PROFILE: CORNELIA SECKEL

For the past 35 years, I’ve been writing profiles of notable people — painters, sculptors, musicians, conductors, singers, playwrights — even a mime  — but until now, never a publisher. This one has been long overdue…

AT THE AGE of four, Cornelia Seckel announced to her mother — and the world — her then and future stance: confined to bed with chicken pox, she said to her mother in no uncertain terms, “Dammit! I want to go out!” Bucking the odds seems to have been her modus operandi from the very beginning — a determined and confident risk-taker, her parents had long recognized — and advised others — that she was a self-reliant, headstrong challenger from the very beginning. Raised by socially-conscious and community-active parents in Queens, New York, she learned early on to direct her focus and interests toward improving the world — so much so, in fact, that her parents (her father a lawyer, her mother once a legal secretary and then teacher) were often taken aback by her precociousness. The oldest of four children, she “took charge” early on, directing not only her younger siblings, but often — too often, according to them — her parents as well. Since the day she demanded to “dammit” be let out, the word “No” would not be allowed as a deterrent to whatever path she would choose to follow.

She carried her incipient interests in furthering the quality of life into her school years, taking courses in a variety of both education and liberal arts programs through her college years — a B.A. in Speech Education at Queens College, CUNY and an M.A. in psychology and Curriculum Development at Michigan State University — teaching speech correction and English as a second language at Grover Cleveland High School in Bedford Stuyvesant (between Brooklyn and Queens) and English, Literature, Speech, Dramatics, Reading, Communication Skills, and Life and Job Survival Skills at Sexton High School in Lansing Michigan. Although married by the time she was teaching in Michigan, helping to put her husband through graduate school, Cornelia took on extra-curricular activities such as volunteering with a substance abuse prevention agency (S.T.R.I.D.E.) and working at the Listening Ear Crisis Intervention Center doing counseling, training of new volunteers, and maintaining the resource and reference files.

Her marriage ended in 1976, catapulting her into a larger world of different problems and cultures to face.  After backpacking through Europe, she returned to the States and, living out of her Volkswagen station wagon, began to gather deeper insights into both herself and a society that was just coming out of the hippie philosophy of free love, free living and free choices. Although “peace and love” were the call-words of young people criss-crossing the country, she soon discovered the dark side of freedom when it degenerates into licentiousness. Driving to a rainbow gathering of “love and peace” in Arizona’s open spaces, she was raped by two men who appeared to be fellow travelers. Though the assault took its toll on her psyche, Cornelia Seckel was made of sterner stuff; she escaped from her assailants after breaking the knife they held on her with her bare hands, drove to the nearest police station and reported the crime. Not willing to leave Arizona until she had testified at their trial to see them incarcerated, she then decided to head her Volkswagen back East, trusting to her inner resources and a life of both learning and teaching to get her through and past the ordeal. While visiting Woodstock, New York exploring new places to live, the axle of her car broke and she knew she had come to the end of her travels. Here she would put down roots and fortified with new resolve, settle down to new commitments, new friends, and new community projects to which she could add her now considerable experience and knowledge. Armed with a world of new understanding, her rape now a carefully and deliberately contained “life lesson” that she would not allow to undermine her innate trust in people, she scouted her new environs for ways to apply her skills, her knowledge, her self.

Taking a job as a Career Counselor at the Ulster County Chamber of Commerce, provided her the stability and wherewithal to make it possible for her to purchase an old country farmhouse a few miles outside of Woodstock, where she could wait, as she puts it, “for a real partner to show up in my life”. Now, on her very own 2-acre plot of land where she could indulge to her heart’s content in her love of gardening, she could really “put down roots”. As part of her job at the Chamber, she became part of a group that set about designing a program to provide career counseling, direction, information, resources and opportunities for students. Called the “Shadowing Program”, Cornelia soon became the Director (The Shadow Lady” to the students) and had an office at the Kingston High School where she matched students with professionals that they could “shadow” in order to learn more about the career they were considering after graduation. It was during this time that she designed, developed, and implemented a “Career Day” that quickly became a statewide model. It was also at Kingston High School that, in 1980, she found and married her “real partner”, Raymond J. Steiner, an English teacher who had a classroom directly across the hall from her office.

Although the job provided her an income, it was far from satisfactory insofar as utilizing all of her hard-won skills and she was soon involved “after hours” in several community organizations. Though she found outlets for her energies by volunteering for Family of Woodstock, a Crisis Intervention Center (where she served on shift work, training new volunteers, developing training programs, and on various Board positions), as a spokesperson for CHILD FIND and as a national consultant to Friends of CHILD FIND (both organizations committed to locating abducted children), as well as founding the National Organization for Women (NOW) Chapter in Ulster County, serve two years as Board Member of the Women’s Studio Workshop, serve as a member of the Drug and Alcohol Abuse sub committee of the Human Relations Committee of Ulster County Community Services Board and — finally — run for County Legislator, canvassing the county for votes (being a woman, a Democrat, and a Jew, pretty well excluded her from holding a political office in a largely Republican Conservative milieu), she still felt her talents, expertise and energy to be underused.

