Obituary of Gertrude Schwartzman

SCHWARTZMAN—Gertrude, 94, of Manhattan, on November 17, 2016. Artist, psychotherapist, devoted wife to David, mother of Michael (Lisa), Jason (Marj) and Paul (Wendy), grandmother of Joey, Adam, Lianna, Jack, Sammy, Stella and Lily. In lieu of flowers, honor Gertie by visiting a museum with a loved one, and, afterwards, enjoying a blintz. Most of all, make each other laugh. All through most of her 94 years, our mother was in full command, whether she was managing her psychotherapy practice; or creating her next sculpture; or, even after she lost her eyesight, ordering a New York City cabbie to take her preferred route downtown; or, as it turned out, choreographing where and how she would die. Our mother - her name was Gertrude but everyone called her Gertie - passed away Nov. 17 exactly as she had hoped: in the Manhattan apartment in which she had lived for a half century, listening to Mozart and Beethoven, surrounded by her artwork and art books, and immersed in the love of her husband of 65 years, David, her three sons and their wives and partner, and seven grandchildren. A native of Montreal - she was born Oct. 13, 1922 to Joe and Bessie Schneiderman -- Gertie embraced New York City as her hometown after she and David moved there in the 1950's and insisted on remaining while many families left for the suburbs. She wouldn't have it any other way. New York was the only place boundless enough to accommodate her determined, resilient, outsized personality. Funny, opinionated, and delightfully profane, Gertie was Lucille Ball and Al Capone rolled into one. At family dinners, she regaled everyone with her views on the latest Woody Allen movie, the composer she had just discovered, the corned beef sandwich she had recently eaten at Artie's on Broadway, the irritating neighbor she had just encountered in the elevator, the cab driver who had ignored her directions. She was the always-churning engine at the center of our family. She taught us to worry about everything and laugh at it all at the same time. She taught us how to curse. She taught us to write down our dreams. She taught us to appreciate Chekov and Gustav Klimt and the Marx brothers, Zabars and Citarella and Lincoln Center, matzo ball soup and rugelach, the Berkshires and Cape Cod. She taught us the joys of wandering flea markets. Sometimes we laughed with her. Sometimes we laughed at her. She drove us nuts and made us sane. She sent us to therapists. And then she drove us nuts again. As much as anything, she taught us that no matter how old you are, it is never too late to think, write, create and aspire. In her late-60's, when most contemporaries were winding down, Gertie was just getting started. In addition to her work as a therapist, she immersed herself in her art, attending classes at the Art Students League, drawing and sculpting busts and nudes that turned her living room into a sculpture garden. She was especially proud of the reliefs she made of each of her grandchildren. To the end, even as her eyesight failed, she continued to write psychoanalytic papers that included meditations on the composer, "Debussy," and "Macbeth," and Tony Kushner's "Angels in America." In more recent years, she also began watching television, something she regarded as evil when we were kids. She became obsessed with politics. She was inspired by President Obama and terrified of Donald Trump. She admitted to a crush on Chris Matthews. One of her last acts was to cast an absentee ballot on behalf of Hillary Clinton. As her health failed, Gertie had one distinct wish. She insisted on being at home in the apartment where she and David had raised their family since 1964. In her final days, as she grew ever weaker, she lay beneath a Picasso print of two lovers that hung on the wall. A Bach piano concerto was playing. Two of her grandchildren read aloud from "Romeo and Juliet," one of her favorites. As always, she lived the life she wanted.