Wednesday, February 26, 2014
Each Torah contained exactly 304,805 letters scribed on about 80 sheets of parchment. Only black ink made from gall-nut juice and gum was acceptable. The height and width of each letter had to be perfect. Small mistakes could be scraped away and redrawn unless a mistake was made writing the name of God in which case he'd have to start over since God's name could not be erased. If one letter was missing or appeared smudged then the Torah was considered invalid or not kosher.
The scribing of a Torah took up to one year. Once scribed, each sheet of parchment was sewn together to form a continuous scroll. The Torah was then sewn onto wooden rollers called Eitzei Chayim (trees of life). The Torah was dressed and shipped to a designated synagogue where it was blessed and dedicated in a sacred ceremony.
As you can imagine, my grandfather was a serious man. Scribes were supposed to be devoted and pure. He started each day with a Mikvah, a ritual bath in a sacred pool found in a temple. The immersion in water was a purification ritual to cleanse the scribe before he channeled sacred text. After praying that his holy work would be imbued with sanctity, he began each day of writing.
My grandfather was a survivor. He'd escaped the Nazis by moving his wife and son (my father) from Austria to Portugal in 1933. After the war, he gathered his savings and sent my father to America. My father settled in Los Angeles and brought over my grandparents in 1954. They lived in the Fairfax District, the hub of the Los Angeles Orthodox Jewish community.
Growing up, I spent many weekends at my grandparent's home with my brother and sister. We were allowed to play in the backyard or run around the house. The only area off limits was my grandfather's study. He was doing "important work" we were told and he needed his privacy.
My brother and I were curious about my grandfather's secret work. We were always sneaking behind him, trying to scare him, to divert his attention. He did not take kindly to these interruptions. He would scream in a mixture of German and Yiddish and threaten to throw a paperweight or a heavy book at us. On one occasion he threw a chair.
Presumably this nullified his purity for the day.
At the end of his workday, he finally relaxed. He'd make himself a cup of tea and watch cartoons with my brother, sister and me. Often he'd read comic books, laughing at his beloved Katzenjammer Kids and their juvenile hijinks.
Once I asked my grandfather what it was he did in his study. "I work for God," he said.
"What do you mean?"
"I write God's story so we don't forget who He is."
He could tell by the look on my face that I didn't understand.
"You know the Hebrew letters, Aleph, Bet, Gimel? They are living things. They are the building blocks of creation. Like oxygen and hydrogen, God formed the world through combinations of the Hebrew letters." He reached for a sheet of paper and scrawled the first letter of the Hebrew alphabet. "This is Aleph," he said. "It tells us that God is one, that He is the Master. It is silent, it is never spoken because the true name of God is never spoken. Aleph stands for Adam the first man, for Abraham who taught us there is only One God and for Abba the Hebrew word for Father."
"Look at Aleph," he said. "It stands strong and upright. It is perfectly balanced, it cannot be knocked over. Hebrew is read right to left. Aleph is looking at Bet, the second letter. And Bet, it is looking at Gimmel, the third letter. What does this tell us? It says God is looking after us and it is our job to look after our neighbor. We do not see God but He is always present, right next to us. You understand?"
"Yes," I told him though I didn't.
"You learn your Hebrew," he told me. "And you will learn the secrets of God. It's all in there. In the letters."
As I grew older, my grandfather and I grew apart. He only conversed with my father in German or Yiddish. Often I'd hear my name sprinkled accusingly as if I'd done something wrong. When I stopped watching cartoons and reading comics he no longer knew how to relate to me. I couldn't relate to him either. He seemed weird and antiquated, a relic from another time and place.
He died in 1986. In his lifetime, he scribed more than two dozen Torahs. While our family sat Shiva, the week-long mourning period after his death, a stream of rabbis stopped by the home to pay their respects. They patted me on the head and spoke glowingly about my grandfather. I smiled and nodded but I couldn't wait to get out of there and be back with my friends.
I never formally learned Hebrew. But when I turned 30, I developed a fascination with the letters. I began drawing them and studying their lines and curves and perfect harmony. These days I carve woodcuts of the Hebrew letters. I haven't learned the secrets of God. But like my grandfather said, it's all in there. In the letters. (6" x 8", black ink print) (inspired by a 1930 book plate by Roman Radvany)
Saturday, February 8, 2014
I moved to San Francisco two weeks after the 1989 Earthquake. The day I moved into my apartment I noticed a spray painted message on the sidewalk reading: "I don't believe in Bob Hope." I understood. This was the land of Jack Kerouac, Jerry Garcia and the Zodiac Killer. Alternative was the norm.