When not applying herself to making her mark on society, Cornelia was also a hard player — dedicated to get as much out of her “down” time as she was at getting down to business. Catching a 6’2” sailfish at the age of 14 — the only one on board that day who made such a haul — set her on a path of deep-sea fishing that she continues to this day. Part of a group of women who “hit the briny” as often as they can, Cornelia has garnered awards and trophies that — along with her mounted sailfish — adorn her office. If she can’t fish, then you’ll find her in her garden, an 80’ by 80’ plot that reaps her not only strawberries, asparagus, raspberries along with whatever she plants each spring, but a peace of mind and a place to “let it all go”.

Cornelia Seckel laying out the very first Issue of ART TIMES, July 1984

It would be her husband’s desire to leave teaching to become a full-time writer that would serve as the final piece in the puzzle of her search to realize her full potential. Finding himself dissatisfied with the handling of his free-lance writing by other editors and publishers, he brought his problem to Cornelia who, taking her own Career Counseling to heart, and, true to her four-year-old self, “took charge.” One can almost hear the wheels turning in her mind: “Dammit! I want to …!” This time, however, it was to methodically and determinedly set out to create not only a socially conscious product that would allow her to follow her own vision of an enriched and satisfaction-filled future, but also a way to solve her husband’s problem. In 1984, Cornelia Seckel created a vehicle in which to stretch their talents to the utmost — she and Raymond co-founded ART TIMES, a literary journal and resource for the fine and performing arts — a decision that, with Cornelia at the helm, took little time in its inception, its planning, and in its fruition.

Knowing that Woodstock, nestled in the Hudson Valley/Catskill Mountain Region, was an arts-rich environment since the early 1900’s, she first had to learn why the area had no local publication that served that community. She had learned that there were several attempts at such a magazine/journal over the years, but that each had failed because there was no controlling vision that oversaw the project. Too often such endeavors were run by not-for-profit organizations that answered to a board of overseers. The first step, then, was to create a corporation with herself as CEO (the person with the vision and the final say-so); Raymond would serve as Vice-President. In early May of 1984, she went out into the community to search out other publishers to learn all of the ins-and-outs of the business. She had attended an “All Women in Business” conference in Poughkeepsie and discovered many ready-to-help conferees, particularly one, Merna Popper, publisher of Women’s News in Westchester, County. Beginning her rounds that day at the conference, she had begun with “I’m thinking about…” and before she was halfway through was declaring, “I am going to publish an arts magazine”. A trip to Merna’s business for a crash-course in how to put a newspaper together and a follow-up the next day at Walden Printing in Walden, NY to learn what they needed in order to fulfill her vision was all it took. Now it was time to fully bloom.

In spite of naysayers — and there were many at the outset (they didn’t know that Cornelia could not hear the word “No”) —ART TIMES, Volume 1, Number 1, was born in August 1984 with Cornelia as Publisher (finally running her own show), and Raymond, as Editor (who would now have control over how his writing would be handled) with 10,000 issues on the way. Once launched, Cornelia entertained no thoughts of failure, a confidence quickly confirmed by her selling enough advertising to pay for the costs of the first (mocked-up) issue, with each year (soon up to 26,000 issues per month) following the same pattern. Almost immediately, her vision, her net-working skills and drive led to a one-of-a-kind publication that gained attention not only locally, but eventually globally, her current online presence attracting nearly 600 visitors a day, a million+ “hits” a year.

Cornelia describes her publication as having “two personalities: my nature as a resource person with business skills and Raymond’s philosophical and literary background.” ART TIMES addresses all of the arts, serving as a resource for both established and upcoming artists, with an Opportunity Column and a Calendar of Events that includes hundreds of activities and venues in the Northeast Region of the U.S. Essays on the arts by hand-picked writers, poetry and short fiction have been staples since its beginning. Subscriptions are mailed across the country and, indeed, across oceans with copies going to England, Germany, Italy, Russia, France and Russia. The publication’s focus has been “the long view”, avoiding coverage of what has been called “the flavor of the month.” Indeed, Cornelia has seen many publications devoted to “cutting-edge” art fall by the wayside since ART TIMES’s ­near thirty-year presence, simply because what may be “hot” this year may not be so the following year. In effect, such publications almost invite failure since their reason-for-being is so short-lived. So successful has been the editorial policy of ART TIMES’s “long view” and high literary standards that it has maintained a devoted readership both here and abroad, ensuring many years to come.

