip to the grocery store, taking a bus or taxi, paying the electric bill (no, silly, you didn’t mail in a check, you had to go pay at the bank!) – every single quotidian activity was a learning experience. Each excursion, each encounter, an adventure. It was quite overwhelming at first. For some time, daily life there was hard – challenging, I should say, but exhilarating. Always enthralling.

In the background, the dizzying, dazzling array of joyful colors and designs of the art and artesanía, was ubiquitous, a visual feast at every turn of the eye. My mind was busily drinking it all in, every step of the way.

A Landmark & An Iconic Era

By this point, I actually had two jobs. I worked at Interlingua, plus I had been recruited to teach private ESL classes nearby. I was fortunate to land a job at the global American chemical company Celanese. By this time I had paid my newcomer’s dues at Interlingua for a year. My name became known in the area. I became sought-after. This time there were no interviews, there was no testing. I was offered the position, and it was mine for the taking. The executives at Celanese had to have a certain level of English in order to maintain their positions and grow in the company. So Celanese provided them the opportunity to take ESL classes through work, on company premises. The cushy, well-paid job elevated my earning capacity, my professional and social exposure in Mexico City, to a considerably higher level. This job would change my whole life.

Celanese was a wonderful experience. At the time, 1,100 people worked there. Celanese Mexicana was related to the global, Fortune 500 chemical company Celanese Corporation, based in Texas. It was housed in a spectacular, modern building designed by internationally-renowned Mexican architect Ricardo Legorreta, who also designed Pershing Square in Los Angeles in 1993, and other important buildings, master plans, and residences. Legorreta was a protégé of the great Luis Barragán, another illustrious Mexican architect of the time. The Celanese building was a landmark sitting on a corner of the busy thoroughfare Avenida Revolución. It was a floating, sparkling, blue glass tower with vertical rails running the length of its sides up to the top. It is an architectural marvel, said to have been built from the top down. On the concrete front landing for the many grand, wide stairs leading to the entrance, stood a giant, stylized, black letter C. Climbing the dramatic steps created the impression of splendor and elegance, as if ascending to a magnificent monument, or perhaps a European castle.

Entry into the building was tightly restricted. The reception desk and lobby were gated and constructed to block access to the elevators. Two receptionists seated behind the imposing mahogany desk, flanked by armed security guards, checked in all who entered, and a signature was required. I was provided a photo identification badge which had to be inspected at the main entrance. The majority of my students worked in the IT department, where the enormous computer system was located. It was in a secured-access, temperature-controlled section of the building, which could only be entered after electronically swiping the personal key card. I enjoyed the privilege of being entrusted to enter as I pleased, day or night.

Since I came and went numerous times daily over several years, I became a fixture there, well-known by the guards. They would wave me through, “Hola, güerita, ¿Cómo está?” Güerita means blondie, or blond one. (The g at the beginning is a soft g, almost silent, pronounced more like a w in English.) In Mexico it is common and socially acceptable to call someone by this cordial nickname, males also, for whom the masculine form of the word is güero.

Also fixtures there, the two guards had gruff exteriors but kind hearts. They were friendly to me, but always highly professional. They kept a close eye on my comings and goings, as they did everyone’s, always making a point of ascertaining my ID badge was displayed on my person, like all other employees. I wonder what has become of the two familiar guards stationed at those formidable doors all those years. I hope they have done well since Celanese Mexicana moved away to smaller offices in Mexico City years ago. It is now occupied by the Secretariat of Environment and Natural Resources, a governmental agency. Perhaps they have remained at the spectacular, famous Legorreta landmark on Avenida Revolución. Perhaps they are still there, smiling while greeting and checking in the visitors, still inspecting the employees’ ID badges, as they enter. I would like to think so.

The people who worked there made Celanese great. Most I have lost touch with since then, which I regret very much. I have made attempts to contact some, so far without success. But I have never forgotten their kindness and generosity. One individual in particular was a dear friend. He magnanimously gave me space in a cabinet to keep my text books, and offered me the use of his office to conduct classes whenever the large meeting room was unavailable. Others also lent me their offices when they could. They opened their doors to me. I felt welcome and looked forward to greeting them each day. They were fun, and funny. Always warm and friendly. I remember them with fondness and gratitude for all they gave me. I hope they have fared well. I hope one day they will read this and recognize themselves in these words. To my old friends at Celanese Mexicana, if you happen to see this, please message me!

An International Enterprise

I was a hard-working, professional woman. In addition to my two teaching jobs, I should tell you I also started an import company between the U.S. and Mexico. I sold an original, plain-label lingerie line I commissioned in downtown Los Angeles. I gave the line my own label name, California Ltd., and designed the logo loosely after the California vehicle license plate. I borrowed the look of the license plate font, and added a golden sun in the letter o in California. The idea for this commercial venture came to me as I shopped in Mexico City stores and found only stuffy, terribly unattractive lingerie. Yet it was astronomically-priced lingerie, imported from France. I immediately felt sorry for the Mexican women – and myself! – and thought: This cannot stand. There must be a way to offer affordable lingerie that women would want to wear. It took some experimentation over several trips to L.A. to locate the right manufacturer to supply what I envisioned. I sold my lingerie line to one of the three big Mexico City chain department stores of the day: El Palacio de Hierro, Liverpool, and Paris Londres.

