Out of the Closet

We’ve had a number of cleaning people over the years since I’ve been at DVSA, and most of them have had some sort of bizarre experience. We have no ghosts as far as I know, and in an 1836 factory building, one could expect weird phenomena, but so fa,r none have surfaced.

About eight years ago we went through a great cleaning out, an end to many years worth of junk, and redid lots of things. We replaced tables, chairs and refinished floors (we need to do it all again). We replaced windows etc., because of a large grant we received to do these things.

Our cleaner at the time was working on an old cupboard in Studio One, which had housed mainly cans of wall paint, with a large shelf on the top. As she worked her way to the top, she discovered a body, and she screamed! She refused to go any further, and I was called to the rescue.

I had no idea what it was, but sure enough, on the back of the closet shelf, wrapped in plastic sheeting, was something, formerly alive! There were visible bones and hair.

I carefully (I was freaked!) took the package down, thinking quickly how I would deal with this if it were human, and I removed the carcass of a large dog, decayed, with hair still on it. I quickly moved from the closet, out of the back door and went to the dumpster.

No one knew how long this package was there, and no one ever (we sent out a memo to all) could explain where it came from or why it was there. It was not, as far as anyone knew, part of a still life, although I am sure that was the original intension. There was no odor anymore involved with this so it could have been there for years.

Our cleaner left shortly after this.

Help me make it through the night

I was at a conference, sometime in the late 80’s in Atlanta, GA. We stayed at some large and very fancy hotel with wonderful restaurants and lots of glitter and glamour.

I was dressing for dinner, and checked myself carefully in the mirror. I looked pretty good, at least for me. I wore summer weight flannel slacks, a button down shirt, as usual, a striped tie and a blue hued, tweed wool sport coat. I looked pretty dressed up.

I went to the elevator and got on. I went downstairs, and remembered something so I got back on to go up. The elevator opened on a floor to pick up passengers on the way up, and Kris Kristofferson got on with a date and another couple, they were going to a party on an upper floor. The men wore beautiful tuxes and they gleamed! The women were unbelievably beautiful and they sparkled. I was frozen. I could say nothing. I gaped! They talked, blinged and were having a great time.

The elevator stopped, they smiled and got off to go to the party, the doors closed.

I went upstairs, got to my room, and changed!

Old and New Random Thoughts

Thoughts expressed a few years ago to my sons. (New stuff in bold)

I can carry more music in my shirt pocket than I owned in my entire teen years.

My TV cost $800 four years ago and it’s small and outdated, and was very cheap but I didn’t know it. (Now my TV is bigger than yours!)

My daughters made fun of my 3 way speakers with 12” woofers because they’re so outdated and big. (I’ve replaced them with small ones that don’t sound nearly as good, but I don’t use them too often.)

When I bought my old computer 5 years ago it had 40 GIG’s and I thought I’d never need anything that big, and now it’s full. (I had to get a new hard drive with 60 GIG’s and gave it to my daughters and now it’s trash and we bought them a new one, of course!)

I find myself advising people on electronic purchases when I can hardly spell electronic purchases.

If I eat any more food this Christmas holiday (or any holiday) I can start a new career with the circus.

Why does my dog keep wanting to put his tongue up my nose?

Now my daughter’s friends now get in trouble with each other, not with the old junior high traditional “slam book”, but they now have blogs where they dis each other. (As I will do with mine!)

Are we all living out loud? (I am!)

JVC has a radio commercial for new TV’s and I don’t understand anything in it except that it’s about TV’s and it’s a JVC commercial.

I bought my youngest daughter a web cam for Christmas and I am concerned that she’ll start to dance naked on the web. If she does, can we make some money on this or is it kiddy porn? (No on both counts)

What did Carol King mean when she said “My life is just a tapestry of rich and royal hue”, and is my life that way?

As we age we really do not “get better”, that was just some commercial put upon us by sneaky people selling us something.

Was there ever really a Freedom 55? Is there a Freedom 85, ‘cause I’m on it!

This story is about the paper.

I had to photograph a diamond ring today as an auction item; this is a new territory for me as we don’t usually get such things. The ring, with my camera and my abilities was going to be shot in the box, as on the table it was hard for the auto focus to get it in focus. I will have hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of art on display, but a diamond ring can’t be put out for a few thousand people to see, as it will undoubtedly be stolen.

I once had $60,000 worth of prints in my office in Detroit and someone with a key came in and took my umbrella, which had been a free gift with a bottle of Aramis perfume.

Anyway, I decided to photograph this unusual ring, 18 k white gold and 1.6 carets of pave diamonds, using velvet paper as a background. This story is about the paper.

I had some in my basement in a DMI (art supply store, Detroit) and I took a cut up sheet. There are still plenty of other sheets in the bag.

The reason for using this black velvet paper is that it is a good background for photography as it doesn’t reflect and creates a soft, black area.

I remembered the paper was there because we used it to photograph Josh’s (my youngest son) portfolio for entrance to Art School.

This was done in the winter before his high school graduation.

Josh’s 40th birthday will be in a few weeks.

This story is about the paper.

Happy New Year 1959

My high school fraternity had planned a large New Year’s party welcoming 1959. We had rented a very nice restaurant, had a great jazz band and a dance floor. It was very upscale for us, and looked to be a great occasion.