As her publication flourished, so did Cornelia’s reputation as a “do-er” who knew how to get things accomplished — she became the “go-to” person for a host of groups and organizations that wanted to tap into her talents as a resource person and networker. Early on in her publication’s history, she had a weekly segment on the WAMC Public Radio Network called “Culturally Speaking” (now incorporated into each online and printed issue) in which she spoke about organizations, exhibits, plays, concerts — in short, any cultural institution or event — that crossed her desk. Her efforts did not go unnoticed, and soon she was invited to cover cultural events not only across the States, but also in places like Singapore, Canada (Quebec, Montreal), China (Beijing, Shanghai), Germany (Cologne, Berlin), Italy (Rome), Belgium (Leuven), and even to attend the International Cultural Summit at Versailles, France. It would not be long before she was asked to serve on Arts-Related and/or Advisory Boards, hold Honorary Memberships in others, and serve as juror or judge of art exhibits throughout the Northeast of New York State — and beyond. In the 10^th year of ART TIMES, she received an Executive Chamber Citation from then Governor of New York Mario Cuomo. This has been followed by recognition, acclaim and awards over the years from such organizations as All Women in Business, Ltd, Pastel Society of America, National Association of Women Artists (NAWA), Ulster County Chamber of Commerce, and the Movado Children’s Foundation. Recognizing the value of such acclamations, she began her own Art Times’ Cultural Achievement Awards, awarding them to deserving organizations for several years. For the past four years, she has served as co-chair of the Woodstock Arts Fair.

A valued member of the National Association of Women Artists (NAWA), The Salmagundi Club, the Catharine Lorillard Wolfe Art Club, Artist’s Fellowship, Inc., ArtTable, Inc., Pen & Brush, Co-founder and member of Alliance of Women Entrepreneurs (AWE), National Organization for Women (NOW), the American Association of University Women (AAUW), and the Society of the Silurians, Cornelia Seckel has more than proved her determination, her abilities and, most of all, to disregard the word “no”.

Treasures

I WAS WATCHING the news recently — on the evening of December 3^rd, actually — and saw lines of people who paid $30 a pop to stop in at Christie’s to see Liz Taylor’s jewels that were going up for auction. Their anticipation was obvious and one could almost feel the TV screen quivering with the bottled up excitement of the crowd. Interspersed with stills and panned sweeps by equally excited camera- and newsmen inside the galleries of the movie queen’s ‘treasures’, one could catch quick glimpses of flashy stones, necklaces, brooches, and rings, all colorfully seducing the eye — a conglomeration of rocks and metals awaiting the shivering and eager crowd impatiently waiting outside along the sidewalk. The event had been touted for over a week, “teases” given to the audience to keep them glued to future tidbits — shots of the glamorous Liz with the various husbands who had given her this or that bauble, shots of her with this necklace around her neck, that brooch perched above her breast, that ring on her finger — all in preparation for this opening night. Not much of a jewelry person — I could never quite understand the primitive penchant for hanging shiny stones and metal from or attaching to one’s person — I just couldn’t get “into” the feverish hullabaloo of auctioning off someone’s (no matter whose) knickknacks (no matter how expensive) to a zealous mob of status-seekers. As far as I’m concerned, I’ve already seen one of Liz Taylor’s real treasures up close and personal, one given to her by Mike Todd in the form of their daughter Liza Todd Tivey. Liza, more precious than any piece of stone or metal and equally as beautiful as is her mother, stands at the opposite pole of “celebrity” as does Liz, content to live quietly and creatively on her upstate New York farm, confident in herself, in her talent, and in her choice of jealously guarding her privacy. An extremely gifted sculptor exquisitely attuned to nature, Liza has a sensitive talent of portraying animals in drawings, clay or bronze, quietly making her name in the artworld as a master sculptor of horses, having already back in 1986 completed commissions to portray “Northern Dancer” (1981), “Nashua” and “Clem” (1982), “Ruffian” (1983), “Producer” (1984), “Seattle Slew” and “John Henry” (1985). I have since learned that in 1990 a cast bronze of her “Secretariat” had been completed and am not surprised at the commission. Familiar with horses since the age of 4, Liza had eventually parlayed her love of animals into the enviable position of being named one of the world’s foremost equestrian portraitists. I had the great honor and pleasure to spend an afternoon in October 1986 with Liza (profiling her in the following month in our November 1986 Issue), an afternoon of autumnal color and cerulean skies that, even after 25 years, I still can clearly recall. An outdoors person, Liza was anxious to get out of her studio (where I prefer to hold my interviews in order to get a “feel” for an artist’s space) and to take me on a slow-paced tour of her farm — which I soon found out was her real “creative” space. Her baby son Quinn snug in his carrier on her back and accompanied by “Bocci”, her pet donkey (a gift from Mom who kept getting his nose nudged between us as if to protectively guard his mistress) and her dogs, we strolled her grounds, checking on her horse, her cats, and “her” Canadian geese resting in her pond (“They’re late this year,” she whispered), speaking of things that move her, that “call” her, that shape her thoughts and that eventually get gently nudged into artforms. I’ll never forget Liza — diminutive, intense, focused, completely unaffected or pretensions — in brief, a genuine treasure of the finest quality. You can have the trinkets — I’ll cherish the memory of Liza.

