Rose Shoshana
Family friend, Rose Gallery
What to say about a person who has been so influential in our lives?
My husband Manfred Müller and I met Ruth when he was invited with several artist colleagues to have the inaugural exhibition at what was then the new Santa Monica Museum of Art at the Edgemar Complex on Main Street. Shortly after, I opened the gallery right next to Röckenwagner restaurant and Revolution, the bookshop across the way in the complex. The first image of Ruth I recall so clearly is seeing her in the morning walking toward Röckenwagner to get her morning coffee in her pencil skirt and high heels. I was enamored with her. The beginning of our relationship consisted of Ruth asking me questions: who are you, what is the gallery about, where did you come from, and what are you planning to do here?
At first, I was intimidated as I could tell I was dealing with a force of nature. Yet I kept stopping her every morning as I wanted more of her. She had an inimitable beauty and was so damn elegant.
Our big connection was our shared Eastern European heritage. When she found out I spoke Yiddish, she kvelled. Soon after, I introduced her to my mother Hanna, who was probably 80 at the time (she lived 3 weeks shy of her 100th birthday!). Ruth would come over to our house, as Hanna lived with us in the last years of her life. They “yiddished” back-and-forth and it was such a pleasure to listen to them.
Ruth was always much more interested in the lives and history of those around her rather than in talking about herself. I recall asking her if I could come over and informally tape her as she had so many stories to tell. This idea was met with a very quick, "NO! We're not doing that."
Yet, she was so curious about my own family’s history. Ruth wondered, “How is it you, Hanna, having lost every single relative to the Holocaust and having survived three camps yourself....how is it that you still feel joy and love for humanity? How do you feel about your daughter’s marriage to Manfred, who is German?” Hanna answered the first question with a shrug, ”Well my darling, what can I tell you? You have to keep going and see what else life will bring you.” To the second question, Hanna would say, “My darling, what can I tell you? Manfred is a lovely man. He was not even born then, so how can I not love him for the person he is?”
Some of our conversations were about a certain persistent depressive disorder that we both shared. My mother had it as well. One can feel joy but yet there's an underlying darkness. I believe mine was simply passed down to me as I grew up in a house without laughter or lightness. My father, having witnessed his wife and daughter's demise in Treblinka, suffered greatly all his life. My sister and I could not replace his former family and this, Ruth understood. She had this amazing capacity of getting me to describe every detail of growing up in a family of survivors and I could see in her eyes that she was taking it all in. Taking it all in as a friend and also as an inquisitive intellect. Her sharpness of mind was equalled with her warmth of heart. There will never be another Ruth. This we know.