The first person I befriended in the city was a Berkeley Linguistics Professor who loved archery, Hungarian cuisine and Japanese Bondage. He was typical of the San Franciscans I met. My revolving door of roommates included an animal taxidermist, a stripper, a funeral home cosmetologist, a William Burroughs impersonator and a narcoleptic house painter.
My first San Francisco job was as a videographer for a local bar who hosted a Monday night talent show. Participants were homeless men recruited just before show time with promises of food and drink if they sang pop songs or attempted ridiculous dances. During the show, the bar proprietors sold semi-ripe tomatoes for fifty-cents each that audience members hurled at the performers.
Subsequent San Francisco jobs included being a urine messenger for a law firm who drug tested employees (I carried the samples to a testing lab), working as a night clerk for a Tenderloin hotel whose clientele included prostitutes and drug dealers and writing fortunes for a Chinatown Cookie Company. (My favorite: "Help! I am trapped in the basement dungeon. Please call police!")
My lengthiest San Francisco job was as an assistant counselor at an Alzheimer's Day Care Center. The aging clients reminded me of my grandparents. Despite their memory loss and fading personalities, they seemed more normal then everyone else in the city. On one occasion, a client turned up missing. He'd been an Oakland Bus Driver in his heyday and whenever we served lunch he'd say, "I'll take the T-Bone, medium well." The day he was discovered missing, I had a hunch. I called a taxi and asked to be driven to the nearest steakhouse. Sure enough, the man was sitting at the bar drinking a Manhattan and eating a steak.
Dating was hard in San Francisco. The first woman I dated was a bisexual waitress who'd had a spat with her live-in girlfriend. She spent the entire meal insulting men and complaining about her lover. She finally admitted she only went out with me to make her girlfriend jealous.
My second date was with a young German woman named Adeline whom I met at City Lights Bookstore. She was reading "The Overcoat" by Nikolai Gogol, one of my favorites. She gave me her number and address and we agreed to meet the following week for dinner. When I arrived at her residence, I saw a sign that read "Mount Zion Psychiatric Hospital." Turns out she was a patient who'd recently attempted suicide after breaking up with her boyfriend. Over pizza and beer she showed me the fresh slash wounds on her wrists. I safely returned her to the psychiatric ward then swore off dating for a while.
San Franciscans had a passionate hatred of Los Angeles. Typically when someone learned I was from LA they'd say something like, "Really? You don't look like a Hollywood asshole." While playing basketball in a local park, a player intentionally head-butted me knocking out two of my teeth. As I rolled around in pain, the guy said, "Sorry about that, Hollywood."
I had long hair in those days and I wore bandanas to keep the hair out of my eyes. One day a man with a thick mustache began following me through the streets. I stopped in a cheese shop to try to lose him but when I came back outside he was still there. Finally, at a crowded intersection, I walked right up to the guy and asked, "What the hell do you want?" He smiled and pointed at the yellow bandana on my head. Months later I learned about the San Francisco Gay Bandana Code. Yellow bandanas meant you liked to be pissed on. Red meant you liked hairy men. Blue meant you liked to dress up as a cop and Brown meant…well, we won't go there.
After three years of living in San Francisco, the city started getting to me. The lovely fog became depressing. The heavy concentration of people was claustrophobic. And the extreme alternative lifestyles were no longer charming.
The turning point came in 1992 when I was caught in a traffic jam on the Golden Gate Bridge. A man had just leaped from the bridge. Traffic was stopped in both directions and drivers were out of their cars scouring the ocean for the jumper. Half a dozen boats hopelessly trawled the water. I asked a traffic cop if this happened often. "Sixth one this year," he said. That night I learned San Franciscans had a saying: "If things get tough, you've always got the bridge."
The incident sent me into a tailspin. A month later I went through a horrible breakup. I also lost my job at the Alzheimer's Center. Around this time I received a letter from Adeline, the woman I'd met at the bookstore. I stood beside the mailbox and read her words. She was back in Frankfurt, Germany living with her parents. She worked at a veterinary clinic helping find homes for lost dogs. She wrote that she was doing better. She thanked me for taking her to dinner saying it helped her healing process. "For the first time in years I feel hope again."