Edgar, one of my friends, had been hospitalized because of a car accident some weeks before, and was slowly healing in the hospital. In those days, no one went home early. He was doing OK, not great, and had sustained some massive breakage.

Mike (one of my best friends) and I discussed the party, and made an interesting decision. We thought it would be great for us to get Edgar to the party, because why should he miss such a great event?

Mike had recently broken up with his girlfriend, and had no date. I had a date at that time, and could be involved in planning “the great escape” but could not participate, and miss part a of the party.

We went to the hospital and worked it all out with Edgar.

Mike went down to the hospital at about 8:30 p.m., after the good nights from the staff, and walked up the five floors to the room. He snuck through the halls and got Edgar dressed. Dressed meant a bathrobe over his pajamas. He walked Edgar (on crutches) to the freight elevator and got him to the car.

He arrived at the party a little after nine thirty!

He was yellow in color, looked like hell, but smiling like a crazy man! We all rallied to his side, the band played, we drank illegal booze (Edgar did not), we got him to a chair, and he stayed a while. Mike left in half an hour and got him back to his room. They had pillows stuffed in the bed feigning sleep.

The nurses asked the next day if he had gone to the party, as he had told them he would, and he said that he had. They all laughed as they were sure he had dreamed it.

We all lived, Edgar got better, Mike got a new girlfriend, I found another one and the world kept on going.

This story needed to be told as both Mike and Edgar passed away in 2008.

I always loved being on TV.

I always loved being on TV. I will admit to being a media junkie, in that I love to be on radio, TV and in the papers. I can see myself as a small “c” celebrity.OK, no groupies or instant recognition from strangers or adoring fans, well maybe a little, but that will take yet another story.

My first exposure to the media was a TV appearance on Baltimore, Channel 11’s Silver Saddle Roundup in 1951 (I think). I was allowed to go on the stage and get on TV because I was wearing my guns and all gun toting cowpokes could come up and say your name and appear on the air. These were live appearances so I never saw myself on TV at that time.

I can’t really remember much about media as a kid, except they brought in Educational Radio when I was in the 4th or 5th grade, and we had a large console radio in class and had to listen to some educational show.

I do remember that they must have thought city kids had no farm type experience, and Borden sent around Elsie and Elmer in traveling pens so we could see farm animals. Some kids thought these were the real Elsie and Elmer, but the real ones were cartoon characters, so the real ones couldn’t be real.

I do remember much later when Jan Paul Miller, a teacher at the Maryland Institute had to go to court or something, and he forced the insurance company or the client to pay for a video crew to film a panel discussion so his class wouldn’t miss anything. I liked watching myself, in fact all of us, on the tube.

Later, we bought a departmental video camera and it was to be used to tape student teachers. When I was able to finally use it, I found a taped kids football practice and also a female student taking a bath, discreetly unclothed, both quite a surprise.

When I moved back from Kansas City, MO to Baltimore, my wife and I had dinner with our old friends Howie and Rae Millman. These people were our friends in Baltimore where Howie was on the faculty at the University of Maryland, Baltimore County. We left in 1974 and returned in 1975 and had no contact with them until we returned. We met them for dinner shortly after returning and found people were coming over to our table to talk with Howie and Rae. Some of the people, it was clear, didn’t even know them. What had happened?

When we left Baltimore, it turns out, Channel 13 was looking for a “regular” couple to host a daily talk show and the Millman’s had been chosen. While we were gone they had become celebrities! I was amazed!

Things do happen and the media records, develops and nurtures it.

Howie has since died, at a very early age, which I found out just recently. He is missed.

In Detroit I made the paper many times in art related articles, including a nice piece in the local (Birmingham) paper on me as an artist, still framed on the wall of my home office. I did a radio show that caused me to meet my wife, or actually my mother-in-law. She was conscripted into waiting at my apartment for my mattress to be delivered by Sears so I could go and do an interview on Jazz radio in Detroit. She told her daughter that I was a “good catch” but her daughter thought I was too old. That’s another story for another time.

In Beverly, MA, I gained a bit of notoriety when I was asked about review some movies by a local reviewer. I (barely) remember reviewing “Frankenhooker”, a great, funny horror film and I know there were some others. We made the paper often with school events and I loved it. I guess that any publicity is good publicity unless there’s murder, mayhem and death attached.

In Calgary, AB we moved out of the art columns onto the cooking page. We appeared twelve times in a sixty minute cooking column, including photos of the whole family cooking. We did a cooking class demo with a hanging overhead mirror and have been included in two cook books. I love this stuff!

There was a great article when we came to Calgary about my son’s coming to Calgary and finding the school on his honeymoon, and his calling me and telling me to go to Calgary and get the job as President of the Alberta College of Art. He did not know that there would be a job, and did not know that they called me to ask me about going there less than six months after he suggested it. It was serendipity.

I have little memory left about TV and radio appearances in Calgary, although I did some. I can remember doing a “live” CBC interview about graffiti while driving in a snowstorm, using a hand’s free cell phone. There is still an interview available on the internet about my involvement getting a degree program for the college. It’s been too long to remember them all.

Since moving to Ontario, I have managed to get into the paper, on the radio and TV as much as can be expected. Several people have facetiously noted that their week would not be complete without seeing me somewhere. We have had a family cooking article, as well, in the Hamilton Spectator.

So all of those who say I’m grabbing for attention are correct. If you’re reading this blog my intension should be obvious.

