11,633. RUDIMENTS, pt. 634

RUDIMENTS, pt. 634

('but neither did I ever ask...')

I was always something of

a floor rat  -  even in the

Studio School, where I

finally got hooked up

getting 16 bucks a week

(where that number came

from I cannot recall),

staying there, sleeping

there, sort of just as a

night presence, and a bit

of a main desk person on

various evenings. People

coming and going, shows,

small talks and lectures, etc.

There was, down a floor, at

the ground-level of the rear

yard court (this was an old

collection remember, of

brownstones from a hundred

years back, wherein wealthy

people had lived, and their

open-doorways to the private

courtyards and all that was

important), into which you'd

sort of descend and sit in as

royalty; using your imagination

of course.  The Studio School,

in this present day, has closed

that access off, the glass-doors

which had opened out, etc., and

just put at that area a wall for

their art-gallery exhibit room.

You'd never even know it had

been there now. Anyway, for me

it came with its own little kitchen

area, and a bathroom, an actual

sort of place to be, mini apartment,

and the entire basement too. I

loved it, right off, and that made

all the difference in the world,

There was a non-working fireplace,

and that I took some plywood

too and straddled it into a bed,

with some blankets and stuff,

if I wanted it. To be truthful,

I didn't use it that often  -  as

most of the nights, up in the

higher floors, I'd just stretch

out on the library floor, and read

until I was out. It was carpeted,

a bit, three long stories up, had

access from two directions, one

being an eerie and isolated

interior stairwell that twisted

and stretched ( I loved that),

and  -  it being Eighth Street  -

there were, all night long, all

the sorts of echoey, busy street

noises you'd hear at all hours.

I could look down, as I wished,

from a few perches too. Really

neat. To the rear of the large

room (lined with books and

chairs, and used too for a

lot of the lectures) was the

opening, glass-doors too, for

the southern exposure rooftop

vista of the other, surrounding

buildings and rooftops, and then

the rest of the city, south. Very

Parisian, let's say. It truly was

a world apart, like nothing I'd

ever before experienced, and

it bore not a one of the lame

characteristics of the town I'd

come from  -  in fact, one

wouldn't even recognize the

other in its existence.

-

It's been said that this had been

the Vanderbilt/Whitney mansion,

or one of them, and then had been

the Whitney Museum, back in the

day when American Art was first

getting its airing. There were all

sorts of evidences around of the

different things that, I guess, had

gone on in the previous 150 years,

but I never took real stock of that

part of it  -  grand staircase, some

weird 1920's, it appeared to be,

Americana wallpaper all up that

staircase, and then the grand, white

rooms of the living quarters  - 

meaning the ornate dining areas,

the ballroom, the library, etc., etc.

Plenty of other rooms, and the

connecting space between and to

each, were, I assumed, family

bedrooms and servant rooms or

whatever  -  all that space, of any

sort, was used for art-studio

purposes and those rooms ranged

from small (though not tiny) to

broad and expansive too. There

were one or two spots where the

meager plumbing made bathrooms

and kitchen space stuff, sinks, etc.

We never really utilized any of

that  -  except for the bathrooms

that were in use. Truly, one could

get lost in the place  -  a warren of

three, interconnected, buildings

re-sized as one, large, place. As I

said, I was never privy to any

original floor maps or layouts of

8W8th when it was a Vanderbilt or

Whitney place, or however those

marriages went. You may read

of how stately and rich and

expensive it all was, but, really,

I never saw anything of that. The

personal and school use made of

the place during the era I was there

bore nothing of those earmarks.

It was utility, strictly, and perhaps

even treated dishonorably.

-

You need a head for all that stuff,

and I never had it. There were a

few rich kids around, upper east

side and Connecticut breeding, and

they surely viewed it all with and

through a completely different lens

from the sorts of scruff-balls that

me and my ilk represented. Just

low-down art kids, often scrounging.

All we ever did was make sure the

windows were closed (that first '67

Winter, into '68, was a really cold and

long one). Ice and snow, for days,

would be everywhere, and all I

can still remember are the 8 degree

mornings and piles of ice and muck

that seemed to last forever. New

York City in the deep cold is

something to be experienced; it's

almost sad. Nothing much moves,

everything is slow and solid, people

start dying, smokestack smoke goes

sideways instead of up, or it seems

that way anyhow. Taxis honk, but

the sound goes nowhere, it just sort

of shreds and stays around. There's

a quiet thud to everything, businesses,

back then anyway, the old manufacturing

places and looms and lofts, garment

areas, and all the rest, seemed to

merely stay in place; getting things

done, but at a crawl. The world is way

different : cold, dicey, endless.

