#Paul Cadmus
#artist #Realist
One day like a fledgling adolescent with no agenda, I sauntered through New York’s sweltering summer afternoon. The parade of tourists, and the everyday economy made their way from store to store, across streets and...
I stole a glance at myself from a Fifth Avenue storefront reflection. I looked like one of the prisoners who fell out of the sweat boxes in “The Bridge on the River Kwai”. I was the sweltering embodiment of Manhattan’s 98 degrees in the shade. Unless I am almost naked on an ocean beach, I hate the heat.
For decades I have witnessed the citizenry of the five boroughs converge into Manhattan. They have come to New York’s Broadway to revel in the revered as they march among the “Canyon of Heroes”. They have come to stroll among the city’s cultural diversity thronged along Manhattan’s Fifth Avenue celebrating every holiday festival and parade. Streamers and flags always seemed to be reigning atop those city avenues embodying our spirited past. It is a compelling way that we interweave our reverence for New York’s past, present and future histories. Sometimes it felt like walking through Childe Hassam’s Impressionist flag painting.
I was awakened from this solo reverie by an annoying clippety-clop, clippety-clop accompanied by “Schulman! Schulman!”. This old man waving at me, was dodging Fifth Avenue traffic with a ton of spring in his gait. By old man, I mean I was in my thirties and the artist Paul Cadmus was just shy of ninety.
It is not often I see someone greet me with such wide-eyed exuberance. I was overwhelmed. He told me that he saw me from across the street. He wanted to thank me for our portrait session. His art dealer had just shown him the portrait I had shot. He went on and on while holding and shaking my hand. I wasn’t sure if I was fainting from the heat or the pure unadulterated kindness. The moment had me in a pool of sweat, blushing at ten times 98 degrees.
I have photographed a constellation of art world luminaries who make up a unique niche of the western art world. Paul Cadmus was one star with a bit of realist magic preening through his canvases. He arrived into the art world mix wading through complex life experiences on his road from penniless to accomplished. In those pre-war and after days, Paul Cadmus got around.
He never rose to the stature of Edward Hopper, but he climbed like Jackson Pollock and others through what I refer to as “the system”: the Art Students League, The National Academy of Design and more. A bit of nepotism may have contributed to his rise. His sister married the impresario/tastemaker Lincoln Kirstein. Still, Paul was a fabulous artist who led a fabulous life.
For 10 years I lived engulfed in a most especial universe that enabled me to meet and photograph strands of artists that stretched almost one hundred years. I had made arrangements with art gallery dealers to photograph “their” artists. Castelli, Sonnabend, Emmerich and so many more shared theirs rosters. It was a fun and educational time. My Paul Cadmus session reminded me of my good times.
I was sitting in the gallery’s office/viewing room. It seemed like an eternity for Paul Cadmus to enter the room. The room was an amalgamation of a cheap motel and an airline boarding area. Everything seemed waning and in need of a face lift. I was too hot to be patient. Yet I waited.
I found a way to bide my time by celebrating the shards of light crisscrossing the art encumbered walls. Shards of light came from the eastern morning. The intensity of shadows and light reminded me of a Robert Morris sculpture but in light. My zen therapy came in the guise of mind games. I sat and entertained my myself making photography stills with my eyes.
Paul walked in. My eyes scrolled down from his hairline to the bottom of his chin and back up to his eyes. He owned the most gorgeous skin I have seen on a man of any age. Yet, just maybe it was his luminescent shoulder length silver-haired pony tail that dazzled me the most. He was elegant. He was purposeful. “What should we do Mr. Schulman”.
I had not previsualized a single shot. My mind was referencing Holbein, or maybe Rembrandt. Art history seemed a logical place to find my motivation. I didn’t struggle too long. I flipped through my lighting gels, needing one tiny spark of inspiration. Pink had been successful one time before. I flipped the switch. My lights swallowed up the room. I saw what we all have seen in Paul: A man fully present and alive in his skin.
The day was awkward for me. The artist was captivating in so many ways. The heat had worn me down. All I had was the mere strength and the experience to allow the subject’s eyes guide me to the watering hole of discovery. I followed his eyes towards the picture that needed to be taken. It was an event that had occurred a few times in my career. History was made. Cadmus was one of my most fulfilling sessions as a photographer.
In the end, the lights dictated my actions. The lights ruled the day. A few snaps later I thanked him. I ran off into the avenues. New York’s sweltering heat was no match for the cool calm that stole my heart.
#PaulCadmus
#Painter #artist #realist