Battle of Chickamauga

The Civil War campaign and major battle take their name from West Chickamauga Creek. It is often said that Chickamauga is a Cherokee word meaning "river of death". It has also been called "stagnant water"

In 1960 or 1961, someone came to town to film the Battle of Chickamauga in a local park. I have no idea (I really had no idea at the time either) who was doing this epic, who was starring in it or where it was going, but it was truly an opportunity, as I saw it, to be in a “real” movie. All sorts of very “hip” people seemed to be involved.

I know there were lots of people on the site, with the extras being anyone who owned jeans and chambray shirts who could sort of look like Union or Confederate troops from a distance. There was a crazy local guy involved who lived on North Avenue, I believe, who had inherited his parents house and had a open front car, the chauffer driven kind and had a large fur, Russian hat which he wore when he drove this behemoth around town.

There were one (or maybe two) real actors involved with this as he, or they, came down from New York so they must have been “real” actors. We had food service (maybe a grill and hot dogs) set up in Leakin Park, near the shoot. We had some hats (civil war stuff), some guns for killing people and lots of chocolate syrup, the magic needed, we learned, to created blood in black and white movies, as this was not to be a color epic.

The story involves the troops, low on blood, trying to get to the river as the loss of blood made you thirsty (we were told). So bleeding chocolate syrup, we crawled on our stomachs through the brush and down the hills searching for the river which was, of course, really polluted, so we didn’t really want to get there. This was an acting challenge. The real actor gets shot, turns around on the rocks and dies beautifully into the river. This must have been the climax shot first (the money shot).

Now we could have lunch! I was hot, cut up from the rocks and covered with syrup and the ants who wanted some.

About then we heard the sirens and saw the lights flashing. It seems we had a shooting permit for the wrong park, I think, but also passers by had phoned in that soldiers were killing each other in Leakin Park, not a Baltimore kind of event!

Most of us hurried to our cars or chauffer driven limos and got away leaving the director, the actor and the important people to face the music.

I never know what happened to any of those people. There was a movie of the Battle of Chickamauga released in 1962 but it was released in France and it was in the French language.

While I’d like to think it was shot in Leakin Park, somehow I don’t believe it was.

The 8 Foot High Vagina

This one is rough1 It’s a short bit, but weirdly bizarre.

I went out to lunch and when I returned our secretary told me (and an assembled group standing around the office) we that I had a message on the machine.

The message was on her phone, she laughed, but clearly it was for me and she was sure I could solve the problem for this lady. She put the message on speakerphone and we all listened.

Someone, somewhere was doing an amateur production of the “Vagina Monologues”. Did I think we would have anyone, or perhaps one of our classes who would be able to construct an 8 foot high vagina to fit over their doorway, enabling the theater goers to walk through it on entering the theater?

As much as I thought about it after the laughter subsided, there was simply no way to present such an idea to our students and teachers. Fifty percent of our students were children, and at the risk of losing the business of their families, I figured they were off limits. The rest were paying for a learning experience, and while there is perhaps some learning experience in the stage construction, it is limited, and not quite what they had in mind.

I chose to ignore the call.

Sheila was my girlfriend for about a minute in 1958.

Sheila was my girlfriend for about a minute in 1958. We went out after I broke up with my girlfriend of four years.

Sheila was a wonderful, funny and completely lovable girl. She had an exotic air about her, and I was smitten for a bit. This is not a “kiss and tell” story, and given the late 50’s, kissing would be all I could tell about! Besides, Sheila will probably see this story sooner or later and I don’t want the lawsuit.

Sheila was one (and still is) of Lynda’s best friends, and I married Lynda eventually. My friend Ted and I would go and visit Sheila often, as she lived in the suburbs in what seemed at the time a giant house with speakers in the ceilings. She would put on a Martin Denny record and birds would chirp from the ceiling, and we were won over by the birds!

This story, however, has nothing to do with out “relationship” directly, but is about the aftermath of it in her life.

Sheila’s parents liked me, I think. At least I know her mother did. Her father was a bit cool on boys in general. But, I was Jewish and presentable, and had a vehicle. This made me “eligible” for their daughter, I guess.

Six months to a year after I stopped seeing Sheila, I was home alone on a Saturday night. I knew Sheila had been going out with a guy (I can’t remember his name) who was not her parents delight, mainly, I imagine, because he wasn’t Jewish, a big No No in those days, and perhaps even now. But sitting around, I thought I’d give Sheila a call for the hell of it.

Her mother answered the phone and I greeted her, and she asked if anything was wrong. I was confused, this response made no sense. I said no, “can I speak with Sheila please?” The silence that followed was deafening!

Sheila, who was sneaking out with Mr. Wrong, had said she was going to a party at my house. What were the odds I’d ever call?

I ran into a nice old guy and his dog today.....

I took Max, our dog, for a walk this morning. I always do the morning walk, although it’s earlier during the week than it is on the weekend. I was out around eight this morning and I ran into a nice old guy with his dog. We chatted about the dogs while the sniffed each other, and than about the weather and stuff, and then he went on.

I was happy, and started to think about how I see mostly men walk dogs in the morning, while I see more women in the other times. I figured mostly men work still, and realized that the old guy I ran into was dressed somewhat different from me

He was more business attired, in that he had on black wing tips, something I seldom, if ever wear. So I realized he was probably a working office kind of guy, and then I realized that I was probably older than this guy!

