The current discussion about birth control brings to mind Margaret Sanger, who
a century ago fled her native land for Europe to avoid being put in jail for distributing birth control information via the U.S. Postal Service. Sanger spent the next two years in Europe gathering information on how women could try to regulate the number of children they wished to bear, and to choose the time when it was best to do so.

Sanger journeyed to Holland, where she studied the work of Dr. Aletta Jacobs, who in 1878 had founded her country’s first free clinic for poor women and children. Stillbirth and abortion dropped so dramatically in the vicinity of the clinic that the country followed Jacobs’ lead, and by 1914 the country had 50 such free maternal health clinics. The clinic’s female birth control method of choice was a rubber diaphragm, which eventually became the method of choice throughout the world.

Sanger returned to America and, together with her sister, opened the first free birth control clinic in Brownsville, Brooklyn. When the clinic—a forerunner of Planned Parenthood–was opened, there was a line of women halfway down the block who wished “to her to stop the babies from coming.” As expected, the authorities closed the clinic within ten days, and eventually Mrs. Sanger was hauled off to prison, where she spent her time organizing reading and writing classes among her fellow prisoners.

After she served her term, Sanger, with the help of some lawyers and physicians, managed to modify existing laws so that doctors could prescribe contraception to married women for a great variety of reasons. It would take decades before this resource would be available for teens or the unmarried.

The search for contraceptives is as old as humankind itself. Mechanical methods, like condoms made from goat bladders, pieces of wool jammed up the vagina, and vigorous rinsing after intercourse, offered some protection, but magic and swallowing poisons never worked, at least not for their intended purpose. Effective oral contraception dates from the 1950s and not surprisingly it was Margaret Sanger who recruited the scientists who finally cracked the problem and discovered “the Pill.”

There were two reasons that convinced Margaret Sanger, a nurse, to become a contraceptive crusader. As a child she observed that, as a rule, poverty and large families went hand in hand, and that rich women knew how to limit the children they bore and raised. The other reason was that as a nurse she had cared for numerous women who died from self-induced abortion. Quoting from Margaret Sanger’s autobiography:

Her last patient had been “a small slight Russian Jewess, about twenty-eight years old…Jake Sachs, a truck-driver scarcely older than his wife, had come home to find the three children crying and her unconscious from the effects of a self-induced abortion. He had called the nearest doctor, who in turn had sent for me…

The doctor and I settled ourselves to fight the septicemia…Never had I worked so fast, never so concentratedly…

After a fortnight…as I was preparing to leave the fragile patient to take up her difficult life once more, she finally voiced her fears. ‘Another baby will finish me, I suppose?’

‘It is too early to talk about that,’ I temporized.

But when the doctor came to make his last call, I drew him aside. ‘Mrs. Sachs is terribly worried about having another baby.’

‘She well might be,’ replied the doctor…’Any more such capers, young woman, and there’ll be no need to send for me.’

‘I know, doctor…but…what can I do to prevent it?’

…The doctor was a kindly man, and he had worked hard to save her…but he laughed good-naturedly and said…’Tell Jake to sleep on the roof.’”

Within a few months Mrs. Sachs was again pregnant and died of another self-inflicted abortion. Margaret Sanger never forgot what was to be her last case. “I went to bed, knowing that no matter what it might cost, I was finished with palliatives and superficial cures: I was resolved to seek out the root of evil, to do something to change the destiny of mothers whose mineries were as vast as the sky.”

-From Margaret Sanger, An Autobiography, as quoted in Conception, Contraception, A New Look by Suzanne Loebl, McGraw-Hill Book Company, 1974

It is surprising that the right for women to avail themselves of adequate methods of birth control is still being questioned today. Here in America, nobody is forced to use these methods if they interfere with their beliefs or desires. But I am deeply grateful that my sisters and I are able to have the number of children we want when we want them.

788 Riverside Drive

“To leave is to die—a bit.” This French proverb came to my mind the other day when C., my former Riverside Drive neighbor, called to congratulate me about a magazine article extolling America’s Medicis: The Rockefellers and Their Astonishing Cultural Legacy. My husband and I left 788 Riverside Drive seventeen years ago, yet I almost immediately asked C. about “my apartment.” “A nice young family lives there now,” he said, “and they pay about $5000 rent a month.” This is about 50 times what we paid for that very same space when we moved there in 1956. To us, our $102 rent seemed princely.

