I’m not sure what I loved most about her — the Cleopatra-style eyeliner, the long, flowing caftans adorned with bright orange and fuchsia flowers or the way she’d exclaim “Alonita!” and envelop me in a warm hug whenever she saw me. For her diminutive stature, Naomi Smulian was larger than life.
The long-lasting friendship that existed between Naomi, her husband and my parents was well-established before I was born, making her a fixture in my earliest memories. A free-spirited Israeli artist who had studied in Paris, she was both exotic and effortlessly magnetic — a force radiating warmth and creativity.
Naomi was passionate about many things, but championing self-expression always seemed to come first. It was a lesson she imparted often — one I learned as a young child when my mother dropped off my sisters and me at her house for our weekly art class. As I made my way to her art studio that day, she stopped me and said, “Today, class will be in the back garden.”
At 6 years old, anything that happened outdoors was instantly more exciting.
Her home sat at the foot of El Ávila, the majestic mountain cradling Caracas. Sprawling samán trees and dense, leafy canopies gave it a tropical forest ambiance. Naomi’s backyard burst with clusters of birds of paradise, hibiscus and golden shrimp flowers. As was typical in the city, a tall white concrete wall enclosed the property.
Standing in the garden, I quickly noticed there were no chairs set up. No easels, even. Just enormous jugs of paint and an assortment of oversized brushes. I turned to Naomi for an explanation and was met by her signature smile: a blend of love and mischief, always wrapped in a promise of fun. She extended her hand toward the white walls and said, “Each of you, pick a section and paint whatever you’d like.”
Now, my parents were pretty progressive. Conversations were open, my mother’s bookcase was filled with forward-thinking parenting guides and I always felt heard and loved. But being given free rein to cover an actual wall with paint? That was something else entirely. Glee and disbelief don’t begin to describe the rush of excitement that surged through me.
I can’t remember what I painted that day. But I do remember Naomi — moving joyfully from one pint-sized artist to the next, encouraging, applauding and reveling in our haphazard masterpieces.
It’s a memory that shines brightly, nearly 50 years later — not just for the thrill of that day but for the lesson Naomi instilled in me. It was one of the many ways she influenced me far beyond the realm of art, showing — long before I understood it — that a woman’s spirit, passion and individuality are meant to be expressed freely. And sometimes, that means painting beyond the canvas and onto the walls.
Happy Reading!
Alona Abbady Martinez
alona@bocaratonobserver.com