I am older than most old guys I run into! Why do I see them as old guys, since I must be comparing them with me? I know how old I am, and even though I love when I have to argue and prove I’m a senior once in a while, and I don’t automatically receive seniors discounts, the amazing facts of life are quite real.

I just don’t think of myself that way. I still have trouble believing I’m an adult!

I’m sure that guy and his dog went home and he told his wife, “I ran into a nice old guy and his dog today”.

We're the most interesting what?

In 1985, I was at some meeting or another in Tucson, Arizona. A large group of guys went out to dinner in a well known eatery. I would guess, although the memory is not always correct, there must have been 8 to 12 men present.

We were an anomaly. Here were a dozen guys, all in there 40’s and 50’s, all East Coast US guys from Art Schools and Universities, all gray or graying, tweedy with button down shirts and ties, looking, as I remember, pretty normal if we were in Boston. But there was the rub, we were in Tucson!

After dinner, we were working our way out of a crowded restaurant, full of guys with bolo ties and women looking like Dolly Parton, snaking through the tables, when I walked by Jon Voight and JoBeth Williams having dinner. Jon Voight was wearing a silver lame jumpsuit kind of thing and JoBeth Williams, in her prime, was beautiful. (They were out there to shoot “Desert Bloom”, a 1986 release film.)

I quickly looked over at them, knew who they were, and figured they were shooting something somewhere and was continuing on when Jon Voight stopped me and said, “Excuse me, who are you, all of you? You’re the most interesting looking group of people we’ve seen out here!”

Gilding the Lilly

My Aunt Ida was wealthy, and she and my Uncle Harry were always spoken of with great deference around my house. They were very nice people, and would come over to visit every now and then.

I saw my first TV show at their house, and they always had a full time cook/cleaner at their house, a “live in”. This was quite a fancy thing in those days. They always had a black Cadillac and were the only ones I knew with special numbered license plates that you could only get if you “knew someone”.

Uncle Harry passed away many years before my Aunt. My parents are buried in my Uncle and Aunt’s family plot. We were close. My father worked for my Uncle for many years in his later life.

My Aunt lived in a large house across from the Country Club in Baltimore County. She then sold the house and moved to a large, luxury apartment tower, newly built in our city. She stayed there for some time, and even employed a companion, so she had live in help who drove.

My Aunt decided to move to Florida, and even invited my mother to go along with her, this happening after my father had passed away.

My mother, a very smart woman, decided that going with my Aunt would put her in the companion role and wisely stayed away, but did visit my Aunt every now and then.

Everything my Aunt owned was considered precious by my parents, and much better than our “stuff”. I assumed my parents were correct as I was no expert in furniture or antiques at the time.

One Sunday, several years ago, we had reservations for the Antiques Roadshow for 9 a.m. They were seeing two groups, one at 9 and one at 1 p.m. It was one great event!

We were in lines from 8:20 a.m. until 11 a.m. and had a great time. My wife and I were allowed to bring in two items each, and we were never chosen to appear on TV, which meant we had no items great values or no great fakes.

We had so many things to choose from, but since we know the relative value of most of our stuff, we searched for things we weren’t sure of.

We had a 18th century traveling case (an old wooden box) which we believed to be just that, but wanted to prove it, and it could hold (making it all easy to carry) the chocolate set, the cut glass bowl and a pair of small pitchers, which were gifts to my mother from my Aunt Ida.

I was singled out in the line and an appraiser came over to look at the box, and admired it and gave me an appraisal (about $300) but it went no further. I had a momentary heart flutter when he came over hoping it was to be a surprise treasure. He was hoping it was an 18 century Canadian chest, but it was an 18th century English piece instead.

The bowl from my wife’s great grandmother’s boarding house/restaurant was interesting, and had a $350 price while the chocolate set was probably Czech and worth about $450, also a family item.

The pitchers were from my Aunt Ida (of course my late mother had thought they must be worth their weight in gold). The first china/glassware appraiser took them to another appraiser, who refused at first to touch them, they so revolted his sensibilities!

It was like a strange British comedy, he withdrew his hand as the first appraiser tried to hand them over, for fear of becoming contaminated with these objects!

They were 1920’s French fakes of bad Italian pottery and were worth about $75 for the pair.

The Autistic Child

We received a call at school asking the office if anyone could talk to the woman on the phone about registering her autistic child in our children’s art classes. The phone call was of course given to me to answer, and I called the woman back, hoping I could help her with her problem.

We have always tried to handle special situations with a degree of understanding, and have met the needs of many special needs children over the years.

I told the woman who I was, and asked her what I could do to work with her in solving whatever problem she was having.

She explained that she didn’t really have a problem; she just needed guidance in determining in what class she should enroll her child.

I asked her if they had an aide appointed to work with the child, or if we needed to try and find a volunteer to handle her daughter’s needs. She told me no, they didn’t have anyone special, and didn’t see the need for one. I asked how the problems manifested themselves in her daughter’s case and she wondered what I was talking about.

I said there must be some problems related directly to her autistic child, and she told me she had told the office she had an artistic child, not autistic!

Jim Striby was my friend!

Jim Striby, who passed away at the end of 2001, was my friend. He was my mentor, my Department Chairman and a man who changed my life.

Jim had such a profound affect on my life that it’s hard to imagine what I’d be doing and where I would be today, if it weren’t for his intervention.