Even now I miss the apartment’s grand, 24 by 16 foot living room, the wood paneled dining room, the eighteen-foot ceilings, the old parquet floors, the wide hall and the enormous glass doors separating the various public rooms. 788 dates from 1911. Schwartz & Gross designed it for New York’s elite. Its long-forgotten name of Rhinecleff Court, the service bell embedded in the dining room floor, the butler’s pantry and the maid’s room all attest to its glorious past. I always wait for Christopher Gray, New York City’s historian, to feature this forgotten corner of New York in his NY Times column, Streetscapes.

When we moved into 788 I was about to give birth to my second child. The neighborhood was filled with young intellectual families resisting the siren call of the suburbs, where kids could play baseball and women could devote themselves to the care of their large families. Our friends included musicians, painters, teachers, dancers, writers, and university professors, and some of us even became quite prominent. We had a rich social life, though our purses were lean. We worried about the safety of the neighborhood and saw to it that our kids went to elite New York City public schools. The friendships we forged would last a lifetime. I shared this year’s Christmas dinner with four of the people I met then.

The 1950s marked the beginning of the women’s movement–Betty Friedan’s The Feminine Mystique would only be published in 1963–but my friends and I honed our skills or began building careers in spite of prevailing prejudice and obstacles. We organized our own homegrown nursery for three-year olds, and made other makeshift arrangements so that we had some free time to work. We cooked fancy French food for one another, dressed up for New Year’s Eve, and hung out in each other’s domiciles; our children profited from having multiple moms.

788 Riverside Drive is located on a rise above the Hudson, in one of Manhattan’s most dramatic and historic neighborhoods. The building fronts Riverside Drive and backs upon
the Audubon Terrace adorned with sculptures by Anna Hyatt Huntington, the location of a series of small museums built during the first quarter of the twentieth century. When my children were small we spent many a rainy Sunday at the Museum of the American Indian, whose collection is now divided between the old customs house at the Battery in New York and the National Museum of the American Indian in Washington. Many of the museums, like my friends, eventually moved elsewhere. The Hispanic Society of America, with it incomparable collection of Spanish paintings and artifacts remains between 155th and 156th Streets in Manhattan, and is well worth a visit.

In 1994 my husband and I abandoned 788 and moved to Brooklyn Heights, another one of New York’s historical neighborhoods. It too was hard hit during the Great Depression when many of its single-family homes became single room occupancies. Because of its proximity to Wall Street, it recovered much earlier than lower Washington Heights. My current apartment house dates from 1925. It is about half the size of the one I left and is filled with young families. Every year we welcome one or two new babies. In the morning nannies come and the moms goes off to work. Fresh Direct and various restaurants deliver food. Dads seem almost as harangued as their wives. Starting with kindergarten, everyone is worried about getting their kids into the right schools, and of meeting the escalating management fees. It all has an aspect of déjà vu, except that now I am a spectator rather than a participant.

Still I am content that I am able to continue living in “overpriced” New York City. From my “new” apartment I can almost glimpse New York’s newest playground, The Brooklyn
Bridge Park, and the Statue of Liberty, which celebrated its 125th birthday months ago. She valiantly holds onto her flickering torch, trying, not always successfully, to remain a
beacon of freedom in a darkening world.

Even in these difficult economic times Fifth Avenue rolled out the red carpet. Regretfully I could not start at the erstwhile B. Altman, located in one of the city’s most spectacular merchandising palaces, which fortunately metamorphosed into the Business branch of the New York Public Library. Lord and Taylor, however, fulfilled my expectations. The store asked children to draw pictures of what they thought “Christmas Was Made Of” and used the drawings as inspiration. L & T always pays homage to old New York and children frolicking in snowy Central Park was my favorite scene. The mechanical marvels included numerous Christmas trees, a mother baking cookies, Santa and his reindeer flying overhead, children unwrapping presents, and dogs eating cookies.

Inching uptown, I passed New York’s Public Library, where children sat astride its famous lions. The Rockefeller Center Promenade was so crowded that I only glimpsed its enormous Christmas tree from afar. Saks Fifth Avenue windows showcased specially designed clothes next to white architectural fantasies. Cartier, the jeweler, had wrapped up its entire small buildings as if it were a giant gift box. The crowds had thinned a bit by the time I reached the always-magical small 3 by 4 ½ foot Tiffany windows, which this holiday featured carousel animals set in a winter landscape. A tiny merry-go-round whirled in one window.  In another carousel animals scampered over a bridge, illuminated by a lamppost ringed with a diamond necklace. In a third, a giant ring occupied the saddle of a lonely white unicorn, while a small bird perched on another ring.