Raymond J. Steiner

(Visit arttimesjournal.com  for more “Peeks & Piques!”)

My Favorite Restaurant

IN AN EARLIER “Peeks & Piques!” editorial, I spoke of the Maple Sugar Enterprise down the road from me, and this time I want to take you a few miles further to my favorite restaurant. As a dedicated isolatoe, I begrudge my time away from my studio, preferring to have quiet meals at home. This restaurant, however — Reginato’s Ristorante (visit them at www.ReginatoRistorante.com for some great discount coupons!) — has been our little secret “get-a-way” since we began ART TIMES in 1984. In fact, we watched as an old farmhouse was transformed by two brothers from Asola, Italy — a bit north of Venice and up in the foothills of the Alps — into a world-class restaurant that features a style of Italian cuisine that most likely has been transported from their hometown. Thus, their opening anniversary nearly coincides with our founding of ART TIMES. The outside is beautifully landscaped with fountains ala Italian piazzi, and an outside eating area surrounded by shrubbery. It has been our custom to celebrate all our “special” days — birthdays, anniversaries, holidays — at Reginato’s, always heartily welcomed by brothers Roberto and “Johnny” (Giampaolo). The waiters — who, of course, have changed over the years — Glen, Emiliano, Trish, Betiana, Kayla, and Stephanie (the wife of Johnny’s son, Kevin, who is also one of the cooks) — all have given us special service and smiles when we come. In all our years of going there, we have never felt anything but greeted as “familigia” and never had a meal that we didn’t talk about for days afterward. At times, after trips to Florida, Cornelia has always thought to bring “Reginato Fratelli” a special bag of honeybell oranges; in spring, she often brings them a handful of fresh asparagus from our garden. In return, we have always felt a little special “extra touch” given our meals, as well as a visit to our table from Chef “Johnny”. Every so often, after the place empties of other customers, we share a private drink with the brothers, joined by “Johnny’s” wife, Mimi, at the bar. I remember one night (after hours) when we spent an hour or so on the bocce court and finished at least one bottle of wine (making us steadily worse at the game, of course). Although the Maple Syrup business is seasonal, Reginato’s Ristorante is year-round good food — with an early-bird special for us senior citizens and a luncheon menu that cannot be beat — excellent food and portions for unbelievably reasonable prices. Next time you are up in the Kingston/Saugerties area, this is one place that should be on your itinerary. I’m sure that a visit to Reginato’s will long linger in your fond memories.

This Peeks and Piques column first appeared in the Jul/ Aug 2011 issue of ART TIMES www.arttimesjournal.com (see previous issues under current pfd of current issue)