I noticed the spray painted message on the sidewalk. I hadn't read it in years. The word "Bob" had faded away. The message now read: "I don't believe in Hope." I moved out of San Francisco a week later. (6" x 8", black ink print)
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
Wiesenthal was born in 1908 in Lvov (in current Ukraine). He studied architecture in high school and married Cyla Muller in 1936. After the Nazis invaded Poland in 1939, Lvov was annexed by the Russians. The Soviets began the "Red purge" of Jewish professionals forcing Jews to give up their property and possessions. Wiesenthal's stepfather was arrested as a "capitalist" and died in prison. His stepbrother was shot and Wiesenthal was forced to close his architectural business.
In 1941, the Nazis displaced the Russians in Lvov. Wiesenthal and his wife were sent to the Janowska concentration camp before being reassigned to the forced labor camp at Ostbahn Works, a repair shop for the Lvov Railroad.
In 1942, the Nazis began their "Final Solution" campaign to annihilate all Jews in occupied Europe. Wiesenthal's mother was killed at Belzec concentration camp. Wiesenthal made a deal with the Polish underground to help his wife obtain false papers and escape the camps. In return, he provided charts of railroad junction points for use by saboteurs.
In 1943 (according to Wiesenthal), 54 Jewish intellectuals were gathered at Ostbahn to be killed in celebration of Hitler's 54th birthday. Wiesenthal was among the group. The men were stripped and led through a barbed wire corridor leading to the execution area. Victims were shot dead and allowed to fall into a pit. Wiesenthal, who had made himself valuable to the camp director by preparing architectural drawings, was spared via the director's intervention.
Wiesenthal escaped Ostbahn but was recaptured and sent back to Janowska concentration camp. He tried committing suicide to avoid being interrogated about the Polish underground. As the Russian forces advanced into the area, the German army collapsed. Wiesenthal and the remaining prisoners were marched miles to Mauthausen concentration camp. Few prisoners survived the trek. Wiesenthal was left to die in a filthy, stench-ridden barrack. In May, 1945, Mauthausen was liberated by US troops. Wiesenthal was down to 90 pounds and was unable to walk. He had lost 89 family members in the camps.
After the war, Wiesenthal regained his health. He began gathering evidence on Nazi atrocities for the US Army War Crimes Division. In late 1945, he was reunited with his wife. (They had thought each other dead.) In 1947, Wiesenthal and 30 volunteers established the Jewish Historical Documentation Center in Linz, Austria. Their goal was to assemble evidence for future war crime trials. With the onset of the Cold War, the US lost interest in prosecuting Germans. The Linz office was closed. Despite lack of money and personnel, Wiesenthal continued his search for Nazis.
High on the list of wanted Nazis was Franz Stangl. Stangl had been commandant of the Sobibor and Treblinka extermination camps. He worked closely with Heinrich Himmler to develop gas chambers for all the camps. Under Stangl's command, 100,000 Jews were killed at Sobibor and 600,000 were killed at Treblinka. He perfected a method of gassing 3,000 Jews at once.
In the last days of the war, Stangl was picked up by American troops and held in a prisoner camp. The Americans did not know of his role as a death camp commandant. While being transferred to Austria to stand trial, he was allowed to walk free. He traveled to Italy where he contacted a Catholic Bishop, Alois Hudal, who was a Nazi sympathizer. Hudal arranged for Stangl to travel to Syria where he obtained work in a textile factory. Stangl sent for his wife and daughter and they moved to Brazil where Stangl worked for a Volkswagen factory while his wife worked for Mercedes Benz.
Wiesenthal's efforts to capture Stangl gained momentum in 1964 when ten guards who worked at Treblinka testified against Stangl at a war crimes trial. Wiesenthal used the trial to publicize his hunt for the missing Nazi. Stangl's brother-in-law read about the trial in an Austrian newspaper and revealed to Wiesenthal that Stangl was living somewhere in Brazil. A few days later, an ex-Gestapo officer appeared in Wiesenthal's office. He offered to sell information on Stangl's whereabouts. His price was one cent for each of the Jews killed under Stangl's command. Estimated at 700,000 people, Wiesenthal would have to pay $7,000 for the information. Though disgusted by the deal, Wiesenthal agreed.
