“Despite the age difference between us, I would forget every day that she was what others considered ‘old’”
I remember the first time we met. I listened to the wheels of her walker rolling down the old carpet of her 1970s redwood bungalow and, moments later, rounding the corner was a spiffy 92-year-old woman who stood up straight, scanned the room like a curious little bunny rabbit, and settled on the new guy: “And you must be Gregor”. She said it with the most delightfully lilting Viennese accent I’d ever heard. It was love at first sentence, something I never thought existed.
I was 32 at the time, and an actor. A friend convinced me to interview for a job as caregiver to an elderly woman named Maria Altmann (played by Helen Mirren in the upcoming biopic Woman in Gold). I wasn’t excited about the idea in general - the only time I would ever even consider being a caregiver was to play one on TV. But I went along anyway and was nervous about it. I don’t know. Maybe the deepest part of me sensed something big was about to happen.
She wore a colorful silk scarf, a green cashmere sweater and bright white trousers that day. I’d never seen someone so elegant, yet there was something childlike about her too. She had an insatiable curiosity about everything. We sat down together as if we were the only two people in the room. And she listened to me not with her ears but with her heart. On that morning my life changed, and believe me, I don’t just let any girl sweep me off my feet.
I set everything aside for the next three years until her death, the first of someone I truly loved in my entire life. Our connection was immediate. It was like we had met in another life. Despite the age difference between us, I would daily forget she was what others may consider old. We both felt like we were in our 20s, and we would admit that to each other regularly, without it ever getting uncomfortable. It was just perfectly magical.
My friends were really supportive and were all eager to meet her. I was very selective about who I introduced her to, though. It was like I was taking them to meet my new girlfriend, and all the butterflies that come with that. The last thing I wanted was for a woman with such gentility, who in many ways saw me as perfect, to see me with a bunch of goons.
In the beginning, it concerned me that someone might think our uncommon bond was weird or inappropriate, but it wasn’t even remotely the case. Because anyone who knew our relationship understood it, and her family was thankful that their mother had someone like me that made her happy.
Maria really meant everything to me. I said to her once: “Maria, you’re like a mother, a grandmother, and a friend to me.” And she responded: “What about a mistress?” We laughed together all day about these kinds of things. There’s no doubt we looked at each other romantically, but not in a physical sense. We were soul mates. Supernatural lovers, if you will.
Over the next three years Maria introduced me to a whole new world of art, music and culture, regaling me with incredible stories of her charmed childhood growing up in the preeminent Bloch-Bauer family in Vienna. She told about her harrowing escape from the Nazis in 1938 with her husband, their migration to Los Angeles in 1942, and the epic Supreme Court case to recover her uncle’s paintings by Gustav Klimt. Many anecdotes she told me were filled with details you could never find in history books.
Not only did I grow by being exposed to this world of culture, but my relationship with Maria also led me to ask myself difficult questions about life, the pursuit of my dreams and what my future would hold. The most difficult questions were: Why do I love this woman so much? Why does she love me? I struggled a great deal with the second one.
In my eyes I didn’t do anything to deserve her love. But she saw things in me I never saw in myself. Like she’d always say: “You’re so elegant.” No one had ever called me that, especially someone who actually was the very definition of the word.
Maria died on 7 February, 2011. I stood there and watched her take her last breaths.
I didn’t want Maria before I met her, but I needed her once I did. We were exactly what we both needed. At the funeral her daughter Margie came up to me and said: “You were the last great love of my mother’s life.” To hear it said aloud from a family member brought tears of gratitude, and humility - that I had the chance to make someone’s last three years on earth a pleasure. Since I met Maria I’ve done some of the best creative work of my life. She guides me in everything I do. True love never ends.
I remember the first time we met. I listened to the wheels of her walker rolling down the old carpet of her 1970s redwood bungalow and, moments later, rounding the corner was a spiffy 92-year-old woman who stood up straight, scanned the room like a curious little bunny rabbit, and settled on the new guy: “And you must be Gregor”. She said it with the most delightfully lilting Viennese accent I’d ever heard. It was love at first sentence, something I never thought existed.
I was 32 at the time, and an actor. A friend convinced me to interview for a job as caregiver to an elderly woman named Maria Altmann (played by Helen Mirren in the upcoming biopic Woman in Gold). I wasn’t excited about the idea in general - the only time I would ever even consider being a caregiver was to play one on TV. But I went along anyway and was nervous about it. I don’t know. Maybe the deepest part of me sensed something big was about to happen.
She wore a colorful silk scarf, a green cashmere sweater and bright white trousers that day. I’d never seen someone so elegant, yet there was something childlike about her too. She had an insatiable curiosity about everything. We sat down together as if we were the only two people in the room. And she listened to me not with her ears but with her heart. On that morning my life changed, and believe me, I don’t just let any girl sweep me off my feet.
I set everything aside for the next three years until her death, the first of someone I truly loved in my entire life. Our connection was immediate. It was like we had met in another life. Despite the age difference between us, I would daily forget she was what others may consider old. We both felt like we were in our 20s, and we would admit that to each other regularly, without it ever getting uncomfortable. It was just perfectly magical.
My friends were really supportive and were all eager to meet her. I was very selective about who I introduced her to, though. It was like I was taking them to meet my new girlfriend, and all the butterflies that come with that. The last thing I wanted was for a woman with such gentility, who in many ways saw me as perfect, to see me with a bunch of goons.
In the beginning, it concerned me that someone might think our uncommon bond was weird or inappropriate, but it wasn’t even remotely the case. Because anyone who knew our relationship understood it, and her family was thankful that their mother had someone like me that made her happy.
Maria really meant everything to me. I said to her once: “Maria, you’re like a mother, a grandmother, and a friend to me.” And she responded: “What about a mistress?” We laughed together all day about these kinds of things. There’s no doubt we looked at each other romantically, but not in a physical sense. We were soul mates. Supernatural lovers, if you will.
Over the next three years Maria introduced me to a whole new world of art, music and culture, regaling me with incredible stories of her charmed childhood growing up in the preeminent Bloch-Bauer family in Vienna. She told about her harrowing escape from the Nazis in 1938 with her husband, their migration to Los Angeles in 1942, and the epic Supreme Court case to recover her uncle’s paintings by Gustav Klimt. Many anecdotes she told me were filled with details you could never find in history books.
Not only did I grow by being exposed to this world of culture, but my relationship with Maria also led me to ask myself difficult questions about life, the pursuit of my dreams and what my future would hold. The most difficult questions were: Why do I love this woman so much? Why does she love me? I struggled a great deal with the second one.
In my eyes I didn’t do anything to deserve her love. But she saw things in me I never saw in myself. Like she’d always say: “You’re so elegant.” No one had ever called me that, especially someone who actually was the very definition of the word.
Maria died on 7 February, 2011. I stood there and watched her take her last breaths.
I didn’t want Maria before I met her, but I needed her once I did. We were exactly what we both needed. At the funeral her daughter Margie came up to me and said: “You were the last great love of my mother’s life.” To hear it said aloud from a family member brought tears of gratitude, and humility - that I had the chance to make someone’s last three years on earth a pleasure. Since I met Maria I’ve done some of the best creative work of my life. She guides me in everything I do. True love never ends.
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