THE STUDIO TOUR

Raymond J. Steiner and visitors to his studio

VISITORS TO THE Hudson Valley and Catskill Mountain Regions may be puzzled by signs with numbers and arrows sprouting up along roadsides during the warmer months — not to worry — they are there to announce annual Artist’s Studio Tours held in towns and villages throughout the area. An event that has grown over the years — spreading from town to town — the signs designate participating artists who opened their “inner sanctums” for a look-see. Here where I live in the Town of Saugerties, we held our 9^th Annual Tour in mid-August this year with over forty artists taking part in the event — I was #31. Voluntary for the artist and free for those who take the tour, it gives tourists a chance to get “inside looks” and artists a chance to advertise — and sometimes even sell — their work. Maps are usually prepared and available at local stores and online to promote the event. Although I can really only speak for myself, I’d say that it’s a safe bet most artists find the event trying — if not, in fact — overwhelming. I certainly do. This was my second time at volunteering to open my studio for visitors — and even now, some four days later, I’m not sure why I did. Oh, we sold a couple of paintings and several books, but the onslaught of strangers tramping through my private hide-a-way was, at times, a bit much. Most people know that I am pretty much of a dedicated and curmudgeonly hermit who doesn’t even have a telephone in his study, and that I am not always open to “drop-ins.” (I used to have a shade with “GO AWAY” printed on it that I pulled down when I was inside conjuring up my latest ‘creation’ du jour). My usual line is, “If you’re ever in the neighborhood and passing by, I’d appreciate it.” Anyway….here I was glad-handing people like some frantic insurance salesman, walking around with a smile pasted on my puss trying to appear delighted by the intrusion. Part of the problem, of course, is that those on the tour do not coordinate their visits with other tourists — so they come in ‘clumps’. At times you are left staring at your walls and shaking your head; at others trying to answer questions and remember names. But — I ought not complain. After all, I did do it once before and knew what was coming, but STILL I VOLUNTEERED! (Gotta write that down somewhere so that I remember it next year.) On the plus side, I had a couple of nice moments that will long linger in my mind (and probably induce me to volunteer again next year). An ex-junior/senior high school teacher, I was happy to see several former students and old colleagues drop in. Most only knew me as an English teacher (from 40 years ago!), so discovering that I also painted was a surprise for them — anyway, it was a pleasant experience to re-connect. A special moment was when a little girl asked Cornelia what the name was of a painting that attracted her attention. “Ocean Grove, New Jersey”, Cornelia told her. She then implored her father to buy it because “it’s where my friend lives!” He indulged her and I signed it especially to her on the back of the canvas. The high-point of the weekend, however, was when a little girl came over to me and asked, “How do you paint with a knife?” I took her into my studio — along with her mother — and said, “Come, I’ll show you — it’s easier than trying to explain it.” I took out a little 3×5 canvas board, squeezed out some Titanium white, cerulean blue, olive green and sap green — and proceeded to “smear” with the palette knife. “First,” I said, “ spread some blue up here, then pull some white through it…..see?..clouds in the sky!” Within minutes, the room filled up with onlookers. The little girl called to her father as he squeezed into the room, “Daddy! He’s giving me a lesson!” I don’t know how much of a lesson it was, but soon the little canvas sprouted a tree, a distant hill, a field, some bushes. “Now,” I said, I take one of these fan brushes and make a few swishes to look like grass — so sometimes, I do use a brush.” She was delighted — almost as much as I was, I think. I then asked her what her name was. “Charlotte,” she said. I turned over the little canvas and wrote: “For Charlotte” — and then signed and dated it. “Here,” I said, “it’s yours. Don’t touch it yet since it’s still wet, but you’ll be able to touch it tomorrow.” (I customarily use alkyds.) It was wonderful to watch her gently hand it to her father who cradled the tiny canvas in his large hands, protecting it from those pressing around. What a rush — and come to think of it, I probably will volunteer again next year.

Memories

The passing of several of my friends recently — Jack Levine, Bruce Currie, Robert Angeloch — reminds me of little anecdotes of a couple of others that I have profiled over the years and who have also passed on to leave us bereft of their wonderful talents. Eugénie Gershoy, an artist like the aforementioned, was denizen of both Woodstock and New York City, her shared residences alternating between Twin Gables upstate and the Chelsea Hotel “in the city” (as upstaters referred to the Big Apple). Although she was an accomplished painter (I have a beautiful floral hanging in my bedroom that she did for me while she was up in Woodstock), Eugénie made her mark as a whimsical sculptor, her crowning achievement a solo show at the Smithsonian. I had profiled her in the early ‘80s and always found her acerbic tongue a delight — divorced from her husband for some years before I met her, whenever she referred to him or mentioned his name she would turn her head with a loud “ptoooie” and then resume her narrative. She, along with another dual resident of Woodstock and NYC, Dorothy Varian (who lived at the Carnegie while “downstate”), both urged me to “get my head out of Woodstock” — in other words, not to concentrate only on Woodstock artists, but to extend my vision to include those outside the area — in fact, Jack Levine (at Eugénie’s urging) was my first NYC artist to profile. Another great artist, this time a singer/guitarist, was Odetta, who passed away (it seems) just a scant few months ago. I hadn’t seen her for some years (although Cornelia used to meet up with her in the city every so often to go “clubbing”), having gotten to know her pretty well when I profiled her for ART TIMES in August of 1985. I’d met her the month before in the little town of Gardiner, New York, where a friend of hers had loaned her home where she could find the seclusion to work on a project. We sat as old friends across a kitchen table, sharing laughs as she unfolded her life and career for me. At one point, I asked her if she has seen any deer while she was spending time “in the country”. “Deer?” she said, somewhat surprised. “There are deer up here?” “Sure,” I said, they’re all over. She’d been so busy working on her notes and tapes that she rarely took time to look out the window at the nearby woods. Looking at me a bit skeptically, I invited her to take a walk outside with me. A nearby brook bubbled out behind the house and in no time, I was able to point out deer tracks in the soft earthen banks to her. “Wow!” she said. “And I never saw them!” She looked at me a bit sheepishly, and added, “I’m a city girl, you know, and never even thought about deer around here.” We walked a bit more and, as I glanced down looking for more tracks, I spotted a fossil rock, indented with ancient shell imprints. I picked it up and handed it to her, explaining what it was. She was absolutely dumbfounded. “Come on,” she said. “You put that there before!” “How could I?” I asked. “I didn’t even know where you were until I got directions from you this morning.”  Still a bit dazed, she just shook her head and cradled the stone in her hand. “Deer,” she mumbled. “And fossils!”) Some years later, Odetta was performing at SUNY New Paltz, and I went to hear and see her. After her performance, I had a lovely backstage visit, where I got a big hug from her. (I had a photo of this moment but it burnt up when my studio went up in flames). Anyway, just before I left, she said, “Wait! I want to show you something.” She went into her purse and pulled out a tied up handkerchief — inside, was the fossil stone! “Look,” she said. “I covered it with clear nail polish so it will be preserved.” I looked at her and grinned. “Preserved,” I said. “Odetta — that thing is probably over a million years old! Thank God you’re going to protect it for a few more years.” Another hug, another memorable moment.

