CAS Course Insights

BRUCE GRILL

The Frame

“Ja Mineer Green” continued the professor, as he raised a finger, pressed an intercom and advised his secretary that he would accept no calls.“The paper , as you guessed in your letter, is authentic seventeenth century.   We can see this with a magnifying glass.” He handed the wide lens to Barry and focused a harsh light onto the image’s margin. “You will note the presence of iron fragments that create microscopic rust spots. Worn laundry was a component of period paper. Some fragments of iron buttons were not adequately removed from the pulp.”  

Barry Green was a very amateur collector of etchings. He paid a few dollars for the Rembrandt etching entitled “Couple Making Love” at an estate sale back in Connecticut. It was a curiosity more than a masterpiece. Prints from the period went unsigned; the artist’s name etched into the print block. Barry was hardly a shrewd collector, but was willing to pay a top expert to authenticate this work. He just loved learning every esoteric thing about these ancient etchings. He was astounded that he could own and touch something breathed on by an old master whose signed paintings were worth millions and only found in prime museums. Erotic art by an old master was unusual.

Despite wearing nightgowns the coupling on the bed was evident. What captured Barry’s eye was the extra left arm. The woman had both arms firmly around the waist of her partner, but there it was, another left arm buttressing her own thigh.

“Ja, it is his ‘Couple’. Rembrandt printed such lucrative vulgar etchings, but this is not one of his better efforts. After his death, enterprising owners of his printing plates used old paper stock to re-strike the oeuvres and sell them as lifetime works made under the master’s eye. The quality of this print is poor. The inking is spare and uneven….Ach, look at these stains.” Professor Doctor Schmitz was at first ashamed for collecting his customary thousand Guilder appraisal fee for such a work. The feeling subsided as the American hadn’t even removed the print from its antique frame nor bothered to cover it in glass. The expert maintained a mask of brusque formality despite concluding that the man had more money than sense. “Probably left this out in the rain” he thought, his thumb caressing the extraordinary patina on the frame, “with his matchbook collection”. Expressionless, he controlled a sigh and handed the framed print to the young man. 

Barry didn’t grasp that he was being dismissed. His finger found a slight indentation on the smooth side of the elegant wooden frame. Schmitz’s disdain was undermined by his comical accent. Every ’w’ was pronounced like a “v”. Every ‘and’ was grunted as an “und”. His goatee beard and round glasses made him look a vaudevillian. Barry smiled as Schmitz spritzed his words. He touched the edge. The elmwood finish was interrupted by the ridges of a fingerprint permanently imprinted on the smooth wood.

“Those are not clouds above the bed there. It is a cartoon, a stained cartoon. Old, yes, but, the value is maybe a few hundred guilders. I can’t imagine the master wanted this out in the world. I’m afraid you’ve wasted your money and your time in coming here. I could give you a hundred guilder for the frame, if you like. Enjoy your visit to Amsterdam, Mineer Green. I’m sure you’ll find my city amusing.” 

Barry decided to sell the professor the frame and deduct it from his fee. Professor Dr Schmitz deftly removed and swiftly placed the print in a large envelope. Barry handed US$ cash and the frame back to the unsmiling gentleman. He left Barry holding the historic print in the manila envelope. Barry had never once dared to remove it from the frame for fear of damage. In fact the frame had not been handled without this print inside it since late in 1656, by Titus van Rijn, the artist’s only living child.

Long ago in his father’s printshop, Titus, unnerved,  had clenched this very frame in his lily white hand. Though three hundred years had passed, it occurred near the location of Schmitz’s office. Titus was so upset at having to inspect an order for his profligate father. The lacquer was not fully dry. In his fist , he grasped the frame tightly and left his thumbprint on its edge. He tossed it back into the box disgusted at the stain left on his finger. Titus knew better than to wear white gloves in that part of the house. His maid could scarcely remove the stains from a fine glove; nor the smell. During the  hard times of Rembrandt’s insolvency, Titus could scarcely afford to buy new gloves. 

He randomly chose several wooden frames of similar size and shape. That was all the quality control he would do, and nodded to Hans, his father’s assistant. Titus could find no fault in the first class elmwood and told the worker to start framing up the order of sundry etchings. He assumed his father’s instructions would be followed and had no sway with the workers.