Wiesenthal focused on Sao Paolo. Using the code name "Uncle Otto," he corresponded with officials in Brazil. He located Stangl's home address and began preparing documentation for extradition. He knew he had to be careful. The large community of ex-Nazis in Brazil could help Stangl escape at any time.
On the evening of February 28, 1967, Stangl and his daughter returned home after a quiet dinner. A team of plainclothes Brazilian policemen captured Stangl. Wiesenthal worked hard to publicize demands for Stangl's extradition. He even contacted Senator Robert Kennedy to use his influence on Brazilian politicians. In June, the Brazilian Supreme Court ruled unanimously that Stangl be deported to Germany to stand trial. Wiesenthal's 22 year search for Stangl was over. Stangl was sentenced to life in prison for joint responsibility in the murder of 900,000 men, women and children. He died 6 months later of heart failure.
Wiesenthal continued working into his 90's. He received numerous death threats and in 1982, a bomb placed by neo-Nazis exploded outside his Austrian home. Armed guards remained outside his house 24 hours a day. Wiesenthal's wife Cyla died in 2003 at age 95. Wiesenthal retired shortly afterward. He once said if he were to meet Holocaust victims in the afterlife he wanted to be able to say, "I did not forget you." He died in September, 2005 at age 96. He was buried in Herzliya, Israel. (6" x 8", black ink print)
Wednesday, December 25, 2013
Arbuckle was born in 1887. He weighed 13 pounds at birth and his mother suffered injuries during his delivery that would later contribute to her death. His father was convinced he was illegitimate and named him after the disgraced Senator Roscoe Conkling. His father beat him throughout his childhood. After Arbuckle's mother died when he was 12, his father kicked him out of the house.
Arbuckle had a beautiful singing voice. He won a local talent show and joined a traveling vaudeville company. In 1908 he married actress Minta Durfee. A year later he appeared in his first movie Ben's Kid. He soon joined the Mack Sennett Company as producer/director and became a performer in the Keystone Cop comedy films.
Arbuckle's weight was part of his comedic appeal but he refused to use it to get cheap laughs. He would not allow himself to be stuck in a doorway or a chair. He despised his screen nickname and when someone called him "Fatty" he would say, "I've got a name, you know."
Audiences loved Arbuckle and his films were smash hits. By 1914, Paramount paid him $1,000 a day plus 25% of all profits. They also gave him complete artistic control. By 1918, he was signed to a three-year, $3 million contract. He began living the high life, indulging in heavy food and drink. His weight shot up to 350 pounds and he developed health problems including a severe infection in his leg that nearly led to amputation. Arbuckle managed to shed 80 pounds but he became addicted to morphine in the process.
On September 5, 1921, needing a break from his hectic schedule, Arbuckle drove to San Francisco with two friends. They rented three rooms at the swanky St. Francis Hotel. Prohibition was in full swing, but the group obtained illegal hooch and invited some girls for a raucous hotel party. At some point, Arbuckle found himself alone in a bedroom with a 30-year old model/actress named Virginia Rappe. (She was one of Mack Sennett's "bathing beauties.")
The ensuing details have become the stuff of legend but a few facts are clear. Arbuckle was alone with Rappe. Rappe became seriously ill. The hotel doctor examined Rappe and determined she was simply drunk. Two days later Rappe was rushed to the hospital where she died from peritonitis caused by a ruptured bladder.
The press immediately blamed Arbuckle for Rappe's death. Bambina Delmont, a guest at the party, told police that Arbuckle raped Rappe. Police concluded that Arbuckle's weight caused Rappe's bladder to rupture. Rappe's Manager further suggested that Arbuckle used a piece of ice to simulate sex with Rappe. By the time the story appeared in newspapers, the object had become a broken coke bottle instead of a piece of ice. (Witnesses later testified that Arbuckle rubbed ice on Rappe's stomach to ease her pain.)
Arbuckle denied any wrongdoing but William Randolph Hearst's "yellow journalism" machine had a field day. Hearst's newspapers began running nationwide stories portraying Arbuckle as "a gross lecher who used his weight to overpower innocent girls." Hearst would later admit that the Arbuckle Scandal "sold more newspapers than any event since the sinking of the Lusitania."
There was no hard evidence that Arbuckle committed rape. But one of the party guests claimed Rappe made a deathbed statement that "Roscoe hurt me." Arbuckle was subsequently arrested and charged with manslaughter. He spent three weeks in jail before he was released on bail.