A new book you might want to look at

RECEIVED A NEW book a few days ago and wanted to share a few thoughts about it with my readers. The book, i sold Andy Warhol. (too soon)* is written by Richard Polsky, also author of I Bought Andy Warhol, written some years back. Polsky founded Acme Art in 1984, an art gallery in the Bay Area of California — the same year I co-founded ART TIMES with Cornelia Seckel. He had begun his career in the art world a couple of years earlier; I had been writing artist’s profiles about the same time, writing for various publications since about 1980. So — generally speaking, then, our “art world” careers are commensurate in duration — but that is where any similarity between our experiences abruptly comes to an end. Oh, we both traveled the world a bit in our “art world” careers — I’ve been to Germany, Italy, England, Ireland, Holland, Belgium, Spain, France, Hungary, the Czech Republic, and China for exhibitions, art studio visits or for giving lectures — Polsky to probably many of the same countries — but, again, not at all to the same places or to visit the same “art world” denizens. For one thing — and it’s important — is the term “art world”. I’ve kept it in quotes purposely, since — although there are plenty of ‘definitions’ — there is no clear or consensual agreement of what this “world” consists of. Even more troublesome is the word “art” — something that no one today seems to agree on. In regards to Polsky and I, there seems to be absolutely a glaring gap between what he considers “art” to mean and what I mean by the term. And as far as our “worlds” are concerned, we may well be referring to different planets. Polsky is dealing in the “world” of — what he calls — “high-end” art — a term he seems to like since he uses it often in his book to describe “high-end” dealers, “high-end” collectors, “high-end” buyers — in brief, “high-end” movers and shakers in his “world” of “high-end”, if not “art”, then surely of money transactions. To my mind, Polsky seems to only consider “art” as “art” when it translates into “high-end” prices. This “world” is far indeed from the one I’ve inhabited for the past thirty-or so years — especially since my “world” is heavily influenced by Oscar Wilde’s astute observation between “cost” and “value”. I have had some brushes with Polsky’s world — a visit to Sotheby’s (where I felt like an alien — and was, I suppose), a visit to my home by a dealer in “high-end” art who blandly stated that I had “shit” on my walls (“shit”, I suppose, was his way of saying “low-end”) but these, as I say, were merely brushes with a “world” I had no desire to inhabit. The artists I know, have written about (and have hanging on my walls) are, I suppose “low-end” since none (as far as I know) have brought in millions of dollars. Polsky, incidentally, tosses around millions much like our government tosses around trillions — most certainly an alien planet to me. So, I guess I’ll just have to plod along in my “low-end” benighted world with artists who can only dream about millions. Still, you might like to pick up and read Polsky’s book — it certainly engaged me — even if, at times, it made my hair stand on end and my teeth grind. One thing’s for sure — I could not have survived as many years in his “world” as I’ve done in mine.

*Other Press LLC, NYC, 2009. 269 pp.; 5 ½ x 8 ½; Where to See Artists; Sources. $15.95 Softcover.

“Sugar Shack”

Peter Lavalle tending the boiling Maple Syrup at Platte Creek Maple Farm, Saugerties, NY

By RAYMOND J. STEINER

OVER THE YEARS I’ve given my readers a “peek” into my life behind my role as editor of this publication — “Splitting Wood” back in March of ’96; “The Stone Wall” in May ’04, “Autumn in New York” in November of ’07, and “City Boy, Country Boy” in May of last year — a life that I jealously guard along with the solitude it guarantees me. If you’ve kept track over the years, I’ve given glimpses into my home and environs that is situated on a 2-acre plot on a dead-end road about half-way between the villages of Woodstock and Saugerties, New York — even some first-hand glimpses to those who’ve managed to break my barrier of isolation for a short visit (the “stone wall” described in May of 2004 serves as a visible warning to the idle curious).