Titus’ Uncle Jan recalled him from school and explained that it was up to him to take an interest in the printshop. “That’s the only place where any money can come from while your father is indisposed”. Jan Sixt, whom Titus called “Oom Jan” or “uncle” knew a lot about making money. As Rembrandts’s agent, he sold much of the master’s work to the grandees of 17th century  Amsterdam. No one could control the celebrated artist’s spending, so Oom Jan took it upon himself to advise young Titus. Jan already owned most of Rembrandt’s copper plates, having quietly bought them from his client’s bankrupt estate. Rembrandt, long a widower, had frittered away his own and his wife’s considerable wealth. In a legalistic manipulation to spin the wolves away from his door, Rembrandt donated this house to Titus and declared himself heir to his own son’s estate.

The spinning and clacking of the printing press, shook the floating foundation of the tall narrow house like in an earthquake. The stench of the acids and ink made the teenager nauseous. He didn’t like being in his father’s studio at all. The memories of his scent came to him from the workers; a paramount example was Hans’, who smelled barnyard awful. His father’s art students compounded the odor, like their patron, with the reek of tobacco and beer. The son of the world’s greatest artist, had a privileged and sweet life until the bankruptcy. The Rembrandt house employed pretty young maids; both father and son finding respective pleasure in their attentions. Father and son had not been on speaking terms.

Jan Sixt explained to Titus that this was a big purchase. The buyer wanted the frames made to an exacting degree. The etchings were a sundry group of old familiar works. It ultimately occurred to Titus that Oom Jan Sixt never used his influence to help his friend recover payments owed for the oil paintings gracing the grand homes and guild halls of the city. Jan saw a tidy agent’s commission from the constant reprinting of etchings. Whether pornographic or divine, “Rembrandts” were reliable sellers.

Since 1656, Titus served as legal receiver of his father’s bankrupt estate. The bankrupt were allowed a means of support to pay off debt. A printing press was allowed as part of a “tools of the trade” clause in the law governing insolvency. Titus could never manage the profitable production of etchings and would never tell his tale to anyone. Titus died before revealing any of his misgivings leaving his father the sole survivor of their nuclear family.

Professor Dr Schmitz left the anteroom. Barry held the print. Once the frame had ceased confining it, its voice spoke with a resonance that traversed the centuries. Upon opening the envelope, something was there on the reverse of the ancient paper. To his surprise, the clean side was covered with a richly printed, exquisite 1631 etching of Rembrandt’s mother. Below the image at the margin of the paper, in thin pencil was written, the words "Hans, gebruik deze kant”. Translated,  it was a message to his assistant, “Hans, use this side” and was signed with a familiar flourish, “R”.

Barbara Kail

A Widow’s Request

This story is legendary in the annals of the Kail family. It is certainly the funniest, but at the same time, the most poignant. A tragicomedy. 

My father is the star, although he only makes a cameo appearance. Mom is the principal character in this tale, and I am supporting. Now, to fill out the characters and set the scene. I always saw my parent’s relationship as the “Can’t live with, can’t live without” kind. They were most in sync when it came to money. Both were children of the Great Depression, which meant that neither wanted to spend a penny they didn’t have to. Repairs on the huge old house and old Mercedes Benz were done only under duress and on the cheap. My mother’s favorite phrase was “free of charge.” Even better than just “free.” Buying retail was unthinkable. By the time this story takes place, I am a grown woman of fifty with a child and observe them with some amusement and frustration. But you should know, I have always been a “daddy’s girl.”

Here’s the scene. On this particular day, June 8, 2002, my mother and I are sitting next to each other in the offices of the Garlik Funeral Home in New Rochelle, New York. Garlik with a “k.” Papa had made his final appearance the night before. He dies. The office is tastefully appointed with several chairs in the Chippendale tradition, upholstered in burgundy velvet. A large mahogany desk dominates the space, and behind it sits a man ‘of a certain age’ wearing a dark conservative suit and a serious demeanor. He introduces himself as Isaac Weiss, the Director, offers the usual expression of sympathy. then moves to the business at hand. This is a business after all.

“Shall we begin? First there is the matter of our fee. This covers all the arrangements with the cemetery – Mount Hope I believe. It also covers transportation for your immediate family and a hearse. We hope to make this passage as smooth as possible. Our fee is five thousand dollars.” 

I watch as my mother hands him the deed to the cemetery plot which has miraculously appeared from a morass of old papers stored in the dining room sideboard. Her jaw tightens, which also makes her lips seal tightly. I know that look well, since it marked much of my adolescence. Mom is clearly displeased. My mind is fogged-in, impeding my ability to assess the reason. Is it the concrete details of the burial forcing an unwanted reality on both of us? Or is it the expense?

