By Leslie Kendall Dye | Wednesday, December 03, 2014|Off the Shelf


One night in my twenties, I found myself wandering a strip of real estate that runs along York Avenue between 51st and 57th Streets. The area is called “Sutton Place.” It doesn’t get more “East Side” – stylistically and geographically – than this short stretch of tree-lined, water-front property at the edge of the island of Manhattan.

 I was working as a part-time nanny, assigned to mind two boys who were staying with their grandparents.  I saw a lot of chintz that night, and etchings of sailboats and maritime maps. I saw needlepoint cushions bearing the faces of family bulldogs, and rows upon rows of Lenox China.
When I’d entered the lobby, I saw  an old woman asking the doorman whether her laundry had been delivered.

 I realized with a jolt that it was Mrs. Luce. Clotilde Luce was the receptionist at my old acting school, The Neighborhood Playhouse. The Playhouse, as it was once affectionately known, had a heyday, like every other New York City icon. That era has passed, and great acting teachers like Sanford Meisner no longer illuminate its dusty classrooms. But it was once a lighthouse for many struggling performers, living in the city and working toward a dream.