Morality groups called for Arbuckle to be sentenced to death. Studio executives ordered their employees not to publicly support Arbuckle. Charlie Chaplin never commented on the incident but Buster Keaton disobeyed studio demands and vocally defended Arbuckle. Public outrage was so inflamed that during the first trial someone fired a gunshot at Arbuckle's wife Minta Durfee as she entered the San Francisco courthouse.
There would be three trials. Key witness Bambina Delmont was not allowed to testify after it was learned she'd attempted to extort money from Arbuckle's lawyers. She also had a long criminal record for extortion and fraud. The first trial resulted in a hung jury. Ten jurors voted "not guilty," two voted "guilty." One of the "guilty" jurors was a woman named Helen Hubbard whose husband did business with the D.A.'s office. She told jurors she would "vote guilty until hell freezes over."
The second trial also resulted in a hung jury. This time the vote was 9-3 favoring "not guilty." Two witnesses who previously testified against Arbuckle stated that District Attorney Matthew Brady forced them to lie or they would be prosecuted for libel.
During the trials, it was discovered that Virginia Rappe had a history of cystitis that flared up when she drank. She'd also undergone several abortions including a recent botched abortion that nearly killed her. She'd been complaining of severe stomach pains in the weeks before the St. Francis Hotel incident. Doctors found no evidence of rape and no external cause for the ruptured bladder.
The third trial resulted in a unanimous Not Guilty verdict. The jury debated for only six minutes before rendering their decision. They issued a rare public apology writing "Acquittal is not enough for Roscoe Arbuckle. We feel that a great injustice has been done to him as there was not the slightest proof to connect him in any way with the commission of a crime...Roscoe Arbuckle is entirely innocent and free from all blame."
Although he was cleared of all charges, Roscoe was guilty in the court of public opinion. The months of negative press destroyed his reputation. Arbuckle owed more than $700,000 in attorney fees and he was forced to sell his house and his cars to pay for his legal defense.
During the time of the trial, the US Government had been threatening to regulate the film industry with new rules of censorship and guidelines for how stars could behave on and off screen. Fearing government intrusion, the studios decided to self-regulate. They created the Motion Pictures Producers and Distributors of America (MPPDA) and named former Postmaster General Will Hays as president. This led to the "Hays Code," the first official censor of American movies.
Within a week of Arbuckle's acquittal, Hays banned him from appearing in movies and demanded all his films be pulled from circulation. Arbuckle, once the most powerful star in Hollywood, was Blacklisted. The ban was ultimately rescinded, but Arbuckle's career was effectively over. He'd become the poster boy for the dangers and excesses of Hollywood. Studios began inserting morality clauses in star contracts and public relations firms arose to whitewash the rumored sins of Hollywood's A-List.
Buster Keaton was one of the few old friends who came to Arbuckle's aid. He hired him to write and co-direct his movies including the film classic Sherlock, Jr.. (Arbuckle worked under the pseudonym "William Goodrich," a riff on Keaton's suggested name "Will B. Good.") Though his career resumed, Arbuckle fell into a deep depression and returned to drinking. Actress Louise Brooks said, "He made no attempt to direct. He sat in his chair like a man dead."
In 1932, Arbuckle seemed on the verge of redemption. He appeared in six two-reel comedies to great success. Warner Brothers offered him a feature-length film. On the day he signed the contract, an ebullient Arbuckle said, "This is the best day of my life." That night he suffered a severe heart attack and died in his sleep. He was 46 years old. (6" x 8", black ink print)
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
Elliott Smith was born Steven Paul Smith in 1969 in Omaha, Nebraska. His parents divorced when he was 6 months old and he moved with his mother Bunny, a music teacher, to Duncanville, Texas. Elliott had a difficult childhood saying he might've been sexually abused by his stepfather. The events later appeared in his song "Some Song" which featured the lyrics "Charlie beat you up week after week and when you grow up you're going to be a freak."
Elliott learned to play piano and guitar by the time he was nine and he wrote his first song "Fantasy" at 10. At 14, he moved to Portland, Oregon with his father Gary Smith, a psychologist. Around this time he began experimenting with drugs and alcohol. After graduating from Hampshire College in 1991, Elliott formed the band Heatmiser with classmate Neil Gust. They moved to Oregon and released four albums. Elliott worked odd jobs to survive: construction, house painting and transplanting bamboo trees.
