11,768. RUDIMENTS, pt. 689

RUDIMENTS, pt, 689

(no, it's not)

The artist Larry Rivers was

one of the people who came

across for me in the undoing 

of an idea. I'd always been

one of those who was fascinated

by old homes; the one which

had, usually at top dead center

atop their tall roofs what was

often referred to as a 'widow's

watch.' (Not a timepiece, no).

Besides the wonderful design

aspects of these, the quaint

and sensitive American story

that went about was that there

were, atop coastal homes, 

everywhere, these solitary and

glass-walled or windowed rooms

for the wife of the house to wait

for her husband at sea, and his

ship, to be returning  -  which 

return would be glimpsed as the

ships rolled over the horizon 

and into harbor view. A working 

seaman in those days  -  and

probably much the same today,

I suppose; though the ships are

swifter ports of call are also

more numerous  -  could be out

at sea for a year, close to it, or

more, at a time. The lore had it

that the lonesome wife left behind

would be looking for that day as

she pined away for her man's

return. Leave to Larry Rivers

to fill me in. How'd I miss the

pure realism of the man's gruff

and slightly crazy exterior? I

wondered. Besides being a painter

and a jazz saxophonist, (baritone

sax), all-about  cool and crazy 

guy, Larry Rivers was also an

inveterate seducer, little of

any difference to him, male or

female. Notched them both.

Here's his tale of informational

revisionism. It's a long story, but

I'll chop it to bits. The first painting

Larry ever sold, a drawing actually,  

was sold to 'collectors' of a sort,

named Ted and Gloria Branfman.

They frequently 'bought' paintings

by their unknown friends, as a way

really of just supplying money for

food, rent, supplies, etc. They came

by one day to where he was

living, to look at something to

purchase. At that time Larry was

otherwise engaged with a street

lass he'd brought up, claiming,

as she did, an immediate need

to pee. ('Mr., can you help me?

I have to pee very badly.' The

apartment's hall bathroom was

occupied, so she jumped atop

his kitchen sink, disrobed and

proceeded. Enough ribaldry for

Larry, they were having sex 

when the Branfman's arrived. 

He wouldn't open the door for

their knock, telling them to 

come back in ten minutes or

so when he'd be free. Anyway,

like buying ten minutes with the

Branfman's, Larry's point was

that the real, TRUE purpose of

those widow's watches was so 

that the lonesome wives, 

supposedly pining, would see 

the arriving ship as it began 

approaching, and then have

ample enough time to get her

temporary 'while he's away at

sea' paramour out of the house.

-

Another Romantic piece of crap

myth, down the drain. Darkness 

on the edge of town, and all that.

I wouldn't have felt so sullied,

except that I realized immediately

how almost perfectly right he 

must have been. Of course! A

hands-on, real-life reason for 

the way something was, and

it made much better sense too.

All too often that sentimental

crap has been peddled to people

through the ages, through the 

years of American history

anyway, and dullards have just

bought it all. Have you ever 

'looked' at a cherry tree? Fat,

round bark, crummy-looking

color at the surface, soft, cheap

wood and a generally weak,

overall, fortitude and appearance.

In real life, George, who'd

NOT cut it down?

-

Larry had a good vein for

jokes too; stories that were 

funny. As he was  - funny

looking, pointy, odd. (And,

oh, Larry Rivers, actually,

the last name was Grossberg,

was Jewish, so he could tell

this stuff). 'Two Jews, Abie

and Moe, are walking down

Fifth Avenue. Outside St.

Thomas Church there is a

sign reading, 'Conversions,

$400. Become a convert.'

Abe says, 'I can't do that.'

Moe is broke and some big

expenses to take care of. He

walks quickly up the steps

and enters the church. Abe 

says he'll wait outside. A

couple of hours later, Moe

comes out of the church

and walks down the steps. 

Abie says, 'Now Moe, did

they give you the four

hundred dollars?' Moe

looks at Abie and says,

'That's all you people ever

think of!''

-
Larry for a while, enjoying
early success, was known as
'Artist of the Vulgar. Well to
himself maybe. He played in
small jazz ensembles, touched
heroin too often, had his good 
times, and not. It was all nothing
really, but it ended up meaning
something to me. One time, when
I was younger, I was painting
outside, and some guy came up to
me, engaging me in conversation,
kind of about art. He looked at
my stuff, and said 'I don't know
much about art, but I know what
I like. I like these.' It made me
laugh a little. Larry Rivers also
had a long, ongoing fued with a
guy named Clement Greenberg,
the big-deal, style-setting art
critic of the day.  After on such
verbal set-to, complete with an
invitation to 'let's go outside and
finish this'  -  critic Clement
Greenberg was known for the way
he'd walk up to those who criticized
him in print, and deck them with a
sock to the jaw  -  (this one ended by
being broken up on the gallery floor),
Clement Greenberg, big deal critic,
said : "As far as art is concerned,
I just prefer good art to bad art  -
if I can tell the difference." (?) 
That seemed about the same as
that other guy's statement to me.
-

When I was in the middle of, 

all these things, I was halfway

baffled, halfway enjoying it

all. It got pretty amazing. In

addition, so much of everything

seemed connected to other things, 

other strains of thought and

ideas, silent and never mentioned.

I learned quickly that, beneath

it all, there's another strain of

America, or Americana, that

the regular New Yorker never

sees. A New York person can

live an insular life on that

square island of time and place

they call Manhattan. It's filled,

and by them and by their rhetorical

overkill, with stories and claims

of being a friendly, small town,

or a collection of hundreds of 

them at least, strung together 

in a frieze of humanity seldom

seen. That's all crap, and was then 

too. A New Yorker will steal

your pants while he's busy

trying to sell you another pair,

extolling the virtues of pockets

with no bottoms and legs you

can't get your own legs into. 

It's all public relations, low-grade

efforts at advertising and hype, 

and a cross-weaving of bad intent

softly lined with a velvet layer

of criminality. That's why the

politicians of the world always

come to it, to spread their lies

and regional misrepresentations,

seeing if that 400 bucks is

really there. (No, it's not).