Accidental Artist: Memoirs of a Flawed & Ignorant Traveller

By Lucelle Raad

Lucelle Raad is an artist whose original paintings and prints decorate countless walls of homes in the United States and throughout the world. The majority of her subjects are children, as well they should be, for children are the most innocent, unassuming people there are to paint. She wasn't always an artist, however. In fact, she never intended to be anything but a happy, well adjusted adult - the goal of all children, whether they realize it or not. How she came to be an artist is quite another story altogether - and It happened completely by accident. Join Lucy (as she prefers to be called) on the wonderful journey of her life. Replete with a gallery of more than 50 snapshots, Accidental Artist will not only tickle your funny bone, it'll also bring a tear to your eyes.Lucelle Raad is an artist whose original paintings and prints decorate countless walls of homes in the United States and throughout the world. The majority of her subjects are children, as well they should be, for children are the most innocent, unassuming people there are to paint. She wasn't always an artist, however. In fact, she never intended to be anything but a happy, well adjusted adult - the goal of all children, whether they realize it or not. How she came to be an artist is quite another story altogether - and It happened completely by accident. Join Lucy (as she prefers to be called) on the wonderful journey of her life. Replete with a gallery of more than 50 snapshots, Accidental Artist will not only tickle your funny bone, it'll also bring a tear to your eyes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Escarpment Press
• Release date: Dec 17, 2018
• ISBN: 9781540155139

Book preview

Accidental Artist

MEMOIRS OF

A FLAWED & IGNORANT TRAVELLER

BY

Lucelle Raad

Accidental Artist

Memoirs of a flawed & ignorant traveller

Copyright © September 24, 2018

Lucelle Raad Hausman

FIRST EDITION

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or means, print or electronic, without the written permission of the author, except in cases of brief quotations.  All images are copyrighted by Lucelle Raad Hausman.

The publisher assumes no responsibility for the factual descriptions contained herein, which are represented by the author to be as truthful and accurate as she remembers them.  The British spelling of some words has been retained at the request of the author.

Published by Escarpment Press

Hendersonville, NC

Contents

Dedication

Preface

Chapter 1—In the beginning

Chapter 2—Into the wild

Chapter 3—A friend—at last

Chapter 4—Bartending—really?

Chapter 5—Doing the Continental

Chapter 6—Celia—A Push/Pull Relationship

Chapter 7—Out of the frying pan, into the Big Apple

Chapter 8—South of the border, down Bogota way

A GALLERY OF SNAPSHOTS

Chapter 9—Drat, back to England!

Chapter 10—Loving Cape Town

Chapter 11—Colour my world—with children

Chapter 12—Let the painting begin!

Chapter 13—Meeting Kenneth

Chapter 14—Empty nesting no more

Chapter 15—Show me the money!

Chapter 16—What, more surgery?

Chapter 17—Looking back on the accidents

Acknowledgments

Dedication

For my two children,

Amal and David,

my greatest accomplishments,

and

for my beloved Kenneth

"Nothing is accidental in the universe—this is one of my Laws of Physics—except the entire universe itself, which is Pure Accident, pure divinity."

—Joyce Carol Oates

What Reader Are Saying About An Accidental Artist

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Lucelle writes vivid word pictures like she paints

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As you walk through the pages of Lucelle's life, you see her always in a growth mindset. Whatever obstacle she encountered, she overcame it and moved forward. God always smiled on her life. She landed in a convent as a child while Hitler was bombing London. She was sheltered there and when she had to visit her mother, her description of a BUS approaching had me laughing. She had never seen a bus. At 13 she had to leave the convent because her mother took her home. You see a thread of mental illness and emotional abuse. Her adventurous spirit led her from London to South Africa as a teenager. While thriving there, and she paints the seashore with words, she was diagnosed with a life altering heart condition and had to return to England. She survived and flourished. Ultimately, she moved to New York. She is a well known artist. I love the book.

—Ed Harris, September 9, 2019

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Remarkable

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I loved this book. Lucelle's early life made me sad for her, but she overcame every obstacle in her path with her incredible sense of adventure and her willingness to change her circumstances. She took giant leaps of faith and I found myself wishing I had grown up with her and gone along for the ride. In the book, she was always present for her life and it makes you anxious to turn the page to see what happens next.

