- 74 years old
- Date of birth: Oct 29, 1939
- Date of passing: Feb 27, 2014
|Whether you knew her as Hilary or as Carol, we will all miss her. Thank you for sharing your memories, thoughts, and photos. Love.|
"I think about Hilary and have imaginary conversations with her, wondering what she would have to say about so many things. From the documentary about Peggy Guggenheim to the exodus of refugees from Syria (or should it be migration and migrants) to the tragedies in her beloved Paris as well as the deconstruction of what the Presidential candidates are saying or not saying. I think I know for whom she would vote and I would asked her (she who read everything on the ballot), what was going on with all those initiatives or bond measures that are so tedious to read. She'd be up to something interesting with art too. We'd find something to celebrate, whether it was with a sip of champagne or a cup of coffee. zikhronah livrakha / may her memory be a blessing."
"Hilary, the first time I saw your work and your studio in Hillsborough, I knew I was in the presence of a uniquely creative spirit. Thank you for always being welcoming to me when I visited. You are loved, missed, and remembered."
""Happy Birthday Carol I am thinking of you, and the time we spent together in your lovely home.. You will always be remembered.
"Happy Birthday! You always loved a great celebration. And flowers. And a big card. I wrote more about today under Stories. Love."
"On this anniversary of Hilary's passing I find myself remembering the enjoyable conversations we had when I came to see her. She was a fun, creative spirit and is forever missed. My heart goes out to the family at this time."
"Hilary touched a lot of people with her warmth and charisma.
synonyms: recall – recollect – keep in mind - mind
Thinking of her today."
"Carol: Happy Birthday! I hope you had a
festive party with your parents, Marvin and
Your children and grandchildren are thriving
and I know how very proud you must be
watching from above. A toast to you!
"Happy Birthday Hilary! You are truly and forever missed. I always enjoyed our talks and dinners out. Love you always."
"In the little time my family and I spent with Hilary on our visit to California, we saw what an eccentric and creative person she was. She lived her life with joy and surrounded herself with all that she loved. Her love for art, family, and the finer things in life was a testament of the fantastic women she was.
"Happy Birthday Aunt Carol. We enjoyed the times we spent with you. You always gave us something to smile about. We love you and miss you.
"It's almost Hilary's birthday, miss her.
From Elizabeth Barrett Browning:
"Renew thy presence; as a strong tree should,
Rustle thy boughs and set thy trunk all bare"
Hilary, your presence, your boughs are renewed through Valerie, Noah and their families."
"A Homeage To Hilary's Soul—Channeled by Sabine Messner
Red oil paint on a virgin canvas.
I am the brush dipping into a puddle of color—mixing, swirling, dipping in again. Deep, deep, deep into space. White noise vanishes. The voices in my head go silent. Finally. I enter thoughtlessness. Fire engine red, umbra, black and white. Contrast. So much light and dark. I blend it together, muddling my way through to plenty of answers that never satisfy.
I am the brush sliding over thousands of canvas ripples—rippling, crippling, over and over again, until they are all covered up. Searching for form, un-searching, transforming, inserting fragments, looking for meaning.
I am the brush following dictated outlines with way too much stroke and force. I am the good girl. I do what I'm told. Yes, I am silent. I shut up. Overflowing with paint quelling out of every pore, I never fit in. I thought if I would just paint my life by numbers, it would all come together. 1 connects to 2 connects to 3. What happened to the lines?
I am the brush painting my untold story. Layer upon layer, I edit the past looking for clues of the future.
I am the brush drying on the edges. Crusty baggage following me like unwelcomed company, though I never give up. I keep on going. Brushing on more white. White. White. White—like cotton candy cover-up.
I am white, fine china porcelain, gold trimmed, victorian flowers swirling, scattered, chattered, broken off.
I am the hot dripping glue gun, fired up to patch together what wants to fall apart. I'm on a mission, I can't let go.
Silk scarfs from the 60ties, broadly rimmed summer hats, smiling doll faces, crochet placements on polished mahogany tables.
I am the silver spoon dipping into fresh pressed French roast, vanilla sky, creme on top. I am the silent scream in well dressed coffee houses.
I am pink.
I am the little girl skipping, pink skirt, underskirt. Swirling like a dervish, I dance into the dream world. Saint Louis. New York. Paris. Los Angeles. The world is calling. Fine china, Fine Art in America. Show case. On display, the artist's way.
I am the scissors cutting the hair off the doll. I glue it on the painting. There. There it does fit in. On top. Topping it off, modern I say. Modernism, freedom, love. What's wrong with desires?
I am the hammer, crushing with one swoop onto the finely trimmed coffee plates of time—clinking crystal glasses, chandeliers weighing on top.
I am the silenced rebel, relentless dreamer. I roar with well behaved passion. Hopes and dreams the size of skyscrapers. Up, up I say. Up we go, what else is there? To the top, over the top. Topping it off.
I am the brush.
I am the brush. Caressing my thinning, brittle skin. Air blown surface, stretched too far, like bubbling colored glass blown out of proportion.
I am the brush, cradling my giant heart. Generosity overflowing when the cup is already full. I can't help but let it come, give and give. String by string. Word by word, clusters of feelings, knotted up wool. Stroke by stroke like horse hair, ross hair, unicorn—like silky fur, like feathers from invisible hands.
I am the brush, painting my dream. Stroke by stroke, heroically for all of time. A courageous pursue. All by myself—only surrounded by the vanishing fumes of petrol possibilities.
Time is running like sand through my fingers. Unfinished business. My art is complete.
Stroke by stroke, hardened paint in rushed squeezed aluminum tubes. God knows I squeezed it all out of me. I did my best. I gave it my All. I painted my heart out for an audience that never came, for an applause that never echoed.
It's time to sign. I am the master. After all.
I add my H C Zim.
I am the brush.
I am the stroke.
"your devine soul is timeless. your alex as you used to say.."
"What can you say about a shooting star. That awes you in life and then without a good bye is gone . Hilary's sprit lives on .Her intensity of every moment was a gift to all who knew her.Missing you my dear ."
"Hilary’s visits in Paris were always energising: never tired to stroll through art galleries, exhibitions, museums, book stores, Galleries Lafayette and for a break, sitting at a terrace and enjoying a “salade niçoise”.
She was full of life, with plenty of projects, a genuine artist and an art lover with a young spirit and heart, friendly and open.
We deeply regret her and remember her with love.
Zoia & Victor Mereau"
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