None of the habits
“I’m not going to continue knocking that old door that doesn’t open for me. I’m going to create my own door and walk through that.”
Photo by Mistofer Christopher, location Wonder Room Coffee
It’s New York City, Brooklyn, 47 degrees, mostly sunny, greatly windy. Crocuses are starting to push and poke their lavender heads up and out in this indecisive and bipolar weather.
I was in Bay Ridge, the town formerly known as Yellow Hook in the 17th century for its yellow soil but, for obvious epedemic reasons, by the mid nineteenth century received a name change. I needed a respite from a cold morning of volunteer work. I did a google search for a coffee shop and came up with Wonder Room Coffee on 79th and 3rd. I opened the door and immediately was transported into someone’s gorgeous, sun brushed living room, complete with dark, mahogany hardwood floors. Sitting on the couch in the peripheral under a bookcase of classics was a white, 5 foot tall teddy bear, drooped and hung over from honey. In the background the Ratpack crooned over steady bass strumming and squealing trumpets. Between the buzz of voices, the clackity clack of the keyboard, and the hum of the flower refrigerator I heard someone singing:
Photo by @justdushawn.
The Rat Pack—a.k.a. a group of performers that included Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr., Joey Bishop, and Peter Lawford. Full of old Hollywood charm, slighlty edgy behavior, and partying lifestyle, and crooning what are now classics, made them the "bad boys" of the late '50s and '60s.
“My head keeps spinning.
I go to sleep and keep grinning.
If this is just the beginning,
My life is gonna be beautiful.
I've got sunshine enough to spread.
It's just like the fella said,
"Tell me quick: ain't love a kick in the head?"
Photo by @brookecagle / The Universal look “Do you like it?” After you ask. Please fix it like you fix it for your family.
I had just completed my 8 day fast of coffee 5 days ago and I’m back to 1-2 cups a day. I’m trying to scale down while maintaining personality and vibrance. I asked the Barista for something I heard about on social media, a mushroom coffee substitute. The baristas, a team from Ukraine and Russia, suggested I try a Turmeric Latte with the milk of my choice, until they bring in that flavor to their arsenal. I sampled the expertly made drink with a little flower thingy design at the top. The softness of the milk and the first gentle taste of the Turmeric settled on the tongue before the bitter backend of the turmeric made me tap my palette with my tongue a few times to ensure the taste and decide whether to take another sip. They gave me the universal look every mom, cook, wife, date, barista, ice cream man does when they offer you a sampling, a new dish, a new taste. “Do you like it?” manifested in a look, a pause while they wait, or they actually say the words.
All I could say was: “Wow! It’s…interesting.” It was. It had the comfort of warmth but the taste of the strange, curcuminoids, ginger, and health.
I expressed my concern over the lady’s family in Ukraine. “We hope everything gets better…one day,” she said wistfully and hopefully. I said: “It will get better.”
The barista said: “You know, it’s International Women’s Day today.”
“Today?”
“Yes,” she replied.” Maybe it’s not as big here in the U.S., but globally it is a day to support women worldwide.”
I remembered I had seen it on the calendar somewhere. I said: “You know, there is a woman with whom that I would like to have a coffee.”
She asked: “Who?”
I answered: “She’s dead but, if she were alive, I wish I could meet her.”
She raised her eyebrows with a who. I’m thinking she was at the point of weighing sanity and exit strategy.
“She lived in a convent, was a nun, and was a painter,” I continued.
“Really?”
STORYTIME
Her birth name was Pulisena Margheita Nelli, a Florentine girl who grew up in a wealthy family of merchants. She became a nun at age 14. I would ask if this were by her choice or by family’s will. History says in her dad’s journal she was given a choice. Either way I think it’ll be an amazing story. If by choice because of her devotion to God, what a heart! If by family’s will, what a spirit! To set aside one’s personal dreams, passions and desires to follow a path like Jephthah’s daughter, what a feat of spiritual strength and devotion! The word on History’s Florentine streets is that wealthy families who wanted to avoid dowries placed their girls into convents. Dowries were the girl’s family’s responsibility. History says that brides were typically much younger than grooms, and they were much younger.