—Page M. Knoebel, September 4, 2019

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A Must Read and Listen—Entertaining, Adventurous, Honest and Empowering

* * * * *

Don't miss out on reading and/or listening to this wonderful book. Lucelle Raad is a talented and well-known artist who has given us sublime and endearing paintings of children - all painted with her honest expression of life's beauty. Her book is no exception. She is candid and forthright yet also humorous in sharing her story. She is empowering, to say the least, in her silent perceptions and acceptance of so many things in her life that show her patience, resilience and courage. No matter what came her way in life, she met it head on with grace. Her story will energize you to move past your own resistance in accomplishing what's right in front of you - it did for me anyway. I purchased the Audible book and the paperback. The book has lots of candid photos so you can meet her up close and personal. The Audible book was exciting and I could not stop listening as I wanted to see who she would meet next and where she would travel. It was a wonderful shared adventure. Lucelle has brought us into her space and shared a story which is poignant, sad, funny, happy and always a celebration of gratitude. She is an exceptional person and her book illustrates our shared humanity and how the high road will always lead to a happy ending!

—Lynn Isom, October 30, 2019

Preface

My name is Lucelle Raad.  I am as old as Methuselah, and most who know me do so as an artist.  Originals and prints of my work decorate countless walls of homes in the United States and Europe, as well as in other locations throughout the world.  The majority of my subjects are children, as well they should be, for children are the most innocent, unassuming people we have the pleasure of knowing, and are most delightful to paint.

I wasn’t always an artist, however.  In fact, I never intended to be anything but a happy, well adjusted adult—the goal of every child, whether they realize it or not.  How I came to be an artist is quite another story altogether.  It happened completely by accident, and I think it’s quite a story, so bear with me please as it is a very winding and circuitous road.  As we all know, in the end, memories are all we have.  Please join me as I recount mine—at least the way I remember them. 

Chapter 1

In the beginning

I never knew my father or his family, so I know next to nothing of him or his background.  I somehow learned that he had a brother who was a pavement artist.  My father died during World War II of lung disease, shortly after my sister, Pat, was born, and more than twenty years after being exposed to mustard gas ingested in the trenches of World War I.  For many years, thereafter, he suffered from phlegm, coughs, colds, and pneumonia when he wasn’t careful.

When I was old enough to ask more personal questions about him, my mother refused to answer, repeating always the same words, the past is past, until I wanted to shake her.  What I could not understand was that their past was a past that, for me, had never been.  I could barely imagine the awfulness of what had happened to my father.  The only information I was able to glean about him came from my Auntie Celia, my mother’s younger sister.  My dad, she said, was about twenty years older than my mother, and was a man of many talents.  He was a pianist by profession, playing anything from the classics to pop songs, and made a good living at it.  Before talkies came on the scene, he played in theatres for silent films, often improvising and introducing his own music while following a film on screen.  He found playing in pubs or nightclubs boring because he was expected to stick to the commonplace pop tunes of the day.  Aside from his music, he made his own puppets, performing occasionally on early BBC TV.

You’d think with all this going on, he wouldn’t have had time for anything else, yet he also operated an antique store on Portobello Road in London.  Auntie Celia called him an introvert and a Renaissance man rolled into one, and, she added, a dandy to boot.  He was tall—six foot four and dressed fashionably.  She could not understand how he and my mother, a farm girl, who lacked any formal education, remained together long enough to produce four kids.  They were, she said, as different as chalk and cheese, even in height, my mother being only five foot two.  It was tragic, she said, that my father died so young of yet another bout of pneumonia.  Would I have liked to have known him or have met him? Without question, yes, as I like to think our relationship would have been very special.

My mother immigrated to London in the early thirties from Ennis, County Clare, Ireland.  She grew up dirt poor on a series of farms, where the family of six barely eked out a living.  There were four children in her family, consisting of Bridie (the eldest, my mother), Michael, Tom, and Celia (the baby).  The Troubles were at their height in the twenties, and the family was forced to move to different parts of the country to escape the marauding gangs masquerading as the IRA army.  At age twelve, my mother was sent to her sick aunt, who needed help with her three children, and she stayed until the children were able to fend for themselves.