In 1994, Elliott released his first solo album Roman Candle. He followed this up with the self-titled album Elliott Smith in 1995. The album cover featured fuzzy images of bodies falling from a building. His third album Either/Or came out in 1996; the album name came from a book by Kierkegaard dealing with existential angst and despair. (Elliott was a philosophy major in college.) By this time, Elliott was drinking heavily and taking anti-depressants. Friends attempted an intervention but Elliott rebelled, moving to Brooklyn.
Filmmaker Gus Van Sant used Elliott's music for the soundtrack of Good Will Hunting. The song "Miss Misery" was nominated for an Academy Award leading to the surreal scene of Elliott, in a rumpled white suit and greasy hair, playing live at the 1998 Oscars. He was terrified until fellow nominee Celine Dion told him, "You're going to do great, sweetie." This calmed him down and Elliott enjoyed himself saying, "I wouldn't want to live in that world but it was fun to walk around the moon for a day."
In 1998, Elliott signed with Dreamworks Records. Around this same time he fell into a depression and spoke openly about suicide. His first Dreamworks-era album was XO, written over many nights at the Luna Lounge in Manhattan. XO would be the best-selling album of his career but Elliott was suspicious of commercial success and he disliked his experience with a big label. "I threw myself into it because it seemed to make my friends happy."
In 1999, Elliott moved to Los Angeles settling in Silverlake. He released the album Figure 8 in 2000, the last one completed in his lifetime. His condition deteriorated as he began using crack cocaine and became addicted to heroin. Neighbors reported seeing him walking the streets alone at night mumbling to himself.
By 2001, Elliott displayed signs of paranoia, believing a white van was following him wherever he went. He also believed Dreamworks was trying to steal music from his computer. He began having difficulties performing live, forgetting lyrics. He rarely slept and barely ate, living on ice cream. Elliott demanded that Dreamworks release him from his contract or he would take his own life.
In 2003, Elliott tried to turn his life around and began treatment for his addiction with a technique called neurotransmitter restoration (injecting amino acids as a form of detox). He also started work on a new album Basement On A Hill. He moved in with his girlfriend Jennifer Chiba and the relationship gave him a sense of optimism. His life seemed to be improving.
On October 21, 2003, Elliott and Chiba had an argument at their Silverlake home. As the argument worsened, Smith threatened to commit suicide. Chiba locked herself in the bathroom. She heard a scream. She returned to the living room and saw Elliott with a knife sticking out of his chest. Elliott died 20 minutes after arriving at the hospital. He was 34 years old.
The coroner's report on Elliott's death stated "...several aspects of the circumstances are atypical of suicide and raise the possibility of homicide." Notably, there were no "hesitation wounds" prior to the stabbing and there were lacerations on both his hands and under his right arm that could be "possible defensive wounds." The toxicology report revealed he was clean of illegal drugs at the time of death; only non-abusive amounts on anti-depressants and medications for ADD were found in his system.
Though some fans blamed Chiba for Elliott's death, she was never charged. A few years later she tried claiming money from Elliott's estate for managing his career but the State of California ruled against her since she was an unlicensed talent agent.
Though Elliott lived in Los Angeles and played all over town, I never saw him play live, but in 2006, pianist Christopher O'Riley performed a tribute at the Getty Museum. My wife and I attended and after the performance, my wife pointed to a middle-aged man in the lobby. She said, "He looks just like Elliott. I bet that's his dad." I urged her to approach him and despite her shyness, she agreed. The man was, in fact, Gary Smith and for the next half hour he and my wife talked like old friends. He explained how much he appreciated the love shown his son.
Every October on the anniversary of Elliott's death his fans turn out in droves to Solutions Audio in Silverlake where the album cover of Figure 8 was photographed. They write farewell messages on the wall and leave flowers, candles and empty bottles of alcohol. At some point someone sings the song "Waltz #2." The lyrics provide a perfect coda for the sad day. As Elliott sang so beautifully, "I'm here today and expected to stay on and on and on...I'm never going to know you now but I'm going to love you anyhow." (5" x 7", black ink print)
Thursday, October 31, 2013
--The Old Man and the Sea
In 1954, Ernest Hemingway took his fourth wife Mary Welsh to Africa. He chartered a sightseeing plane to show her the Belgian Congo and the glorious Murchison Falls. While flying low over the trees, the plane struck a utility pole and crash landed in heavy brush. Hemingway suffered a concussion. His wife broke two ribs.