First of all, he hired me for the teaching job at the Maryland Institute, taking me out of the public school system in 1970. He went out of his way to make sure I’d be included in the Union of Independent Colleges of Art discipline meetings, insisting to our school and the Director of UICA that I needed to be at all the National Art Education meetings we had when no other additional faculty were ever included in those meetings. It was because of his insistence that I attend, that I eventually got the job as Associate Director of UICA in Kansas City, changing my life, and the lives of my family, forever.

He was my traveling partner for many years. I remember telling my former wife, that Jim was much easier to travel with then she was, as I always knew where he would be putting his socks and his underwear, plus he always brought booze with him which improved the traveling situation.

We shared many unique experiences, and had so many adventures, that it boggles my mind to consider them. Most of these will not be aired in public, but one keeps coming back to me and I wanted to share this one. It was a memorable event.

We were in Washington D.C. for some kind of meeting. We both lived within an hour of the meeting, but we stayed at a hotel in D.C. because we could participate in the evening activities, dinner and things.

We made reservations at some “fancy” restaurant, recommended, I believe, by my former father-in-law who was great at these things and knew where to go.

We must have started drinking after the meeting in the bar with lots of friends at 4:00 p.m.and then went back to the room to change, and maybe have a few room drinks, and then on to the restaurant.

We were feeling no pain when we arrived at the restaurant, and Jim was clearly (in my mind) more gone than I was. We drove to the restaurant, as I remember, somehow parked in a multi story parking facility somewhere.

When the waiter came by we ordered drinks, of course, and continued to consume great amounts of gin. Then we focused on the menu.
For appetizers (the only part of the meal I remember as this was the 70’s) we ordered escargot.
Right before they arrived, the waiter put down what looked like a double sided mascara curler but is actually a pair of tongs, a snail holder. The snails arrived on a little metal tray with holes in to keep the snails in place and collect all that herbed butter. We were also presented with a long, thin snail fork.
Jim looked at the snail utensil, held it in his hand and held it up to the light wondering what to do next. I asked him if I could help him as he clearly needed help, and I explained how to use these things.
He put the snail in the tongs, picked up his fork and the snail disappeared!
We both were astonished! Where had it gone? A magical experience had happened to us both,
The air cleared and I noticed a streak of butter running across Jim’s sport coat in a line going from his tie to his shoulder.
A tuxedoed waiter then tapped Jim on the shoulder gently, handed him the snail shell held between his thumb and forefinger and asked, “Did you lose this sir?”.
Behind him I saw a bald, well dressed diner, sitting quietly with butter dripping down his head, staring at us!
Diner was wonderful, I think. Luckily, Jim had lost the car keys and we took a cab. Jim’s wife Maxine drove to D.C. the next day and brought keys so we could go home!

And So My Son, We Knew It Was Happening

Many years ago (2001), my son asked me to describe the music scene when I was a kid, and if the Beatles played a part in my musical life. I wrote to him and said:

First we had the BIG CHANGE, the change from pop music to rock and roll. On TV, “Your Hit Parade:, coming originally from the radio, was the big thing. Snooky Lanson and a cast of favorites would cover the top ten each week. We had such big favorites as the Art Mooney and his Orchestra’s big hit of the theme from Battle Cry, “Honey Babe”, with a military theme (go to your left, your right, your left…I’ve got a gal in every port, honey…) to Jo Stafford’s “Shrimp Boats” are a’comin’ there’s dancing tonight.

Now, go from that environment (Frankie Lane, Jo Stafford, Doris Day etc.) to Bill Haley!

My head was spinning (Lonely Teardrops).

The black music growth, with real black musicians; Frankie Lyman, Little Richard (not the Pat Boone covers), the Turbans et al…this was a revolution. Every day new stuff was coming out and we were glued to the AM radios waiting for the latest numbers. This was overwhelming for everyone age 12+.

As a kid (teenager) with my high school fraternity brothers we had dances with the favorite Bubby (pronounced boub-ey) Thompson, a black guy who looked like Little Richard, and wore a leopard skin coat and had a back up band, and we were in heaven. The beginning scene’s of Barry Levinson’s “Diner” beautifully presented those events.

Lenny Grossman and I brought Bill Haley and the Comets to Baltimore in 1957 and Fats Domino the following year. We had those dances at the Dixie Ballroom in Gwynn Oak Park (the movie Hairspray was based around this park) and charged $3 stag or drag. We had an ad book and sold ads and gave a percentage of the proceeds to charity. These were big, successful dances. These guys played all night for dancing and it was fantastic, the parts I remember. I was usually very drunk, but I do remember seeing those guys.

So… we’re no where near the Beatles yet, but as a kid with impressions, here it is. As you said, I was 21+ when the others happened. I watched the Beatles on Ed Sullivan in your Grandparent’s bedroom with Mom and your Grandparents, as you slept in your crib.

By that time I was in to other stuff, folk mostly and surely not much rock and roll. Bob Dylan brought rock and roll back into my life as he made the change. The British invasion was kid stuff, I thought.

I loved the Beatles eventually. I used to sing She’s Leaving Home to you all the time. I loved lots of new music, but Sergeant Pepper was special, as was Revolver.