Also, I held private “lingerie parties”, much like Tupperware parties, in the homes of my female customers who hosted the event, inviting friends and relatives over. This sounds risqué, I realize, but I assure you it wasn’t at all. Heavens, no. The ‘parties’ were a coffee clutch with pastries served, ladies only. It was lots of fun. We chatted and enjoyed socializing while the women browsed and picked out lingerie samples to buy. The pieces were displayed on hangers. My lovely lingerie line came in breezy, soft satins and silks, and glowing gemstone colors. They were light and airy, not staid and boring. Nothing racy, you understand, nothing near the X range. Just fine, tasteful boudoir pieces such as silky, satin shorts, or long lounging pants, paired with a short jacket sashed at the waist. Or babydoll styles of sleepwear with a short cover-up robe. And no, there was no modeling of the goods! Later I added a sportswear line – yoga pants and sports bras, and the like.

The business was brutal. It involved lots of networking and legwork, visiting buyers for major stores and boutiques throughout Mexico City. The buyers were extremely elusive, almost impossible to pin down for a meeting. Of course, they were inundated with hopeful entrepreneurs and sales people seeking a look from them, and politics played a huge role behind the scenes. You know, the ‘who you are’ and ‘who you know’ catch 22 faced by all novices in the industry. Creativity and chutzpah were required to land a meeting with a buyer, sometimes even antics like we’ve seen in many movies, like Wall Street, or 9 to 5. You know, scenes where the inexperienced-but-brilliant newbie resorts to trickery and stunts, such as hiding behind a potted plant outside the head honcho’s door, waiting for a chance to pounce and give her pitch. (Those films sure date me, don’t they? Some of you may be too young to know them!) It seems comical, but absent an introduction from an insider, sadly, it’s true.

I admit, I employed a few tactics to snag a meeting with buyers. More often than not my attempts resulted in a big zero. Many days I trekked across town for a long-awaited appointment, or for a lingerie party, lugging a suitcase of apparel. Sometimes I arrived at my destination only to find I had been stood up – my hopes of sales dashed and precious time wasted. I chalked those episodes up to part of the process, more experience under my belt. As so many times before, I summoned my trusty mantra: Never give up. The import business plus my teaching jobs were cash-rich enterprises that lined my coat pockets flush with abundant wealth, far exceeding the necessities of every day living expenses. I am happy to report I enjoyed a level of economic and professional success I had never achieved before. It was a beautiful thing.

There are plenty of stories to tell around the adventures that ensued over the three-year period in the operation of my business. There was, in fact, a massive misadventure. Here is a teaser: Think back to the beginning of my section A New Life in Mexico City. Do you recall the phrase: ‘Mexico City was a chaotic jumble of a megalopolis teeming with 23 million people – and unknown dangers for a gringa like me’? Indeed. In the pursuit of the three big fish department stores, circumstances converged that forced a sudden, major pivot in order to finalize the deal. Under extreme pressure, my hand forced, I made a meretricious decision that would prove ruinous for California Ltd. I misjudged someone who would betray my trust, who ultimately purloined a large sum of proceeds from the business, then vanished. It was a disastrous error. Shattering beyond words. But those stories must wait to be told another day. Now, let’s get to my striking student….

Amor, Tears & Serendipity

One evening after class a certain striking, Latin-featured student of mine very unexpectedly invited me out to dinner. There had been no indications this invitation was coming. No flirtation, no telling glances, nothing. If there had been any such signs, I missed them. He had been a serious student in class and the perfect gentleman. Olive skin, espresso eyes, black, thick, wavy hair. Oh, he was something, in his classic, midnight-blue, tailored suit. Of course I didn’t allow myself to notice such things at the time. No, I didn’t permit myself to ponder his gorgeous, princely person.

Late in the class he suddenly veered from the certainly fascinating lesson plan I had devised to broach the topic of American Thanksgiving. As a teacher, I immediately thought Thanksgiving was an excellent opportunity for a short vocabulary and cultural lesson. I quickly began forming ideas for a discussion. He realized he had to be bolder, since I wasn’t taking the hint. He asked if I knew what day it was in my country. I didn’t. He informed me it was Thanksgiving in the U.S., and asked if I wanted to accompany him for an authentic American Thanksgiving dinner. I did.