That night they camped in the bush waiting for a response to their distress call. A passing plane saw the crash and reported no survivors. Word spread around the world that Hemingway was dead. The next day, Hemingway and his wife were found and picked up by a bush pilot. Amazingly, the second plane caught fire and exploded during takeoff. Hemingway slammed his upper body and head against the exit door to escape. He suffered serious burns and a concussion severe enough to cause leaking cerebral fluid.
The injured travelers were taken by road to an Entebbe hospital. Hemingway joked with journalists and spent weeks recuperating and reading his erroneous obituaries. Restless and bored, he left the hospital and took Mary and his son Patrick on a fishing trip to Kenya. A bushfire broke out and Hemingway fell into the fire to help extinguish the flames. He suffered burns on his legs, torso, lips and arms. He was ultimately diagnosed with two crushed vertebra, a ruptured liver and spleen and a broken skull.
Hemingway was no stranger to accidents and illness. In 1918 he enlisted as a World War I ambulance driver on the Italian front. While bringing chocolate and cigarettes to the front line he was struck by mortar fire. Despite serious shrapnel wounds to both legs, he carried an Italian soldier to safety earning him the Italian Silver Medal of Bravery. He underwent an operation and spent six months recuperating.
In 1927 while honeymooning in France with his second wife Pauline Pfeiffer, Hemingway contracted Anthrax. A few months later in Paris, he pulled a skylight down on his head thinking he was pulling on a toilet chain. This left him with a permanent scar on his forehead. In the early 1930's, Hemingway took writer John Dos Passos elk hunting in Montana. After dropping off Dos Passos at the train station, Hemingway crashed his car and broke his arm. The surgeon bound the bone with kangaroo tendon. Hemingway was hospitalized for two months and it took more than a year for the nerves in his writing hand to heal.
In 1933, Hemingway and Pauline went on safari to East Africa. The trip would inspire Hemingway's short story The Snows of Kilimanjaro and his story collection Green Hills of Africa. The trip also gave Hemingway a bout of amoebic dysentery causing a prolapsed intestine. He was evacuated by plane to a Nairobi hospital.
In 1944 while in London to write about World War II, Hemingway was involved in another car accident. He suffered a concussion and a head wound requiring 50 stitches. He traveled to Normandy with a head bandage to witness the D-Day landing from an ocean borne craft. He also found himself under fire at the Battle of the Bulge. The stress caused him to be hospitalized with pneumonia.
In 1945 he returned to Key West, Florida. Guilty about his failed marriage to third wife Martha Gellhorn, he began drinking heavily. One night after too many daiquiris, he had another car accident. He smashed his knee and suffered the third of many concussions.
Hemingway fell into a deep depression as his literary friends began to die. He'd lost W.B. Yeats in 1939, Scott Fitzgerald in 1940 and Sherwood Anderson and James Joyce in 1941. Gertrude Stein died in 1946 and his long-time Scribner's editor Max Perkins died in 1947. Hemingway began to suffer headaches, weight problems and tinnitus. He was subsequently diagnosed with diabetes.
From late 1955 to early 1956, Hemingway was bedridden. His doctors urged him to stop drinking to heal his damaged liver. He disregarded the advice. He became ill and was treated for high-blood pressure and arteriosclerosis.
By 1959, Hemingway was having trouble organizing his thoughts. Always the master of brevity and concise prose, he lost control of his writing. He was commissioned by Life Magazine to write a 10,000 word article on bullfighting. He submitted a 40,000 word opus. He asked writer A.E. Hotchner to help him trim and organize the piece. Hotchner found Hemingway to be "unusually hesitant, disorganized and confused." His eyesight was failing him, he'd become anxious about money and he was paranoid that the FBI was monitoring his movements. (J. Edgar Hoover had in fact opened a file on him during WWII.) He drank more heavily to combat the pain from his lifelong injuries.
In 1960, hearing that Fidel Castro wanted to nationalize property owned by Americans, Hemingway and his wife Mary left their beloved Finca Vigia ranch in Cuba and moved to Ketchum, Idaho. Hemingway became seriously ill and retreated into silence and despair. He checked into the Mayo Clinic in Minnesota. Doctors diagnosed him with a psychiatric illness and treated him with 15 rounds of electroshock therapy. In early 1961 he was "released in ruins."