I loved Norwegian Wood. There was clearly a change. Leon Russell was a trip, although usually forgotten. The drug/love culture was changing everything. I was a married guy with lots of kids and the world was changing. I didn’t feel the changes in the same way as many others because I had bought my Daddy’s vision; I was a straight guy, at least compared to many of my friends. Drugs did not become part of my life. They were there, but I would rather have a martini anytime.


As an artist I was automatically deemed less then straight. But I missed some of the change. “When you go to San Francisco…be sure to wear flowers in your hair”. I went to San Francisco with a suit and a tie, and ate dinner at Ernie’s, a very upscale restaurant at the time.

But yes my boy, there is a Santa Claus. We knew it was happening.

A Thought About Making Things

I spoke with my son a while back, and we discussed the idea that we need to make something once in a while. In this world where we deal with information processing, and not much with things, we need to stop and make something or at least fix something or just do something with our hands (no weird stuff here please).

I joked recently about my three sons, two of who were in construction (at one time as young men) and one who stayed close to Jewish roots and had a guy on retainer. But I thought about it, and realized that his making of music is the same kind of thing. It’s a primary urge or tool or act that we all need to do.

Not making anything would be a crime. The making of art or music or the fixing of a banister ranks up there with other primary drives. The act of construction seems to be a requirement. I was going to see this as a male thing, but the more I think about it, it is gender neutral.

As I age and get wiser (?) I get these ideas, and I had no appreciative audience on whom to foist such thoughts.

In my position I don’t have much access to media, so I get to make pronouncements here. No one here much cares or argues, so you all become the benefactors (or victims) of my rambling. Thanks for being there.

I Am Mr. Getlin

In 1955 I started high school, and that first year I often had a ride to the second bus. We had to take 3 city buses, but I usually hitch hiked a ride if possible, and usually two of them to get to school. When I had a ride it was with the father of Howie Getlin, a high school fraternity brother of my mine. I’m not sure how many people went with us, but it included my cousin Elliott, Howie, the late Edgar Kauffman, me and maybe Lenny Grossman.

Mr. Getlin’s car had a large brownish yellow stain on the visor and headliner from tobacco smoke, although it was a kind of new car, and the ashtray was usually out and full.

Other than that, I remember the back of Mr. Getlin’s head. I don’t think he ever talked, and we may have said thanks to him when we bailed out at the bus stop.

Now, on Thursday mornings, I take my daughter and three friends to school at 7 a.m. for band. They all get in the back seat and talk about school gossip, make fun of kids who they perceive as less cool than they are and have a good time.

If I speak, they will answer a question, but that’s about it. They see the back of my head, although I do know them in other settings.

But for one morning a week, I am Mr. Getlin.

You can tell when your warranty has run out!

I was sitting on the edge of my bed, putting on my socks, when I spied an ant crossing the carpeting. I thought quickly and decided to crush the ant with my bare heel. Crushing an ant on carpeting requires some force as the carpet is somewhat resilient. I hit it twice and it was gone.

Then there was a scream from downstairs, “Arthur!, Arthur, all you alright?”

I had no idea why my wife was yelling but I told her I was fine, and asked what was wrong.

She had heard the thuds, and was concerned that perhapI had s suffered a fatal heart attack.

Jonas vs Jonas

I was putting together the piece “The Sky Had Opened” on Saturday (on this blog), and needed a photo of my grandfather Jonas Greenblatt, who had died in 1944. I knew there was one on my computer.

For a while my kid’s computer was failing, and they were mostly using ours. It has since been replaced, but they still are on ours often, although I do try and keep them away.

I went into the search mode to find the photo, Jonas in Atlantic City, the solo portrait I used. However, this simple request brought up one Jonas in AC, and 39 other Jonas pieces.

My error, I had forgotten the Jonas Brothers!

John Updike 1932-2009

I will miss John Updike, he was important to me, for some unknown, or currently undefined reason, he was a great influence, I think, but I’m not sure how.

I related to his Rabbit books, the series of four, they seemed to speak to me.

I read all of his novels, most of the stories, I think, and lots of other writings as I’d run across them.

I had a conversation with him once, memorable to me, but just a conversation. We met in line waiting to pay taxes at city hall in Beverly, MA. I told him a story about meeting Ken Davids (the coffee review king http://www.coffeereview.com/) in Beverly at the train station, and as Ken was coming up the stairs he said, “this looks like a John Updike kind of town”. I told him it was “The” John Updike town, as he lived here”. Updike laughed, and I was next, and paid my taxes.

I would write him a letter each year inviting him to speak at our graduation, and he would decline. Each time I saved his declining note, as they were a unique style, as you can see. Witty, typed and corrected by John himself.

John said this about life:

“There are two evidential arguments (for Christian Truths): one, our wish to live forever, however tedious the actual experience of eternal consciousness might be, and, two, our sensation that something is amiss-that there has been a lapse or slippage in the world and things are not quite as they should be.

We feel made for a better world, and the fault is ours that this is not Eden. The second may be more solid evidence, since fear and loathing of death can be explained as, like pain, a survival device selected and refined by Darwinian evolution. Because we fear death, we try harder to live.

As long as our genes get through, Nature doesn’t care how we suffer.

A third super naturalist argument could be that belief, with a pinch of salt, ….benefits the health: repeated medical studies bear this out. An anxiety –relieving faith conduces to worldly efficiency and success.”

Villages – John Updike

John Updike’s Last Poem, Titled “Requiem.”