Anyway, this time I want to share another peek into my life in the woods — a visit to the “Sugar Shack” about a mile down the road from me. Many don’t know that it is, in fact, not Vermont but New York State that leads the country in the production of maple sugar — and one need only visit Platte Creek Maple Farm’s “Sugar Shack” in Saugerties, New York to see why. Set back a few hundred feet from the road on a piece of woodland riven by a meandering brook, the “Sugar Shack” is a one-story wooden building that deceptively hides a high-tech operation which converts raw maple sap into one of America’s favorite pancake toppings behind its rustic walls — pure maple syrup. For country-living cognoscenti, the maze of plastic lines running from surrounding sugar-maple trees and converging on the “Shack” give away the game that is largely hidden behind leafy foliage during the rest of the year. But come early Spring — when cold nights are followed by warming days — the sap begins to rise and the shack begins to fill its waiting containers. Then the day comes when smoke arises from the open-end gable atop the roof and all the neighbors know that the process has begun! This year, the event was heralded by an open-house featuring free pancakes, sausages, ham, and — of course — fresh maple syrup! It was not long before the little parking lot and adjoining woods were awash in cars and people  — Cornelia and I among them. We wondered at this close-up view of the building and operation — having passed it almost daily on our way to the Post Office but never having actually driven in to take a close look.

We are not exactly greenhorns when it comes to making maple syrup — having tapped the maple trees on our own property in our early years and boiling down the raw sap into syrup — a ratio, incidentally, of 40 to 1 — i.e. it takes forty pints of raw sap to make one pint of syrup — and a considerable amount of labor in getting and cutting wood for the process during the preceding season. We did that for several years, until the sheer labor of it finally got to us. The next best thing then, was to visit the “Sugar Shack” — its two overhanging eaves on both sides of the structure sheltering the fire-stove-sized cut logs. As we approached, several young bloods were steadily feeding the large cast-iron wood-burner sitting in the middle of the floor inside, while others cooked up food and skimmed the boiling container of fresh sap being converted into “country sweetness” into waiting cruets — trying to keep up with a hungry horde led by their noses and appetites taking it all in. Yep — give me the rural life; you can keep your city traffic, crowds, parking meters, and noise. I’ll just visit now and then to take in a promising art exhibit.

Robert H. Angeloch: 1922—2011

By RAYMOND J. STEINER

And so, another Woodstock artist passes from life to the archival records of past legends. Although I’d met and known Bob before I profiled him in the local daily in nearby Kingston, New York  — The Sunday Freeman — in March of 1984, it was not until he sat and shared a couple of hours with me in his studio for the interview that I really got to know a bit about both the artist and the man. Like many artists, Bob was a bit reluctant to allow me too far inside his head — that is, until he found out that I had moved to neighboring West Hurley in 1945 and had harbored secret urgings to follow the path of art myself, bicycling past the then summer school of the Art Students League along the (also then) old Woodstock-Saugerties Turnpike and imagining the real artists laboring over easels behind its imposing stone walls. Today, of course, the still-imposing stone building is now the Woodstock School of Art and the old turnpike translated by state mandate into Route 212 — a transition, incidentally — of the building anyway — that boasts the fingerprints of none other than Robert H. Angeloch.

By the Spring of 1984, however, as I sat in his studio on Summers Lane, Bob had already carved out a substantial niche in the long roster of Woodstock notables, already an established award-winning artist, teacher and gallery owner — the Paradox on Mill Hill Road. He’d come to Woodstock in 1948, another WWII vet who first dipped his feet into the artistic milieu at the League’s NYC facility on 57^th St., coming to see for himself what had been dubbed by his pre-war forerunners as the “best landscape school” in the world. He was not disappointed — in fact, he was even instrumental in bringing others up to Woodstock through his participation in a joint League/US Army film that urged veterans to consider an art career, both the League’s NYC and Woodstock facilities featured in the film that followed the character he portrayed through, first choosing classes in NYC, then moving up to the Woodstock Summer School. It would not be long before Bob would immerse himself in the Hudson Valley landscape that had been luring artists up to the foothills of the Catskills since the 1800’s — to finally settle into his studio surrounded by long-familiar ‘friends’ of trees, streams, woods, mountains and fields.

We sat amid hundreds of “works-in-progress” in that studio — i.e. sketches that might or might not have major or minor roles in future projects — as he told me his story. He was reluctant at first to share his sketchbooks (many artists are since they are, in fact, akin to personal diaries), only handing them over after I had revealed my own youthful aspirations. What they — and he — revealed that day — and long after we became better acquainted through the years — was a man who had a reverence for life, a keen sense of his own humility in the face of nature, and a man not unwilling to halt his own progress to help a fellow seeker along the way. I regret never having taken a class with him — but then he was one of the many who advised me to avoid classes and simply to follow my own inner promptings. He, like so many others,  helped to flesh out the main character in my novel about Woodstock, The Mountain.

Most of all, I regret that he is no longer with us. He exuded a rough, rugged exterior that — as all who really knew him soon discovered — hid a soft, sentimental heart.