Each day I took public transportation, then walked between the two companies for my teaching jobs. After work I’d catch a bus and walk a few blocks home, arriving around 8:30 on an early night. Often at 9:30. Of course, my import business added many additional hours and miles to my work days. The rainy climate of the fall added an extra layer of difficulty. The sudden torrential rains, puddles, the drive-by splashes from passing cars… The uneven, cobble-stone streets of San Angel wrecked my heels. My stylish pumps sometimes resembled a soccer player’s shoes due to so much big-city walking. (Remember: no car, no phone.) Cleats on my shoes, in fact, would have been helpful. My schedule had been packed with back-to-back classes. I hadn’t had a moment the entire day to realize it was Thanksgiving at home. But he knew. This was three years after I had arrived in Mexico, and my first Thanksgiving dinner since leaving Los Angeles.

We packed up our books. At the eleventh hour, the princely, exotic executive whisked me away from a hard day’s work. We drove in his company car to the posh San Angel Inn nearby. A car, how luxurious! I felt like Cinderella. We shared an (almost) authentic Thanksgiving dinner there. It was glorious. He must have sensed somehow that was the path to winning my ex-pat American girl’s heart. He wasn’t wrong: His extraordinarily thoughtful Thanksgiving dinner invitation caught me utterly off guard. It touched my heart deeply. Next he invited me to his parents’ home for Christmas dinner, to meet his family. Upon sharing this news with a friend at the time, for some reason she conjectured out loud the invitations most likely had been inspired out of pity for me, since I was alone in Mexico for the holidays. Ouch, that stung! These did not strike me as pity dates. Heaven knew, though, I had been wrong before….

On New Year’s Eve we celebrated in grand style at Las Mañanitas, an exquisite ex-hacienda in Cuernavaca. Cuernavaca is a beautiful, lush, tropical city on a hill, about 60 miles south of Mexico City. We dined, we laughed, we danced. We toasted at midnight, our Champagne flutes clinking as they touched. We embraced, expressing our best wishes for each other’s new year. We danced some more. This night marked the official start of our romance: We were in love. The friend, soon after, was no longer a friend. The end of a friendship is a sorrowful loss. I wept. And I grieved. But, oh my, New Year’s Eve was wondrous!

Several months later my Mexican prince presented me with a diamond ring. We married the following year, and we have spent every Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s together since. No, they hadn’t been pity dates. It was true love. Today he is still my husband. He’s still my everything.

The End… For now.

Sources:

• Gallery of Folklore & Popular Culture by Norine Dresser: Guest Curator Doranne Croon Cedillo, November 15, 2021 – at https://flpcgallery.org
• Jeff Weber, Jeff Weber Rare Books, Montreux, Switzerland
• Manuscripts / The J. Paul Getty Museum – Getty Center at www.getty.edu
• Remembering Architect Ricardo Legorreta, by Architectural Digest. architecturaldigest.com, January 31, 2012
• Josephine Ver Brugge Zeitlin, 90; Sold Rare Books, Journals by Mary Roarke. latimes.com Archives, February 26, 2005
• Jake Zeitlin, Impresario of the Printed Word by Jacob L. Chernofsky. AB [American Bookman’s Weekly], Obituary Notes, October 7, 1987
• Literary L.A. by Lionel Rolfe. San Francisco, Chronicle Books, 1981
• Photograph of Jake Zeitlin on the staircase of his red barn by Robert Bobrow, 1967. From Calisphere, in the collection of California State University
• Photograph of Jake Zeitlin in front of his book shop by Amanda Blanco, 1978. From Calisphere, in the collection of California State University
• Image of the Nativity of Christ from the Ludwig Collection of Illuminated Manuscripts at the J. Paul Getty Museum provided courtesy of the Museum’s Open Content Program
• Image of a page from the Preface of Nicolaus Copernicus’ De Revolutionibus orbium coelestium, Nuremberg, 1543 from the University of Glasgow Library, Hunterian Special Collections Cz.1.13, Glasgow, Scotland at www.gla.ac.uk
• Photograph of the Celanese Corporate Building designed by Ricardo Legorreta in 1968 from © Colección Legorreta, Ma. Dolores Robles – Martínez at www.Legorreta.Mx
• Website logo Blue Hummingbirds courtesy of RaCe
• Wikipedia
• Personal observations and opinions formed based on my experience with and knowledge of the subjects

THIS WEB SITE AND ITS CONTENT IS THE WORK PRODUCT OF DORANNE CROON CEDILLO AND IS PROTECTED UNDER U.S. AND INTERNATIONAL COPYRIGHT LAWS. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, 2020, USE BY EXPRESS PERMISSION ONLY. THE IMAGES HEREIN INCLUDING THE LIKENESS OF THE AUTHOR ON THIS PAGE MAY NOT BE USED BY ANYONE FOR ANY PURPOSE WITHOUT EXPRESS PERMISSION FROM DORANNE CROON CEDILLO.

TEXT AND PHOTOGRAPHS OF THE CERAMICS AND ART IN THIS COLLECTION BY DORANNE CROON CEDILLO