It came to me the other day:
Were I to die, no one would say,
‘Oh, what a shame! So young, so full
Of promise - depths unplumbable!
Instead, a shrug and tearless eyes
Will greet my overdue demise;
The wide response will be, I know,
‘I thought he died a while ago.’
For life’s a shabby subterfuge,
And death is real, and dark, and huge.
The shock of it will register
Nowhere but where it will occur.
*************************

I think I could turn and live with animals...

I think I could turn and live with animals, they're so placid and self contain'd,….
They do not sweat and whine about their condition,
They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins,
They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God,
Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of owning things,
Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago,
Not one is respectable or unhappy over the earth.

From Leaves of Grass, “Song of Myself” 9th edition 1891

As spoken by Pete Seeger, “Pete Seeger and Sonny Terry at Carnegie Hall, 1958.

The year was probably 1961, and I was sitting in the Checkmate Café, a coffee shop in downtown Baltimore when I first heard this album. It was as if a light bulb went off over my head. I bolted to the front to see what this record was. It was amazing! I had never heard anything like it before and I was knocked out. The music, the words of Walt Whitman, all of it! The record album itself was a big, thick, two part thing made by Folkways records, something I’d never heard of. It had a thick booklet with the words and interesting information, different than the normally hard to read record albums I’d seen before.

It changed my life! New music, new artists, stuff I’d never dreamed of.

What's the difference between an extra large pizza and an artist?

An extra large pizza can feed a family of four!

Here's a great letter from the Globe and Mail from last Friday:

I’d like to make a modest proposal to solve some of our eco­nomic problems: Let's do a job swap," choreographer Liz Lerman writes at www.communityart­s.net. "We'll put the corporate ex­ecutives to work as artists while the artists run Wall Street." Some of the advantages, she writes:
Artists work ridiculous hours for no pay. And most of the artists l 'know will keep working until they get the job done right. Artists do not need fancy offic­es. In, fact, they usually work in the worst part of town.
Artists do not need financial in­centives. Artists do the work they do because they love it Or be­cause they believe in it.
Artists do not expect to get any­thing if they do a bad job. Except maybe a bad review.

Artists keep very tight budgets.

The sky had opened! (written a few years ago)

I knew that my on my father’s side my Grandfather came from Russia. I had donated his papers to the Jewish Historical Society in Baltimore when I inherited them from my father. In those papers was his Russian draft notice. I knew he came to Baltimore, was married to my grandmother who had passed away in the 20’s, had 5 children of which my father was the youngest, and I knew all the children of his children, although I didn’t know many of the next generation. I was born when my father was 43, so I was a late son of the youngest child so my first cousins that are left are now all in their 70’s and 80’s. I had no more information, and wasn’t looking for more.

My daughter Lilly was part of a Heritage Day program at her school, in which each child brought in some information and “stuff” pertaining to their heritage. Her heritage is German, English, Lithuanian and Russian, as far as we knew, so we chose Russian, and provided her with a Russian Doll, some Russian money a family picture or two from Russia (actually they were from my mothers family but very old and probably Russian).

So…one day, a few months ago, I was fooling around on my computer, something I have been paid to do for years, and I tried my Grandfathers name on Google, and began to read various dead ends for fun. I ran across a question of a web site devoted to Lithuanian Jews and Jewish settlements in Lithuania in the 19th century, which asked if anyone knew the whereabouts of my Grandfather and his family. They listed him by name and my grandmother and an Aunt or two. The question was dated 1993. I returned the email but the link was gone.

A few days later, I tried the woman’s name who asked the question on Google, and found her still actively involved in a Lithuanian search. I wrote to her and asked if she was still interested and she was. She had spoken with two of my cousins several years ago, but cut the conversation short as she was on her way to Salt Lake City for more research. I began to include many of my cousins and my sons in the email, and sent her an up to date history of my family, as far as I could, including numbers of kids but not always names. She began to correspond, and it seems that my grandfather was in fact from Lithuania, was on of six children, she had all the names and ages, I’d never heard of any of this. She gave us the ship info for when they arrived in New York. She gave us a new world!

My son said we began to see people in our minds, real flesh and blood persons with names and histories.

The sky had opened!

My Mothers Cook Book

After the nostalgia created for me by posting my mothers photo with me and my daughter, from about 1995, I decided to let you all have a look at my mothers cook book.

While Rena wasn’t a great cook, she was a determined one, and an interested cook, as well. She wanted to do a great job and did some things very well. Most of those had no known recipes because she knew how to make them so she never needed the recipe.

The cook book I produced after her death was “published” in about 25 copies and sent as Christmas and Chanukah gifts to most of my immediate family and a few of her friends. The rest of the information has been in my computer for the past six or seven years since it was done, and now, without the accompanying photos, which I can’t figure how to include in my bog, it is available to you, for your interest. It is the non-essential cook book recipes of an average Jewish mother.

Please read it at http://www.renascookbook.blogspot.com/

Arthur

We lose something everytime we gain something

I was in Henry’s Photo this afternoon, picking up slide projector bulbs. Of course, I know I am among the very few who would be buying such old technology today. We use them at school because some of our people have slides to show. This is a dying art, and I am informed that sooner or later the bulbs will become extinct.

We began to talk about people turning in very expensive cameras to me as a gift; we no longer give tax receipts for old cameras, as we really don’t use them very often. We run just one or two black and white photo classes a year, and all the others are digital. No one wants an old enlarger, and those should go into the dumpster.