Hemingway had always been plagued by suicidal thoughts. His father Clarence had committed suicide with a gunshot to the head in 1928. Hemingway commented at the time, "I'll probably go the same way." Like his father, Hemingway had been diagnosed with the genetic disease hemochromatosis. This caused the inability of the body to metabolize iron resulting in mental and physical deterioration. Hemingway's sister Ursula and brother Leicester also committed suicide. Years later, Hemingway's granddaughter Margaux would take her own life.
In the morning hours of June 2, Hemingway awoke early, careful not to wake Mary. He donned his favorite dressing gown that he called his "emperor's robe" and entered the basement where he kept his guns. He removed his favorite gun, a double-barrel 12-gauge Boss & Co. shotgun. He inserted two shells into the gun, walked into the upstairs foyer, put the barrel into his mouth and pulled the trigger. The story reported to the press was that Hemingway "accidentally shot himself while cleaning his gun." Months later, Mary admitted the death was suicide.
Hemingway had been a swashbuckling, hard-drinking adventurer. He was a hunter, a pugilist, a war hero and a writer who defined his time and mastered his craft. In 1954, he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature. He opted not to travel to Stockholm. Instead he sent a speech to be read which defined the writer's existence. "Writing, at its best, is a lonely life. Organizations for writers palliate the writer's loneliness but I doubt if they improve his writing. He grows in public stature as he sheds his loneliness but often his work deteriorates. For he does his work alone and if he is a good enough writer he must face eternity, or the lack of it, each day." (5" x 6", black ink print)
Sunday, October 13, 2013
A typical day for Dina includes offering new work to collectors, providing feedback to artists, appraising private collections, packaging pieces for shipment and curating new exhibitions.
Dina advises new collectors to saturate themselves in what's going on, to go to museums, galleries, pop-up shows, street exhibitions...anywhere you find art. From there you buy what you love. "There's nothing like finding a perfect art match for someone, knowing they are bringing home a piece of art they adore."
Part of Dina's job is to educate clients. A common misconception among collectors, for example, is the belief that a low number in a print series is more valuable. All numbers of an edition are of equal value unless a particular print is different in some unique way (color combination, pattern, etc.).
Dina works hard to assure the authenticity of a piece of art. With certain artists, like Miro, a fake can be difficult to detect. Dina relies on the catalogue raisonne of an artist. This lists information like title, size, year, medium, markings, publisher and printer. If details in the catalogue raisonne match the artwork, this increases the likelihood of authenticity though there are other factors involved. Experience in determining if the paper and signature are correct are vitally important.
Price points for a piece of art are determined by supply and demand and the crucial factor "condition." Many limited edition prints are fragile and can be easily damaged by mishandling, improper framing and exposure to sunlight. "When buying art I routinely unframe the piece to check the condition first. Unfortunately there are a lot of poor framers out there and many pieces are hinged or mounted improperly."
Dina loves working with emerging artists. "I relish watching someone evolve and grow. It's extremely inspiring." In 2008, Dina began working with John Lurie, the noted indie film actor (Stranger Than Paradise) and experimental musician from the Lounge Lizards. Dina curated an exhibition of Lurie's work called "The Invention Of Animals." Lurie, who started painting in 2004, combines primitive styling with modern ideas and a sharp sense of humor. (One of his pieces is called "The Spirits are trying to tell me something but it's really fucking vague.")
During Dina's two decades as an art dealer, the business has seen significant change. "The ever shrinking middle-class, the housing crisis, the recession, all these things basically wiped out a whole segment of buyers of modestly priced investment grade art. I used to have a lot of clients who bought work in the $3,000-$5,000 range. Those clients are fewer now. It's sad.
"I've watched a generational shift in who the buyer is. Back in the early 90's I was selling to my parent's generation. I'm now selling to my peers who are hugely influenced by street art. This has absolutely influenced what I show.
"I've always loved Rothko and Pollock and Basquiat. But I also love new artists like Gregory Siff and Alexander Yulish. I'm fortunate as an art dealer to be exposed to new artists from all walks of life. The ones that are an aesthetic and energetic match are the ones I move forward with. Even after 20 years I can tell you my love of art is completely sustained." (6" x 7", black ink print)