Raphael Soyer 1982 in his New York Studio
I have communed with the dead at cemeteries as far flung as Père Lachaise in Paris, Novodevichy in Moscow, and Louis Armstrong in New Orleans. Maybe the inhabitants of more than one hundred cemeteries have ghostly spoken to me as in Dostoevskys’ Bobok
Sometimes you feel the need to hear the dead. Sometimes you need to clearly actualize their passion.The dead I refer to are the thousands of images I am recalling for my blogs. The life that they have breathed into me stay with me every time I manage a single click on my camera. It is the magic the dead share, that maintain the fire to create my future.
When I was a bit younger I wanted my time to reflect the history of art in America. Improbable as that might be, I was visually invoking the great lives of the worlds’ urban whisperers. Why couldn’t my pictures recall the raconteurs: Samuel Pepys, Raphael Holinshed, Boswell and Steele. Maybe I am one screwed-up romantic.
Watching artists being artists was a dream that became a reality. I couldn’t possibly place them in order of significance. I only know that the artists’ works and personalities allowed me to breathe. Years later, my eyes remember these moments as I might imagine one thousand resplendent Quetzal Mayan birds in flight. The jeweled birds dazzled and mingled in my imagination.
Resplendent Quetzal | National Geographicwww.nationalgeographic.com › animals › birds › resple...
When I consider the stories I need to share, I laugh. Certainly millions of episodes come to mind. Fortunately I see the collective process through a magical toy kaleidoscope. No color, no moment left unfettered.
Raphael Soyer was this fantastic diminutive giant. The respect he garnered as an artist was equivalent to a New York Yankee “roll call”. His circle included Edward Hopper, Reginald Marsh, his twin Moses Soyer and me.
Look into my eyes and you can only see how blessed I was to have the power of art shared with me by artists who whispered passion. I am six foot three. Soyer was a mere few feet tall. But we danced in his studio as Tevye from Fiddler on the Roof might have waltzed along the roof tops. Soyer’s grace and intellect emphatically touched my visible heart with every minute we were together. I never met Sholem Aleichem but I have imagined that his ghost danced with me every step of my way home rejoicing in the pleasures that I gleaned from my Soyer moment.
Alice Neel
The next day I traveled to the upper west side to have an encounter with my first naked septuagenarian. I arrived at the home of the artist Alice Neel. We sat down across from each other and she offered me coffee. I caught a glimpse of Alice closely tucking in her nightgown. She speedily asked me if I would like to photograph her naked. I might describe myself as a slightly “wet behind the ears” 28 year old. I politely declined.
My god was I stupid! Alice was famous for her nudes. She was hoping that I would include my nude portrait of her in the pantheon of my art world images. Yes I missed a famous moment. But at that time I was acutely aware of her suicide attempts. I was not stopped by conscience. I felt compelled to merely appreciate the tender moment posed before my camera. After I had said politely that I would not be photographing her naked, she looked me in the eyes, and without a second lost, she lifted up her nightgown and pleadingly asked, ”are you sure”? A million shades of blush passed before my eyes. Her daughter burst in. Silence prevailed. To this day I see the nightgown lifted above her head. My appreciation for nudity has never been the same. Memories are golden.
One fall day I entered the home of abstract artist Robert Motherwell. At the time, he was my “White Whale”. Hundreds of artists had passed before my camera. Why had it taken so long to shoot the portrait of one of the most underrated great artists of the century? Sometimes life presents mysteries that there are no answers for.
I was aware that his ex wife was Helen Frankenthaler. I was aware of many Motherwell stories. I was certainly not prepared for his present wife Renate Ponsold. I was sitting in the living room waiting with coffee in hand for Bob to say he was ready for our session. In walks Renate. She bellows, Why are you photographing Bob, I have several photographs of him? There is no need for another photographer’s portrait.
I rarely spar with other photographers. I have always stated that to have a life behind a camera is a dream. I merely looked up at her and said I am making a book of my own images. She twirled around with a huff, and I never saw her again.
Standing in Motherwell’s studio was like imagining the marriage between the hallucinating Jefferson Airplane gazing out at the Woodstock throngs, and Thomas De Quincey putting to paper his “Confessions of an Opium Eater”. My mind was astonishingly bended in so many ways by his colors and shapes and shadows. I was euphoric. The funny thing is that this great artist couldn’t draw.
He shared with me some of his art school experiences. His professor insisted that the students be able to draw portraits like Cezanne before they move on. One day he looked at his drawings and realized he would never be able to emulate Cezanne. The next day, he packed up his intellectual baggage and became Robert Motherwell; “Abstract Artist Extraordinarie”.
Robert Motherwell