8001. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, #14

14. MR RUSH

Mr. Rush was the guy, a little,

very proper, black man, who 

would arrive at the Studio School 

about 6am each morning  -  no exact

time, nothing that specific. While I

was the extended, overnight guy,

doing nothing really, just being 

around, from whenever I got in

until he arrived the next morning, 

he was the actual daytime custodian

or doorman or place-manager on

duty. He was very, surprisingly,

mannered and proper  -  even everyday

well-dressed, almost like a porter or

butler/doorman type. We got on fine.

He never asked a thing about me, 

nor what I did or was doing. We 

traded notes, verbally I mean  -  

boiler issues, sinks and plumbing, 

windows, stuff like that. Those 

were some of the things he was 

responsible for, calling plumbers, 

getting repairs arranged. I was 

basically just the school's allowed 

sleepover bum, rank student presence, 

just to make sure there were no 

rapes or murders, I guess, or any

thievery or big time parties. The 

only real infraction I ever 'allowed' 

(I sound like I cared), was  -  again  -  

those Jim Tomberg antics I'd written 

of. Another time, for a while, in one

of the really nice drawing rooms from

the old Vanderbilt-Whitney Mansion

days, I allowed in Peter Serkin (he

is the pianist son of the famed Rudolph

Serkin, deceased, whose performances 

and recordings of classical pieces are

legion), and his wonderful girlfriend,

Lindy Shirmer (whom I secretly really

had flipped over) to stay a few nights

on the floor, in that room. More on 

them in  a bit. 

-

I used to spend my nights there, as 

late as they may have been, gloriously 

by myself. It's hard for me to explain, 

except to say that I was almost exactly 

as I am now  -  fairly private, enjoying 

solitude, being alone, industrious, at 

work writing or drawing or whatever. 

So the opportunity for solace and 

solitude I took advantage of. The 

was a very great basement area, a 

level and a half deep. The Studio

School itself had once been three

brownstones, the Whitney Mansion, 

and the  whole was made up, after the

1912 Armory Show, into the original

Whitney Museum. The basements 

then held many untold treasures in 

the nooks and crannies and shelves 

and rooms. I would scour, in the

half-dark; leftover heaps of colored

paper, construction and poster paper,

copy paper. It was a veritable goldmine

of paper, good for most anything. 

Also present were wires, hooks, 

small nails, saw horses, platforms,

loads of wood. no one seemed to

claim nor be aware of any of this, 

and really  -  to my knowledge  -  

only myself and Mr. Rush knew 

of it. I used to tell him he should

start taking things back uptown with

him and sell items on a table on 

Saturdays, like any of the other street

merchants everywhere. He'd always

decline. In the mornings, upon his

arrival, the noise he'd make was part

of our agreement to him getting me

up. I had three favorite places of

sleep-space. The original, and 

main one, all this provided, 

remember, free of charge to me,

was in the lower level, to the left

rear portion of the main entry

building. It's hard to explain, 

and, as well, it's gone now, a 

wall having been built over it. 

In what's now a main gallery 

room, (they have shows on in 

these three rooms all the time),

was a wall of glass doorways that 

went out to like a semi-formal 

garden area - for high-tea and 

all that prim and proper stuff

of old Edwardian-era NYC. A

curved iron stairway went outside

and brought one down to the 

stone surface of the veranda area.

Now, inside again, one-level 

below this, though not the basement,

was an apartment-like area, for

the old servants or kitchen staff.

It had a bathroom, a sink and counter,

the things that once went into the

working-kitchen guts of running the

old brownstone. There was also a

fireplace, now blocked-off. I made a

plywood bedding area, within the 

fireplace (it was big), about a foot 

off the ground and, with a few blankets

and a pillow, used it as a bed. That

was, like I said, the first (and best) 

area  -  my 'formal' room. It also had

a table, and a record player, and a nice

chair or two. Not much else, and I never

furnished nor cared. The door here, as

well, went out to that veranda thing, to

bring supplies and food trays and stuff,

I guess  -  for when the Pierpont Morgans

came dining, or something. You know

those rich folk (joke, 'cuz I sure don't).

-

My second spot, probably my favorite, 

was the third-floor library floor. You 

have to picture a real mansion, like in 

old movies or something. Vertical, not 

so much spread out horizontally. There

were stairways everywhere, and each 

one led to somewhere else. No map 

ever got you there, or me anyway. My

time there, it was all trial and error to

see where I'd end up with using this

or that stairway. It was weird, but over

time I finally got used to it and knew.

Three buildings, now remember, were

punched out and interconnected. That

meant three, at least, large social rooms,

called 'drawing rooms' in the domestic

days; formal rooms, fancy wallpapers, 

chandeliers, and most of that stuff was 

still there; three central staircases, with

the fireplaces and anterooms and all

that still intact. I was living like a king,

but really was just a lucky night-crawler

traipsing around. The big Studio School

library was a million art books, literature,

essays, commentary, and the rest. The floor

was carpeted. The vast windows overlook

Eighth Street, which never slept, stopped 

even really dwindled. All the lights and

activity and glories of NYC, all around 

me. Every night of my days there. I'd

read myself to sleep on the floor. Totally

alone, in a building I'd been warned of:

one that creaked, had strange noises and,

the words went, had ghosts and spirits.

We'll get to all that. The third spot I slept,

if I was reading down there, was in the very

basement  -  there were seats and shelves

and places to stretch out. I'd often just fall

asleep there.

-

To close this chapter, and there will be 

more on all this, I want to go back to Peter

and Lindy. Peter Serkin was about 21 maybe.

He was tall and thin, with long, flaxen hair.

he hardly ever talked, and would just sit, 

watching me or whoever or whatever was

around him. He was a serious musician  - 

Julliard or something, and is now a famed

pianist in his own right. Performances,

world tours, CD's and all that. For a while

in the 1980's he had a very fine classical

'group' too, called Tashi. They too have

CD's. Peter was privilege and wealth,

talent and fine breeding. Lindy Shirmer

was a girl from Long Island, I guess my

age. She was something special. I don't

know much else about her. They were 
a couple, I kept away, or at least aloof. 
But I really had it for Lindy. They 
eventually did marry, had a kid or two, 
then he got way famous and they divorced. 
That's all I know. Him, I still see his name 
and face around. Her, no trace ever. Anyway, 
those times I let them stay in that other room,

we all stayed together, just crashing, on the

floor, in our clothes. It was just sleep. But,

really, the only reason I ever let them in was
so that I could tell you all, here, (and myself),

that I slept with Lindy Shirmer!