-

About 7am each morning, weekdays

anyway, the day-maintenance guy,

Mr. Rush, would show up. I'd often

hear him, unlocking doors or shuffling

around, and that would get me up,

but on those days when it didn't,

he'd eventually get around to where I

was and get me up. He was about 50,

a small, black guy who lived up in

Harlem somewhere and took the

subway down and back each day.
And he dressed up each too too.

There was nothing arty about him,

or anything like that; he was just a

regular guy with a good-enough day

job to keep it all going. We got on well

He did the usual things; like emptying

trash cans, upkeep, simple maintenance,

mopping, keeping the entrances clear

of snow and whatever else, access and

egress, and all that stuff, leaving

about 6pm each day, at the latest.

Quiet, soft, and unassuming, he

was just a real pleasant guy.

-

New York City, back then anyway,

turned over to a different code and

pace at evening; once it was dark

all the time. Activity sort of switched

over to the realm of those who lived

there. Outsiders of the day were gone,

home to wherever it may have been,

and the streets took on a glitter and

a reflection of their own, as of a

happiness. Even I was happy then

to be there; it was like privilege, a

higher notch, a better place, somehow,

to dwell.  The reality of it all was

probably very different, and I was

just being a romantic jerk, striving

by my own exotic trends to get

somewhere I wanted to be. But,

that's how it appeared to me, and

I played it off that way. Manhattan

was all charm and art and learning

and glamour. All good things, piled.

-

Down below me, there was, off

to one side of the last edge of the

building, an American Youth Hostel.

I never knew whose it was, from

whom they rented, etc. but it seemed

to have nothing to do with us, at the

Studio School, though it could perhaps

have been sad to be sharing a part

of our last building  -  all connected

as one so you couldn't tell anyway.

It was like a travel depot for all

sorts of Euros  -  mostly Teutonic,

Swiss, or Northern European types.

to my eyes anyway. Kids off for 

a year, from college, to tour, see

American, hike the trails, see the

places, cities and sights. It was

like a pit-stop for them along the

way. There were some bicyclist

types, lots of outdoorsy, hiker

sorts, inquisitive intellectuals,

students of this or that. They'd eat,

hang around, flirt, talk, mingle,

and then be gone; moving on, to

whatever else they'd be doing. I

was always in awe; they were all

tall, blondish, big, strong, and

seemingly tough and rugged.

The girls were sometimes enough

to make you have to catch your

breath. I didn't know how they 

all managed to survive without

either marrying each other or

having vast orgies. It was like

that. A totally different and

new experience for me to see,

viewing it as I was, almost,

cinematically. (Here I go with

movies again). Curiously enough,

they never seemed interested at

all in art, or us, or what we were

doing right next door. That always

confused me too, figuring that,

all of us about the same age, give 

or take, there'd easily be some 

crossover. But I never saw any.

Not even Tomberg ever bedded

one of those girls.

-

It sure was a different world, 

back then. I often now have to 

look at a calendar and even start

counting my fingers to get it straight

how many years have elapsed.(Not

really). Fifty years, plus, in the blink

of an eye. That's painful stuff for,

homesick and sorrowful and lost

in this gloom, in this world. These

Euro kids, they smoked like fires,

drank a lot, like it was water,

lounged about their sitting areas,

and always seemed wise and

active and onto something. I was

unable to imagine what we must

have looked like to them. To me,
it all would have seemed like going
somewhere without knowing fully
where you were going, and, at the
same time, leaving the better things 
behind as you went to some lesser
place. To see, what? Trails to hike?
Buttes and mesas? Rocks, rivers, and 
valleys? I couldn't understand it, for, 
first, America was too vast to all be 
taken in in that fashion. And I'd already
had enough of hearing about all those 
hippie kids running off to Tibet and 
Nepal and and India for their own
'enlightenments.' Then, too, this was 
different; it seemed too privileged,
too much undertaken in that 'travel

for the sake of travel' fashion. Our 
two countries had brought up two

complete and different rafts of

children, and here they were. In

their Euro-heads were war dreams

and bombs and ruination. It made

me shudder. And then they came

here, to partake  -  to partake of

what, I wasn't sure. What did we

offer them? Scenic vistas? 

Mountains and waterfalls? They 

wouldn't need that stuff, for sure.

Did we look like old Beats to them?

Veteran war-fighters? The land

which had saved them, after

first destroying them too? What

were we to them? Did we still look
like the land of Lewis and Clarke?
Uncharted, and which they then
could map out, from east to west, at
will? Did we look like airheads and

hippies? Sarcasm and sloppiness?

Cast-offs with not a care in the

world? I could never tell. But 

neither did I ever ask.