Michael was persuaded to join one of the armies at the age of fourteen, ending up in New York City, before dying of tuberculosis at the age of twenty-seven.  Tom escaped to London a few years before my mother emigrated in her twenties.

My father was one of Mum’s first dates when she arrived in London. He met her when she was a waitress in Lyon Tea Shop, Leicester Square, and after a whirlwind courtship they settled down in London, where she gave birth to four daughters over a period of twelve years.

Just before my father died, at the start of the World War II, my two older sisters, Celia and Dorothy were evacuated from London (the center of the bombing), as were the majority of the city’s children during the war.  The evacuation saved lives, because soon after her children were evacuated and while my mother was away on a weekend visit with Auntie Celia in Bedford, just north of London, our house was bombed to smithereens.  It was the only house she would own in her lifetime.

Now, with my father gone, Mum would, for the first time since the birth of her children, have to work.  Since she had little education, it was a worrisome time for her.  Like many women did during WWII, she found work in a munitions factory.  For several years, Auntie Celia saw very little of my mother, as she had a young family of her own.  It was only after the war they came into contact with each other again.

Auntie Celia was married with two boys, and wasn’t able to have more children because of her health.  She had contracted tuberculosis during the war and was sent to a sanitarium for six months.  Relatives on her husband’s side, who lived outside of London, looked after the boys while she was away.  By the time Auntie Celia contacted my mother again, she had regained her health and had returned home.  She now wanted to adopt Celia, my mother’s first born, telling Mum she loved the girl and would make sure she had a good education.  Mum refused, remembering, I suppose, all the years when her own mother and father had struggled to keep their family together, each of her siblings having been sent to different relatives around Ireland, thus causing much heartache.  She said she would never let this happen to her girls.  She was determined to keep her family together, be it at the convent or at home.

It never occurred to me that there was anything unique about my childhood. I assumed it was normal to live in a convent and have parents come to visit.  I came into this world at the height of World War II, as bombs were raining down all around us.  My parents were told that my heart was weak, but they didn’t know exactly why, and it was possible I wouldn’t see my first birthday.  I stayed in hospital long enough to contract diphtheria and other childhood diseases, thus making my stay even lengthier.

After about eighteen months I was finally released from the hospital, strong enough to join my sisters—much to everyone’s surprise.  In that time, my mother had borne and weaned another child, who was already ensconced in the school nursery by the time I arrived at St. Anne’s.

I joined my baby sister, Pat, in the nursery of St. Anne’s Convent, and remained there until I was about four years of age.  It was staffed by young girls training to be nursery aides.  They didn’t hang around long enough to form any amount of emotional attachments to the toddlers, no doubt due to the nun in charge, Sister Ethelreda, who terrified everyone who came near her.

The nursery had its own classroom, where the toddlers were taught the rudiments of an early curriculum, which stood them in good stead prior to them entering the big school.  From the age of five, we were menaced with the weapon of religious training that both befuddled and wore me out.  Catechism was a priority and the first lesson of the school day.  The lessons and the prayers of the Mass, which we chanted daily, were given by the headmistress. The prayers were difficult, but fearing a rap on the knuckles, we practiced, practiced, practiced.  Church was a must on all holy days, when we were obliged to get up at the crack of dawn to attend Mass.

My home was St. Anne’s Convent, some twenty miles southeast of London, run by the Sisters of Mercy.  It housed over two hundred young females, from babies to girls of age sixteen, displaced by the war and living in the London area.  The government encouraged those parents living in London to send their children to the north or south of England—and away from the bombing.  Those parents who could afford it sent their children abroad.  And those children of little means were fostered by families in the country, where they usually stayed throughout the seven-year period of the war.  As there were four of us, and since my mother did not want to separate us, we ended up in the convent in Orpington, Kent, which would be my home for the next ten years.

My two older sisters, Cecelia and Dorothy, were already in the big school, while Pat, my younger sister, and I stayed in the nursery until we were four or five.  We didn’t know much of each other because all the girls were put into different age groups.  Because Pat and I were so young, we knew our mother only vaguely.  She was merely someone who came to visit, bringing sweets and cakes.  I recall not liking it when she sat me on her lap.  It was an unfamiliar gesture, and I much preferred to stand alongside my sisters, each of us strangers to each other when we met.