After adjusting his tie, Mr. Weiss then moves on to the issue of the religious rituals. He agrees to contact Temple Israel and arrange for memorial and graveside services. I can’t remember the name of the Rabbi who officiated. This institution provided the religious backdrop to my childhood, and Mother attended services there on the High Holidays until her death. And you can still find me there on their yartzeits. Some things just don’t change. But I ramble. Back to Mr. Weiss who adds, “In my experience, Temple Israel typically expects donation to the Rabbi’s discretionary fund, usually in the range of two to three thousand dollars.” 

My mother’s hands grip the curved arms of her chair. Her knuckles lose their color. I remain unable to fully process this scene, but I can sense Mom’s distress. Still, she stays dry-eyed. I try to do the same. Now with both gone, and some years to consider it, I have a better sense of what was going on.

Peering over his reading glasses, Mr. Weiss moves to finalize perhaps the most delicate part of this process.

“Shall we choose a coffin?”

Mom was quick to reply. “Eddie was always clear he did not want a pine box. People shouldn’t think he didn’t do well in life. He should have something nice.”

Mr. Weiss reached for a catalogue. Scrolling through thumbnail-size photos on a website just didn’t cut it for his customers. “Shall we begin with some mid-range models? They tend to run about five thousand dollars.” He places the thick binder in front of her so she can browse. 

My mother is now trembling. I can tell, although the physical movement is hidden by the black polyester jacket she is wearing. She then looks at me straight in the eye. The intensity tells me Mom is channeling her beloved husband, my Poppa, with every cell in her body. Both she and he were fully present. I hold my breath waiting. How would Poppa manifest himself?

After a charged silence, I knew Mom had lovingly hit the mark. She leaned forward in her chair. So did Isaac Weiss. 

“Are there any senior citizen discounts?”

Richard E. Marshall

Floating

Blue, perfect blue

Sailing on my back

Glow above, shimmer below

Rootless palms dancing round

Feathery fronds, fanning and caressing

Not asleep, not awake, not real

I drift light but sumptuous

Pain gone, fear gone, death irrelevant

Floating to the rhythm of a whisper

Forget, forgetting, forgotten, forever

Sinking softly until 

I remember to remember 

Just in time, just before 

Soaking cerements drag me down

Saved by the memory of boredom.

Demetrios Siatos

The Matchbook

Ah! the decade of the seventies. Almost an extension of the sixties. The decade of bell bottoms, maxi dresses, disco craze, economic upheaval, anti war demonstrations, end of the Vietnam Was along with the fight for equality among Women, Native Americans, African Americana, Gay, Lesbian and others.

A decade of restlessness, change and rebellion. Remember the jazz and folk cafes of the West Village where one went to hear the famous and not so famous sing or play their instruments.

It was there in one of those cafes that I came across John for the first time by sitting on the empty bar chair next to him . He was nursing a drink at the bar while listening to the lyrics being sung. I had ordered a glass of white wine. We greeted each other and talked a little between the interludes. During our small talk, John in addition to discussing the ensemble, mentioned that he had entered therapy about seven months ago to deal with his issue of identity. He continued to say that his therapist, Manny was a right match for him and was helping him deal with his issues. I listened carefully as I was going through a similar crisis.

Before the evening was over, John wrote down on the back of a matchbook Manny's number at The Post Graduate Center for Mental Health in Manhattan. As the evening wore  on, we departed shaking hands and I put the matchbook in my coat pocket.

Upon arriving home via subway, I placed the matchbook in a bowl among the fruit.

During one period of that summer year when I was not working, I entered into a crisis mode which left me in a shaken state.

Returning home, I remembered the matchbook that John had given me with Manny's number written on the back.

I found the matchbook where it was supposed to be and stared at numbers. Within the next hour or so I went to my phone, dialed and left a message for Manny to call me back.

After a few days, Manny did return my call and we made an appointment to meet to see if we were a match for each other.

The appointment date came and went and for the next several years I became one of Manny's clients. Manny was a gregarious therapist who lived in the Village and loved working with his clients. He was as we say a "down to earth guy" who listened to you and gave sound and practical advice.

Through "thick and thin” Manny stayed with me and after we departed in the early eighties, we remained in touch till he moved from the city to the West Coast.

Looking back in time to that Village coffee house where I first met John, who would have know that we both shared a therapist who was of great benefit to both of us.