As I reminisced with the guy in Henry’s, there came to mind my mother, a major influence in my life, and her holding on to the technology of the past, the things we’re used to.

Somewhere in the late 50’s or early 60’s, my mother’s office forced her to relinquish her manual typewriter for an electric, which she hated. She was able to purchase two of the remaining Underwood typewriters for $35 each (I think). She gave one to me (long since disposed of) and kept the other one for herself. She had held on to hers at the office long past the time of every other ones disposal and she finally had to give it up.

I guess, as my wife complains that we are unable put a receiver on our shoulder and talk on the phone, that we lose something every time we gain something.

Guilt Calls

In trying to reach my oldest son Cliff, I have resorted, at times, to devious ways. He is usually the only child of mine to respond, although the others will do so on occasion, Cliff is usually true blue.

Recently I left a message at his home telling him I wanted to talk to him as long as I’m still around. He did respond in a few days. The other day I told him I wanted to say goodbye to him, in a much weakened voice. He called back pretty quickly. I am at least keeping my daughter-in-law Stephanie in a smiling state!

Cliff told me that when his son (my grandson) Henry calls him at work and asks him when he’s coming home, often he will say, in an hour or so, as I’m very busy. Henry, knowing, at 11 (or 12?) how to push all then right buttons, will sing a few bars of “Cats in the Cradle”, which will hurry Dad home.

Just what I need, another work of Art!

The devil made me do it, but sitting here watching my stock market investments dissolve into the blue, I had been talking about investment grade art (something I can't afford) as a better idea. I ran into an online auction from Ritchie's, their 3rd one ever. For my American friends, Ritchie’s is Sotheby’s partner in Toronto, and the place I have sold some stuff over the years.

I had lunch yesterday with two of their (Ritchie’s) people and we talked about this guy, Frederick Kitson Cowley, 1884 – 1931. He was a Hollywood writer and producer, trained as an artist, who died young. His family (long since deceased mostly) has dumped all 39 pieces on to the market, and some went for much more than I thought they would, and I got an O.K. deal. There was a last minute flurry of activity (as usual) and I was bidding on several pieces at once, hoping to get one, but hoping not to get two or three! I was bidding on a piece until the price was too high for me and I would switch to a different one. I did get one I wanted, but there were some others I would have preferred. For sure he won’t be painting any more.

Born in Joslyn, Illinois, Cowley was educated at the University of Michigan and the Art Institute of Chicago, after which he studied art and architecture abroad. Although his primary love was art he also proved to be an accomplished architect, teacher, illustrator, playwright, actor and director. Many of his post impressionist works reflect summers spent at his summer home in Nantucket with his wife, photographer Norma Featherstone Cooke, and on Cape Cod, Martha's Vineyard and throughout New England: freighters at the wharf, dockside boats, town fairs, picnics, beach and market scenes, etc. Frederick Kitson Cowley died suddenly at the age of 46 of a heart condition in May of 1931.

Over time it will be a good investment for an American post-impressionist painter. The paintings are all lovely, a word I seldom use. They were all small, and mostly oils. I enjoyed looking at them on the web and was assured they were great in person. I will find out on Monday when a friend of mine is picking it up for me when he goes to Ritchie’s on business.

I just want to freeze time!

So at the risk of boring everyone, let’s say a few words about getting older. This is not a condition I was prepared for. Nor did I plan for. Some souls are out there carefully planning old age and retirement, and I figured if I planned for it I’d probably never make it. I didn’t even give it that much thought.

When I was a kid I can remember walking home from elementary school and thinking about becoming a teenager, and even becoming 16 and driving! I even contemplated 21! There was no notion of ever being any older, certainly not a reality. I was walking by Freddie somebody’s house, I can’t possibly remember his name but he had red hair. However, his father drove a 1949, ‘50 or ’51 Chevrolet that was covered with Cat’s Paw logos, so he must have sold shoe accessories to stores. I remember thinking I’d always remember that day, as I could remember the car, and I was right!

One of the first things I notice is my family is pretty much dead! All the parents, Uncles and Aunts that filled my daily existence are pretty much gone, except for, in my case, my Aunt Hilda who is alive, 90 and great! I try and talk to her every week. I try and talk to my mother as well, but my Aunt is alive so she answers me back (my humor).

My cousins are all getting old, just like me. My oldest cousins are pushing 90, so I know I’m old.

The aches and pains are manageable, but they don’t get better. They used to come and go; now they just come and stay. They are like vultures, waiting for the end.

My kids are old, at least the boys. Even my youngest boy is about to turn 40 and just had his second kid. They are all older than I ever thought I’d become.

I had no death plans ever, but no life plans either. I just sort of stumble through life, trying to make it, a day at a time.

I have now depressed myself by reading what I’ve written. With the death of a few childhood friends, it has hit home more than ever that we are temporary. I’m sure Freddie Harris who had the Cat’s Paw logo car (I just remembered, thankfully I can still do that) may be out there, and breathing, but who knows?

Thankfully I am still working which keeps me surrounded by people, even young ones, who never depress me. My girls see me as the old man, a grumpy, too loud old guy who is a bit crude. They are correct. I do get nastier as I get older, or maybe just crankier. It just seems to come with the territory.

I am happy; I just want it to stop! I want to freeze time and stay my age, and everyone to stay alive!