Passing of Another Woodstock Legend

By RAYMOND J. STEINER

The recent death of artist Bruce Currie closes yet one more door on Woodstock’s illustrious past as America’s “go-to” art colony. The ending of World War II breathed new life into New York City’s Art Student League as it languished under a dearth of students during the war years. Almost overnight — with the help of a movie made by the League under the auspices of the U.S. Government (starring, incidentally, another Woodstocker and colleague of Currie’s, Robert Angeloch) that urged homecoming soldiers to seek a career in art — both their New York City and Woodstock summer school facilities suddenly burgeoned with budding artists. Already enjoying an international reputation as “the world’s best landscape school” before the devastating war years, the League’s summer sessions once again drew applicants from across the expanse of the United States, among the many who crowded Woodstock’s two main rural thoroughfares being Bruce Currie — a genuine decorated war hero from Iowa who quickly translated his dedication as a soldier to that of a dedicated artist. I profiled Bruce for a local newspaper — one month, in fact, before we founded ART TIMES in August of 1984. A gentle, soft-spoken man, as I sat in his studio on Boggs Hill Road, I quickly learned why he more than held his own in a competitive art colony of would-be ‘famous’ artists — and, make no mistake, Woodstock had many such, attracting back in those days reporters from NYC publications (including the Times) to cover shows at the Woodstock Artists Association on Tinker Street. No longer just a “landscape school”, the mixed bag of artists that had descended on Woodstock from across America and beyond assured the League of a variety of “new” ideas — abstraction, one among many. Currie soon developed his own unique vision, a subtle blend of realism and abstraction that soon made others take notice — including New York City galleries that eagerly sought to represent him. This, in turn, brought him more solo shows, more recognition, more awards, until he was a force in his own right. Currie, along with many of his Woodstock contemporaries, served as exemplars for the main character in my novel The Mountain. I had profiled most of Woodstock’s “second wave” over the past 35 years and almost without exception each contributed to the amalgamation that would become “Jake” in his coming-of-age in my novel on the Woodstock artscene. Bruce, as well as being an artist to know, was also a man to know. I, along with much of Woodstock, will miss his quiet presence.

THE SUNSHINE STATE

By RAYMOND J. STEINER

AS WHOEVER READS these random musings knows, I’ve been silent for several months now — illness, inanition and inertia has taken its toll, leaving me with an empty reservoir of creative energy (if you can really call venting such as this ‘creative’). Anyway, here I’ve been, mired in the Sunshine State for a bit over a month — a state that I’ve pretty much avoided since I dwelt and toiled here back in my early 20’s — and pretty much driven to DO SOMETHING! ANYTHING! to fend off the curse of ennui. There’s no other way to say it — Florida simply bores me. If I thought my creative juices had dried up while fighting my slowly disintegrating body up North, they are simply non-existent in this flatland of idleness. I am nothing but a lump in a beach chair — although ‘chair’ is far from describing this metal and plastic contraption that has no position (and there are several) that my body can tolerate for more than a half hour. And as I sit and squirm (as far from the beach as I can get where a constant parade of sloggers and joggers pass this blogger’s line of vision), I constantly hear the ocean calling as each wave hits the sand murmuring, “Raaaymond, Raaaymond, Raaaymond…we want you baaack, we want you baaack, we want you baaack.” As if I need be reminded of my one-time, one-celled existence as I slowly deteriorate into that very primal state, my mind seeping from my ears. I should point out that I am here under protest, first cajoled and then enjoined by my wife and partner to accompany her on her annual “Florida Escape” to ‘enjoy’ some R&R (Reclining and Ruminating) for fear that my body may decompose at a faster rate if I remain in the frozen fastnesses of my High Woods home and haven facing Overlook Mountain. Ergo, this blog — set before you in sheer desperation. A fisherwoman of some experience, she “meets up” with her Floridian cohorts to fish, to revel, to dance — and whatever else they have in store for her — looking forward to her well-earned fun-in-the-sun each January. This time, she would not take my well-rehearsed speech about staying home seriously. So here I am — avoiding the usual fare of dancing, and jogging, and bar-hopping, and fishing, and the early-birding of the senior snowbirds, the constant land-trolling for the tons of faux culture that infest innumerable centers all over the state and dipping my feet in the shark-infested waters, and whatever else tourists do to forget that they someday have to go back to frigid zones — avoiding all and vegetating in my ill-designed beach chair, wishing I were home and gazing at my mountains. Florida is simply not for what Emerson once called the “Delian Diver” — sun, salt air, warm breezes and art-deco everything simply combine and block all efforts of going beneath instinctual needs. In the famous words of that ancient Floridian: “I sunbathe, therefore I am!” All else is epilogue.

raymondjsteiner.com