11,585. RUDIMENTS, pt. 613

RUDIMENTS, pt. 613
(oh olga, do that again)
One time I was walking along

57th street, across from Lee's

Art Supply, and, with the Art

Student's League to my right,

I noticed a Russian lady outside

there, in her painting smock or

apron, whatever, smoking a

cigarette and staring at me. She

was maybe 45 or 50, I'd guess.

It was apparent she was Russian,

at least to me, all those telltale

signs  -  none of it bothersome 

or anything, just apparent. She

called me over and squarely

said, 'You going in here?'

I said, no I wasn't. She said,

'Yes, yes you are; come with 

me. I'll show you studio, and

workplace; you can see my 

work. I'm just out here, taking

a break.' So, I won't say she

dragged me in, but I followed;

and she then turned and just said -

'Over there, tell them you're here

to see Olga, and get the pass

they give you. Don't lose it.

Then go through that door and

over to 319. I'll be there.' Of

course it was peculiar, and I

was perplexed  -  had I actually

been rushed or on my way

somewhere I'd have also been

annoyed. But, as it was, I was

aimlessly useless (as usual)

so I followed the script  -  

thinking that the skit might

be fun. I'd been in a few of

these sorts of situations before,

even the one with that Negro

gentleman high-toned guy

I've written about way back

here  -  he bought me lunch

and then expected his own

payback. Unfortunately.

(For him). This lady offered

more of the same  - I immediately

sensed she was not doing this

for the first time. I entered.

It was a large enough room,

with easels, storage racks,

a little stage thing for models

to sit or pose upon and 4 or 5

other women busy at work on

their paintings. I went up to one 

and said, 'Where's Olga? Do

you know?' She said 'No,' and

pointed me towards the corner

and said, 'Wait there, that's her

spot, she'll be here.' And then

some other lady piped up. 'You

too! Not another! She does this

all the time. She'll go outside

to smoke and comes back in

with some passing guy  -  she's

going to talk your ear off! She's

harmless. She's funny!' I was

their pet joke, right off. And then,

here comes Olga; who'd evidently

been primping. 'Olga, not again!

Oh, you're so funny!' She stayed

cool, even smiling, 'Oh be quiet.

It's all in good fun  -  (turning to

me) they always make fun of me

for what I do. Sit. Sit. I want to

show you my work. You like 

painting?' I wanted to play

dumb, actually, but didn't. I

said I'd gone to the Studio

School downtown, way back 

when. She was flabbergasted,

as if I'd just mentioned my years

at Yale to a 3rd grader. 'Oh my 

God, what that must have been

like! Tell me so! How grand!'

Then she went on about some

artist I'd never heard of, the one

she's working with as her mentor.

Instructor. Critic. He comes in

once or twice a week, and they

go over the work  -  'all the 

women here have him, in this

room, as their instructor, so

we can all work together some.'

Then she began unrolling some

canvases, loose, and pulling

others, on stretcher bars, out 

of the racks.I was almost afraid 

to look, fearing for a moment

that I'd be seeing each of these

ladies painted as nudes or 

something. (There was a movie

in the 60's, or maybe 70's, called

'What Do You Say To a Naked

Lady.' Some horrible hippie film).

Anyway, this was all, these each

turned out to be, colors and forms,

a few table-tops and vases and

things. (Amazing what Russian

ladies can do with apples, let 

alone bananas). By this time,

a few of the other ladies had 

crowded around the benches and

table, chattering and commenting

about each piece, remembering

this or that moment that they

were reminded of by each new

viewing. I hardly got a word

in. Probably just as well. And

then another lady had brought 

tea over, cups and the whole bit,

like a samovar thing or something,

and tea was served. More sitting

around  -  people coming and 

going. (I was still tightly clutching

my pass). I heard once or twice, a

'Who is that?' type comment. As

bad as it at first appeared, the 

next half-hour went OK. They 

explained to me how they rent, 

and renew their painting spaces,

how each one comes with its

own storage rack and work area,

communal space; how they can

come and go at will, construct

their own schedules and work

times, and how free and liberating

it all had made them feel. And 

then I said I had to go, yes, 

really, thank you, etc. The

lady who had brought me in

even gave me a card with her

name and telephone on it. I 

made my way out, returning 

my pass card, and was then

allowed entry, as well, to the

little 'student gallery' they

ran  - which the Russian lady

Olga had told me to be sure

to visit on the way out, and 

look for her work. To tell 

you the truth, I didn't really 

look. Oh, Olga.

-

The Art Students League is

actually, I think, a landmarked

building  -  quite stately, and old.

I'd been there before, in my Studio

School days, when I was accepted

to be a 'student' there too, though

I never went, having selected the

Studio School and keeping it at

that. In 1968, the entire world

was different, as was this portion 

of w57th street. I was hardly

able to recall, but I dimly

remembered the great awe I 

always felt passing here, and

the one or two times I'd gone 

in. Much different than this

visit  -  back then there were 

no pass cards, and no real and

official front desk either -  just 

hippie kids and serious art types,

all young. None of these hobbyist

sorts of Russian ladies, that I

remembered. The big draw 

back then was Romare Beardon,

who, as I recall, was a steady

presence there and an instructor

as well. Things do change.
-
Funny, Beardon, after I studied
him a bit (he's resurgent right now
too) was what was then considered,
stupidly enough, a 'Black' artist;
a Harlem concern, collagist, etc.,
portraying  black folklore and
extended black-family legacy
items. At that time I glossed right
over it. It seemed almost trite and
inconsequential to me. In 1967 my
idea was Art with the fiery, capital
A of all-that-was meaning the
history of the art world and its 
movements TO something.
Beardon seemed a large step 
backwards into and outside of
'real art' sidestep to craft and
sentiment. Collage. Then, about
1999, I began working with a black
woman artist who had connections
with the Newark Museum, which
had a substantial Beardon 
representation with its 'curated' 
art collection. I studied it some, 
and changed my mind on all of 
that  within the broader focus of 
Harlem art and the old Harlem 
Renaissance legacy. In her
own, not-so-delicate way,
Olga had reawakened all
that for me.