Across Fifth Avenue, Bergdorf-Goodman’s Carnival of the Animals was worth the hike. Whereas Tiffany adheres to minimalism, B&G stresses bounty: extravagant gowns, baubles, stunningly crafted fantasy creatures, antique cameras, Judith Lieber handbags, embroidery, sequins, mosaics, silk and satin. In one window formally dressed white stags attended three bird-headed creatures dressed in dreamy white gowns; in another a zebra greeted a woman in a black lace dress; a third depicted an underwater scene in which a mermaid-like woman floated amidst sea creatures.

Time to leave, my feet hurt. Gratefully I climbed aboard on a crosstown bus that drove me to the more down-to-earth Columbus Circle. I was content. Christmas in New York is a communal affair. Where else could I have experienced such an extraordinary spectacle for free?

To my surprise, I had to pass through a newly installed metal detector at the door, its presence no doubt prompted by the New York Times front page article about Ronald Lauder’s finances.

Acquisitiveness and collecting are widespread human traits and, given that my artistic sensitivities run very close to those of Ronald Lauder, I would have loved to buy what he did. Even though I had actually seen few of the art pieces on view, they felt like old friends. Dozens of small works by Paul Klee, George Grosz, Kandinsky, Otto Dix, and other German Expressionists fill the gallery on the landing of the third floor. This art movement emerged at the beginning of the bloody 20^th century and I have always identified with its pain and rawness. An assemblage of Constantin Brancusi’s sleek minimalist sculptures sitting on a platform share the West Gallery with a wall full of Picassos, many dating back to the beginning of his career.

As always, the elegant Adele Bauer Bloch reigns on the second floor. The West Gallery, fronting Central Park, overflows with lavishly ornamented medieval armor as well as number of spectacular Cezanne oils. Here and elsewhere in the mansion, glass vitrines are filled with a mélange of high-end objects—tchatkes if they weren’t art. They include exquisite Limoges enamels, reliquaries, ivory chess figures, and oodles of silver craft objects, produced by the Wiener Werkstaette.

To complete my vacation from everyday concerns, I repair to the Viennese Café Sabarsky, located on the first floor of the mansion, and order a double Einspanner—espresso served in a glass cup filled with whipped cream—and a slice of Klimt Torte—a nine-layer chocolate cake. I sip my coffee, my eyes lazily scanning my hometown’s beloved Central Park, created in 1880 to provide a country-like experience to its underprivileged masses.  I think of Serge Sabarsky, the defunct co-founder of Lauder’s museum. He, like me, was a victim of Nazi persecution. He opened a gallery on Madison Avenue, where both Ronald Lauder and I could immerse ourselves in German and Austrian Expressionism. It is here that Lauder started on his shopping spree, while I just as happily collected the beautiful postcards that announced the gallery’s shows.

I emerge on 86^th Street, grateful for the oasis created by 0.001 percent of the population. On the crosstown bus I read about the latest unemployment figures, the foreclosed houses, the Occupy Wall Street movement, and I sigh.

Alice Walton became fascinated by art as a teen, and the idea of founding a museum must have been germinating in her mind for decades. Crystal Bridges opened its doors on 11/11/11. For a new institution it is very polished, so much so that it seems as if it emerged from the head of its foundation as the Greek goddess Athena sprang from the head of Zeus, her father.

The museum itself consists of a series of connected pavilions partially emerging from the dammed up waters of the Crystal Creek, which runs through the property. Natural light filters through intricately constructed roofs consisting of alternating strips of copper and glass. Small “meditation” rooms, from which visitors can glimpse the tastefully manicured landscape, enhance the experience.

Given the appetite of collectors and institutions for any art that is not securely nailed down, the comprehensiveness of the Crystal Bridges collection is amazing. From time to time this visitor encountered old friends like Asher Durand’s Kindred Spirits, whose acquisition caused heartache and ruckus, but on the whole I discovered wonderful pictures by both familiar and unfamiliar artists. I was moved by the six portraits and double portraits of the Levy-Frank family by Gerardus Duyckinck I from around 1735, smiled at Norman Rockwell’s iconic Rosie the Riveter and was astounded by Winter Scene in Brooklyn, which was painted in 1820 by Francis Guy, and is located around the corner from where I live now.  The collection is a tribute to Alice Walton’s very personal taste.

Mine was the first lecture given in the museum’s stunning lecture hall. There were some minor glitches, but all parties involved—the audience, the staff, and the lecturer—were pleased with the outcome.

From the moment I landed at the relatively new Northwest Arkansas Regional Airport I was surrounded by friendliness. Everyone I dealt with—at the hotel, restaurants, the museum, and even Walmart’s small visitor center, which harbors Sam Walton’s beloved red Ford truck and his wife’s wedding gown—was less stressed than their counterparts back home in New York.

