RUDIMENTS, pt. 644
('just mail yourself away')
One thing that stands out, and
which I miss very much, and it's
a funny thing in a way : In 1967,
and the years after that, I suppose
through even the '80's, there
was a wonderful brand of artist
tube paints and pigments; sold
on 15th street. They were under
the auspices - I guess manufactured
and sold, etc., as business - of this
artist named Leonard Bocour. In
some way he came up with his
own line of paints, oils, waters,
acrylics (under the name Aquatec)
and Bellini (oils). They were quite
the thing and I lived on them, back
when a nice tube of paint was
maybe 79 cents for certain
colors and pigments, and up to
probably twice that for the richer
tints. I know it doesn't sound like
much now, but back then those were
some real prices to deal with. I
don't know how or why he did it,
but Leonard Bocour had made
paints for the really big art
names of the previous painter
decade and more, all those
names you read about, Abstract
Expressionists and the
New York School painters.
I suppose when he got old and
died, it all went away. I'm not
really sure, except those names
aren't ever around anymore. I
wish now that I had known more
about it then; could'a been fun.
-
I always just mostly kept rolling
along, not letting too much stop
me and never getting ahead of
myself; which was easy anyway
because I never had any money.
A lot of what I did have was
stuff I'd just 'taken.' It was like
that then, a thin line between
right and wrong, a thin line
between good and evil, and
no line at all between yours
and mine. While I was at the
Studio School - and by the
way let me point out that
I never took anything from
the others around me, even
with my all-night being there
by myself atmosphere. I just
wasn't that sort, to be snooping
through others' things like that.
It was all open, out in the open,
and above board - I had free
rein to do whatever I chose to
do. And mostly, besides my own
studio space and the sleeping area
in the basement, which was real
nice for me 'but' - there was
something about it that made me
enjoy those large library floors
and places like that more. I'd
plop down and end up sleeping
wherever I was and with whatever
I was reading right then. There
was none of that crap-hygiene
stuff about showers, baths,
washing up and getting all
'purdy' back in those days. Most
I ever had was a toothbrush, and
mostly without toothpaste too.
People, and men too, get all
goofed up with that junk now,
but to me it's all like stupid and
foolish preening. Back then, if
I'd ever had to start worrying
about changing socks and
wardrobe, it would have
driven me crazy.
-
I never had sex with anyone either,
on the library floor or wherever in
that place - in case your mind's
running off. My little joke is 'I
slept with Wendy Spinner once'
but that was only because her
boyfriend, Peter Serkin (big,
famed concert pianist now, son
of Rudolf Serkin, who was really
big in the 50's through '80s) and
Wendy, and me, one night were
so bone tired and it was so late,
that we just went into one of the
small studio rooms at the front
of the building, probably about
3am, and just all crashed on the
floor, essentially a nap until
daybreak. Peter Serkin was very
cool - he never spoke much,
just often sat on the floor with
his back straight up against the
wall, watching things. I used
to laughingly refer to it as his
'piano-bench' posture. Back then
he still had his long, sleek, flaxen
hair. A few years later it was gone
and he had his own ensemble group,
'Tashi' I thing it was called, and
they were in concert, making CD's,
etc. I guess he's still around. Wendy
and Peter got married at some point,
and then broke up and maybe got
back together too; not sure, except
for the cool memories.
-
The thing about the place was that
most anything you did within it
had an awe factor, but only if you
knew and realized where you were.
Otherwise, it could be seen as just
a big dumpy rumble of crazy New
York rooms, tangled and twisted
and running back into each other,
and you could probably remain as
unaffected as you wished by the
lure of the place itself. There are
people like that, I know - and
they're pretty dull and they're
not me. My own mind and body
feeds on different matter, and
can read space/time histories
and hear the clanging of the bells
of old. I can disappear, in fact, and
just go into other places. The smells,
in this case, of the school's oils and
paints and varnishes and all, only
added greatly to the overall sense
of being in a place where strange
envelopes of occurrence still lurked.
was real easy to jump into one and
just mail yourself away. I did it lots.
-
Speaking of impressions of place too,
and this will be an odd one, one of
the startling things - as a dumb-ass
half-suburban poor kid wretch there -
was the realization that, in the city
like that, there weren't anywhere
any of those ridiculous acres of
pavement that suburban people
insist upon having - calling them
parking lots and demanding space
for their crazy cars everywhere. In
NYC back then, that didn't happen.
I noticed it right away; you just
walked place to place and door
to door for whatever it was you
were doing, and that's what streets
were for and that was the much
nicer way things were laid out.
Stores on the ground, people
living above - whether in loft
spaces or in their own apartments.
It was a wonderful set-up and one
from which, with that unique
vantage point, the whole local
world was yours. There was a complete
variety of everything - sights, colors,
sounds, textures, voices, languages
and foods. The great, big jumble
of time and place beckoned. I'd
never really seen anything like that,
or at least not enough to take it all
in. I'd often sit in place just to watch,
observing all that went by, everything
from colored balloons to workmen
yelling out. I kind of never wanted
to go anywhere else after that.
No comments:
Post a Comment