Happy Birthday Aunt Carol. We miss you!

Miss you. 

Thinking of my Mom today with love always.

Hilary enjoyed all kinds of music. Here's some choral music I like a lot by Norwegian composed Ola Gjeilo, called The Ground:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=09cqcwuCcNA

not sure it will work on here but if interested you can look it up.

Dear Hilary You’ll always be in our hearts, never forgotten. I have very fond memories of you❤️

It’s nice to remember you . We are all missing you dear Hilary .

Val, Noah, you made this site in memory of --and-- to honor your mother. Fast forward a few years and I think the "tribute" goes to you both. "an act, statement, or gift that is intended to show gratitude, respect, or admiration." You've done it beautifully. I enjoy the minutes I spend here and all the new/old pictures and stories. I notice new things all the time too; this time my favorite photo is when she is wearing the OBAMA hat in NYC. Strolling through the outdoor Chihuly exhibit captures her so well too.

For Val, Michael in spirit, Rafi, Eliana, Noah, Joanna, Emanuel, Pema,

Your mom and grandmother would have been collecting stacks of crisp dollar bills for the kids and larger than life expressive cards for all of you to celebrate Valentines Day. She was a celebrator and would indeed hold you tight knowing you're all doing the best you can.

Miss you Mom. Today Noah and I were together at the Santa Monica beach and remembered you with a big hug. Wish you were here for the kids and me, helping us cope with Michael's death. I know you would have been so supportive. Love you.

It's unfortunate that Nana isn't here at this moment. I miss her warm embrace and "big ideas." She would cheer us all up now, especially at this raw period of time after my Father's death. When I listen to James Blunt, I think of her. When I eat matzah brei, I think of her. When I see red, I think of her. She cared about my father so much. I miss his cooking and her enthusiasm over his blueberry crumble. Happy birthday Nana.

This year in Italy in an old church I saw some incredible paintings br Ghirlandaio. Hilary would have explained to me in a minute why I liked him so much, why the colors were so different than others. I remember her spending two days in Barcelona explaining Picasso to the philistine. I miss her.

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.

Love,
Geraldina"

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.

Remember

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
friends!
Your children and grandchildren are thriving
and I know how very proud you must be
watching from above. A toast to you!
Love, Anne

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.
Geraldina Zim"

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.

Daniel Zim

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"

From me:
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.

Mother.

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.

Never enough.

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.

Mother.

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.

How apropos.

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