Ro and I met in at Paier College (then School) of Art in 1977. He was a senior and I was a sophomore. He was an illustration major and I was in advertising. He commuted; I lived in off-campus apartments. He was a Catholic from an industrial town; I was the Protestant daughter of two Boston University grads. We had nothing in common, we were told.
And yet . . .
I was still a teen when we dated for the first time (nineteen, lest you think there was some current-day school grooming going on). He had recently graduated with the school’s highest honor and had bagged his first professional gig at a NYC publishing house - at age 21. He was a grown-up; I was a stupid kid playing the field over one summer. We parted ways.
Later, I had a sidewalk gig doing very lame pastel portraits at the Hartford gallery of a mutual friend. I was shit. But Ro, who did work for the gallery while he was flogging his excellent post-Paier portfolio to art directors in NYC, was creating portraits for gallery clients, and he was astonishing.
One day, I was visiting a fleabag hippie restaurant next door to the gallery (Egg salad. Had to flee). I went to the gallery and found sublime portraits Ro created hanging prominently throughout. He worked there doing framing, but he was also making extraordinary connections whilst breaking into the New York publishing world (see my Substack about the Rastafarian Prince).
Humbled, I left him a note saying how impressed I was by his work, and, as a polite coda, left a note saying, Hey, if you’re ever in New Haven, here’s my number.
He followed up some weeks late (and still has the note). We’ve been married since 1982. And it was the very greatest thing that has ever happened to me. I am grateful for my dear husband. He is a God.
Here’s 20 years ago:
Sounds like a story from a romance novel. Love it!
Great story and an excellent slice of life in Preteena.