Photo by Shahin Khalaji
I turned around and standing on the same line was thee Ms. Pulisena Margehtia Nelli of the 16th century (1600s) clothed in her wimple and habit: “I would say God bless you, but it looks like he already has.”
I imagine she would reply in a northern Italian accent: “Mi Scuzi.”
And I answer sheepishly: “Awww, nothing.”
She retorted: “No, no, no. I want to understand.”
I responded: “God bless you, but it looks like he already has. It’s nothing. It’s corny. I mean it’s silly.”
Pulisena Margheita Nelli asked: “Oh yes, do you mean if I have god’s blessing?”
I shook my head slowly and agreed: “Yah, that’s what I meant.”
She then explained that every piece of the garment was blessed. “The belt reminds me and our sisterhood that Christ wore chains, symbolizing obedience. The Scapular shows constant commitment to conversion, the gentle yoke of the Lord. The veil represents consecration that I, we, the women who take this decision are sacred, and we belong to God, my hair is covered, protecting me from vanity as you know, the woman’s hair is you know…magic.”
“Wow! Thank you for the explanation,” I exclaimed.
I then ordered my drink, spoke discreetly to the Barista, and paid forward her drink without telling her. I sat down, worked on a blog about current events, and tried to promote my children’s book; “Talk About the Monster”, or the history class I teach for children and also adults; “Ancient Civilizations and Ancient Scrolls.”
Photo by Mistofer Christopher - Vintage mesh chair and a white exposed brick wall
Sitting next to the white brick exposed wall with vintage, mesh chairs from 1982, I suddenly felt a presence standing next to me. I look up and it’s Sister Pulisena Margheita Nelli.
She holds up her large Nutella Latte and her small plate with a pistachio croissant. “Mille grazie. You should not have.”
“It is nothing.” I protested.
“It is something.” she fired back.
“Prego.” I responded.
“You know Italian?” she smiled queryingly.
“A greeting and pizza.”
“Pizza. What is this?”
“It’s complicated.”
I stood up, “Please!” I can’t sit in the presence of a woman, and a nun at that. Would you like to sit down?”
She smiled politely and said: “I really shouldn’t.” But she sits down anyway.
She clasps the warm cup of her Nutella Latte with both hands, slowly brings it to her mouth, and politely sips it while looking directly in my face before modestly looking away.
“So, on the streets of Florence what do they call you?”
“Call me? I’m not an animal, sir.”
“It’s an expression. What do you answer to?”
“I answer to God and no man.”
“What is your name?”
“My name is Sorella Pulisena Margheita Nelli.”
“Do you want me to call you that, your full name?”
“Yes.”
“It’s long and hard to remember, and you know the Italian enunciations. They’re hard for my brain with, of course, all due respect.”
“Do you represent all of where I am - New York City?”
“You’re in Brooklyn.”
“Yes, Brooklyn.”
“No. I represent myself. But maybe as a culture, we are a little bit more casual when it comes to male, female dynamics.”
“I see. Well, just for the purposes of this brief meeting, you may…” she paused, “call me Plautilla.”
“I like Nelli. I find Plautilla unique.”
She shook her head: “How am I supposed to take that?”
“I think you can, Plautilla. It’s a compliment. I’ve never met a Plautilla before.”
“So, this word unique? What does it mean? Unique as in one of a kind, or unique as in “interesting” and she made air quotes while mouthing “u-nee-que”.
Portrait of Plautilla Nelli - Wikipedia
I burst out laughing: “For a girl from the 1600’s you catch on fast to a lot of things.”
She unleashed a simultaneously loud and soft laugh. The loud rolled out because of her Italian larger-than-life personality, but the soft checked her because of her habit. She looked around mischievously yet carefully, hiding behind her big Nutella cup.
“What’s your next goal, Plautilla?”
She pulled out a sketch book. In charcoal she had written what looked like poetry and drawn a long table of twelve men sat down, and even in the sketch each man had a different expression.
“What is this?” I asked. “Poetry?”
I tried to read the Italian: “Kawindee pressay oon panay eeee dopeo.”
“Stop!” Plautilla pleaded and then muttered under her breath. “Mi stai facendo morire.”
She turned the journal around. “Quindi prese un pane e dopo aver reso grazie a dio, lo spezo e lo diede loro, dicendo: “Questo rappresenta il mio corpo, che dev’essere dto in vostrao favore. Contiunate a far qeusto in mio ricordo.”