In my early childhood, thoughts of flying dominated my mind.  I was absolutely convinced I could fly, and dreamed of flying out of the second floor of my dormitory, looking down at the nuns and girls in the playground.  The nuns would shout for me to come down, while the girls would look up at me in amazement.

One weekend, my mother asked if she could take me home.  She told Sister Patricia she missed the girls, and had seen very little of me while in the hospital.  Once at home, Mum said she had put me down for a morning nap, and when she decided to check on me an hour later, found me standing at the top of the stairway, smiling and swinging my arms.  And then, I leapt from the top step.  It was my first actual attempt at flying (although it would not be my last).  It was over so quickly, Mum said, that all she could do was pick me up at the bottom of the stairway and try and stanch the flow of blood pouring from my nose.  She immediately returned me to St. Anne’s, and tried to explain what had happened.  The sisters were in disbelief because of the numerous bruises on my face and around my eyes.  Why on earth would a child of two deliberately jump down a flight of stairs? they asked.

My poor mother was never allowed to take me home again.

Sometime later, still convinced of my ability to soar, I tried to fly again, this time jumping from a bench in the playground.  I fell hard and hit the ground with my mouth.  Though I was not bleeding, I ran my tongue over my front teeth and wondered if I hadn’t broken one.  Unfortunately, I had, and this was confirmed by one of the girls who said, Brenda, your front tooth is broken.  What happened?

Not wanting to believe it, I rushed into the bathroom to see for myself, and looked in the only mirror in the school.  Upon seeing it was true, I cried, not because of the broken tooth, but because my belief in my gift of flying was shattered.

Flying now became only a dream.  Until I was seventeen, I looked like a boxer, with nose slightly askew and a broken tooth. All that was required to complete the picture were cauliflower ears.

Upon graduating to the big school, we started our religious education in earnest.  We attended Mass twice on Sundays, early and mid-morning, as well as an evening benediction.  All services were spoken or sung in Latin, and we chanted our responses like parrots.  The wonderful voices of the choir were the voices of angels, I thought, wishing I could sit in the church and listen all day and do nothing else.

Apart from our religious education we were taught etiquette.  We were constantly being observed, evaluated, and disciplined.  Part of the etiquette was to walk slowly and speak softly with a bowed head.  I remember one occasion walking with a book on my head.  We learned to queue up in an orderly and quiet manner, not speaking, whether we were going into the classrooms, or into the refractory, for a meal. Speaking was a minor crime punishable by a clout around the ear, given by the monitor on duty.  Ladylike was a word that was used a lot, and ladylike behaviour included sitting or speaking softly, never raising your voice.  We were also taught to sleep on our backs, to cross our arms, hands on our shoulders, and to never lie on your back with raised knees, as the devil would sit on them.

However, in the morning, before the bell rang, I would find myself sleeping on my right side sucking my thumb while caressing the pillow that I found very comforting and even blissful.  I must have been five or six years of age to remember this so clearly.

We learned that each of us had a Guardian Angel of her very own who sat on her right shoulder.  I felt very safe.  Unfortunately, we also had the devil sitting on our left shoulder, who tempted us with impure thoughts (whatever that meant), and, if we ever tempted to do something naughty, we had to say a Hail Mary immediately.  Armed with all these teachings, we were well prepared for our first Holy Communion by the age of seven, which the nuns insisted was the age of reason.

When a few of us were due for our first confession, before our first Communion, I found it difficult to think of any sins I had committed, so I decided to make one up.   I confessed that I had talked back to a sister.  Then, I added, And I lied, (which I had done when I lied about my first sin.) 

Although I am sure this rigorous teaching made me a pious and obedient child, it lacked any touches of kindness, either in the form of a pat on the head, or even a smile.  I might have remembered such gestures from my nursery days, but I was in the big school now, so they were few and far between, no matter how hard I tried to please.

Some nuns were kinder than others.  I felt closer to our English teacher, Sister Jarleth, and Mother Marcellena than any of the other sisters.  Even though we were told to speak in a whisper when talking to the nuns, Sister Ethelreda, whom I