Ms. Walton hopes that Crystal Bridges will turn Bentonville into an art magnet a la Bilbao. The museum itself—so different from either Frank Gehry’s free-form sculpture in Spain or the more old-fashioned “Temple on the Hill”—is certainly dramatic enough.

For the time being, tickets to the free museum are “sold out.” Time will tell whether its popularity will hold up. It may very well. As I was preparing to leave Bentonville, a couple greeted me in the hotel breakfast room, and told me that they had attended my lecture. I asked them where they lived. “Virginia,” they answered. “When we heard that something that great was in our vicinity, we came right down.”

Once upon a time it was enough to write a good book, paint a nice picture or contribute to the world’s scientific knowledge. No more. Now everyone has to be a showman of sorts.

I always hated public speaking—but now that I am a book author it has become part and parcel of my existence. As a matter of fact, to a certain extent, I have learned to enjoy it—and I have gotten to be good at it most of the time. Few of my listeners fall asleep and there always are a decent number of questions. Lately I even manage not to kill my own jokes. Last week, when I spoke about America’s Medicis: The Rockefellers and their Astonishing Cultural Legacy in Northeast Harbor, Maine, I was relaxed enough and patiently waited for the laughs. But speaking is not enough. Today’s audiences are used to illustrations, which means that one has to master Power Point, Photoshop and other fancy programs.

One of my handicaps is the accent that I have been trying to shed for years. It seems to entitle anyone to whom I speak to ask me where I hail from. Since I moved to Brooklyn, NY some ten years ago, I have finally reconciled myself to the fact that I will always have an accent. When I first arrived in America I attended an English for Foreigners class at Columbia University. During the first class we introduced ourselves and identified our mother tongue. Most of us came from Belgium, Turkey, India, Thailand and Japan. One guy, however, got up and asked: “I was born in Brooklyn and hope to die in Brooklyn, so why, Professor, was I sent to this class?”

Twenty years later I decided to give my accent another try and registered for speech class at New York University. The professor again had us recite our CV. Believe it or not, one of my classmates got up and said: “I was born in Brooklyn, and so were my Mom and Dad, yet everyone asks me where I was born.”

“Well,” the professor answered, “here in the U.S. we consider Brooklyn a foreign country.”

I am not a political writer, but I cannot understand the stance of many of those who represent us in Washington. I cannot imagine that all our super-rich believe that they need all the money they have. Our country is in economic trouble. I am sure that there is waste, big programs need restructuring, and some can be axed, but by and large we need the major entitlements, we must educate our children better than we do, we do need an army, an efficient anti-terrorist protection, and a ton of other things. So we do need more revenue. What is so terrible about raising taxes? Nobody—I included—likes paying more taxes, but I want this country to continue being strong, healthy, free and compassionate, and that takes a lot of money.

I have become more relaxed and confident about my delivery. The last two times I spoke I even have been able to wait for my audience to laugh whenever I built a little joke into my presentation. I will give a few more talks here in Maine. During the fall I will speak in and around New York.  Most exciting, I have been asked to speak at the new Crystal Bridges in Arkansas in December, a month after this spectacular museum opens amidst the spectacular Ozarks. Alice Walton founds the museum entirely devoted to American art. It will be a very exciting trip.

"Lunch Atop a Skyscraper," Charles C. Ebbets

Now that the excitement of the publication of America’s Medicis: The Rockefellers and Their Cultural Legacy is receding, my existence has returned to the day-to-day dullness that often dominates a writer’s life. So I was excited when I received a call from Matthew Miele, asking me to serve as one of his experts concerning the building of Rockefeller Center, a story that figures prominently in my book.

Matthew, an independent filmmaker, is making a film about the iconic photograph “Lunch Atop a Skyscraper.” Most everyone is familiar with the eleven guys that nonchalantly sit atop a T-beam, way above Manhattan, reading their papers, eating a sandwich, smoking, chatting and otherwise relaxing during a well-earned break. According to the Rockefeller Archive in Sleepy Hollows, NY, this is the center’s most requested image. Until Miele came along, the photographer who took the picture was unknown, as well as details about how it was taken. Some expert sleuthing on Matthew’s part revealed not only the identity of Charles C. Ebbets, the photographer, but also that of the intrepid skywalkers to whom America owes the now ubiquitous architectural structures the country bequeathed the world. Matthew Miele is in the process of interviewing the descendents of Charlie Ebbets, as well as those of the construction workers themselves. The film will be released in 2012, celebrating the eightieth anniversary of when this amazing photograph was snapped. I can hardly wait for its release. In the meantime, you may wish to explore some wonderful photographs and other details at www.SkywalkerstheMovie.com.