“Biblia. El Biblia.”
“Oh, the Bible.”
“Si,” she replied. “Bread and wine.” She pursed her five fingers’ tips into a star and pushed it toward her mouth, the mange gesture.
“Oh! I get it. The Lord’s evening meal.”
“Si! Si!”
“That’s what this is?”
“Yes. It’s my masterpiece! It will be big, bigger than you! Bigger than this wall!”
“And you will do this…by yourself, in your habit?”
She replied: “With my team. What habit? My habit is I paint. I train. I’m a nun.”
“I don’t mean that, sister: I mean Plautilla.”
“I mean all of this.” And I gestured toward her clothing from head to toe.
“What do you mean all of this?” she fired back with her eyes and voice as she mimicked my gesture.
“Your outfit, your nun garments? Do you wear them or do you take them off...
Her eyes grew wide in horror, but her smile started to form. “How dare…”
I interrupted: “when you paint of course, and put on a new uniform?”
“That is none of your business. I don’t give out my trade secrets. I am woman of God.”
“So, you, your team...”
“Yes, my sisters.”
“They are painters. Yes, I trained them, and we are paid. So, I thank you for the gift, but it really wasn’t necessary.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ms… Sorella Pulisena Margheita Nelli.”
“I said you can address me as Plautilla.”
“I have questions. May I ask, no holds barred.”
“I have answers.” She looked at me quizzically and slowly pronounced the words: “No holding barred.”
Before I could reply she said: “My first answer is no it didn’t hurt when I fell from heaven.”
Questions for Plautilla Nelli or
for any artist for that matter
Photo by @amavcinema
How do you know when a painting is complete?
How do you define success as a woman in the Renaissance?
What inspires you to paint?
Which artist has influenced you the most?
What in nature inspires you the most?
What does spirituality mean to you?
Do you have a favorite scripture in the Bible?
What do you think of artists that moved from paintings to spiritual events to other themes?
What was your message in adding Venetian cuisine and design to a Middle Eastern Painting about the Christ and the last supper?
What is ‘failing toward success’?
Do you really paint in your habit?
Speaking of habits, what habits do you cultivate weekly?
How is it for you to be yourself in a male dominated society and patriarchy?
If you could ask this artwork a question, what would you ask it?
Of what are you afraid?
What do you want to remember about this artwork?
What do you want to forget about this artwork?
Who do you know that would really like this artwork? Why would they like it?
Who do you know that would really hate this artwork? Why would they hate it?
What do you like about this artwork?
What do you dislike about this artwork?
What is beautiful about this artwork?
What emotions do you feel when looking at this?
If this artwork were music, what kind of music would it be?
If this artwork were an instrument, what instrument would it be?
What would you title this artwork?
What makes you angry?
What was a defining moment in your childhood that contributed to you being who you are today, and an artist?
How do you feel about being a nun? Do you have any regrets about the life you chose?
Pulisena Margherita Nelli was born in 1524 and was a self-taught nun artist and is known as the first ever known Renaissance painter of Florence. At age of fourteen years of age she became a nun at the Dominican female convent of Santa Caterina di Cafaggio. She was a renaissance woman in every sense of the word as she lived in a time when it was extremely rare for a woman to get away from domestic duties such as marriage and motherhood. She lacked formal training, but she managed to master a compelling style of both miniatures and large paintings. Plautilla Nelli even ran an all-woman artists’ workshop out of her convent, where she trained other female nuns and artists and guided a vibrant artistic community.
Her masterpiece, created for the convent of St. Catherine, is one of the largest works made by a female artist from that time period. Nelli’s Last Supper unrolled, unraveled, and restored, complete with twelve life-sized apostles unfurls at 21 feet long and can be viewed at the Santa Maria Novella Museum Rectory in Florence.
Plautilla Nelli, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
She signed the painting: “Sister Plautilla – Pray for the Paintress.”
Who would you like to have a coffee with in history and why?
What is something a woman in your life taught you, a grandma, a mom, a sister, a mentor, a friend, a love? Comment below.
“I have learned over the years that when one’s mind is made up, this diminishes fear; knowing what must be done does away with fear”