A New Yorker's Stories (2 page)

MULTI-TASKING

My dear Nadia,

I think you'd find the day I had yesterday typical of my New York days. Cyrus, our grandson, was up early for breakfast. I got a surprise call from Laurent, our Parisian friend, who just arrived in New York. I, of course, invited him immediately for lunch. This was Cyrus' day to be on his own, to explore the City. Laurent was late but arrived just in time for us to go out to the senior citizen center on 107th Street. I forgot about the end of the month celebration there, so we fell into a festive occasion in addition to lunch. We had to escape by the back door so as not to look too conspicuous while the formalities of the center were dragging on. We got out and walked up Broadway to Nussbaum and Wu for coffee and dessert, sitting on the outside while the last rays of sunlight kept us warm enough. Imagine, this was the first time I used the outdoor café. We walked back to the apartment just to leave the lunch milk at home and then we left again to meet Angela at MoMA. I promised to get them tickets for the Seurat drawing show (which is the best show in town). The lobby of MoMA was more crowded than ever, unbelievably so. I suppose it was a lousy day for a museum visit but we didn't have the luxury of waiting. So I gave them each a ticket, introduced them: one a film producer and director, and the other a film historian. I thought they would hit it off. And off I went in search, of all things, of a Chinese horn cup.* Fred made a desperate call for such a thing, I'm sure as a way to help his dying baby boy. I am so distressed by his situation I would do just about anything to help. I took the Fifth Avenue bus downtown but, it was unbelievable, the crowds of Fifth Avenue were denser than ever in my experience. Holiday masses filling the street with barely a space to move in. I have never seen the City so full of people. Really frightening.

I made my way to the 25th Street antique center but my friend's shop was closed. I made my rounds, nevertheless and met Dibassy in the basement who got me interested in a headrest from Ethiopia which I bought…a very elegant one. Now I had just enough time to shoot down town to Greenwich Village to make an appearance at Irving Krisburg's annual reception in his and his wife's snazzy apartment on Washington Square West. As usual a splendid affair with excellent hors d'oeuvres and drinks. I stayed just a short while and then made my way back home where Cyrus was planning our supper. And so ended another day full of movement, of contacts and of ever so different initiatives.

*
According to Chinese folklore drinking from a rhinoceros horn cup confers magical curative powers
. (12/29/07)

A FRIEND'S FRIEND

Diana called me Friday night just after she arrived in New York. We made a “date” to meet the next day, Saturday, at twelve o'clock at my senior center on 43rd Street for lunch. That was how our day began. Diana was recommended to me by a friend we share. My European friend is a person I much admire and respect and any one she refers to me must be someone I should treat with equal attention. So, after our one-dollar lunch, I proposed that Diana join me in my usual Saturday afternoon peregrinations about town. She agreed. Off we went to the 25th Street flea market district. The three-storied garage on 25th Street between Sixth and Seventh Avenues gives its lower two floors over to a sea of flea market vendors. You can find African, Chinese, Tibetan, Middle Eastern artifacts as well as clothing, old tools, books, new and old, and much more. It is fun just to walk through the space. On the second level I bought a single lace doily about twelve inches in diameter, and gave it to Diana; she had a memento of a New York flea market.

We crossed Sixth Avenue to visit the outdoor flea market and there I found and bought three African woven baskets, woven in raffia and rattan. The baskets are light but Diana insisted on helping me carry them. Then we took the 23rd Street crosstown bus to Tenth Avenue for what I thought would be a special surprise: the exhibition of Picasso's late paintings at the Gagosian Gallery on 21st Street. When we got there we found people had lined up on the sidewalk, two abreast, for fifty feet, waiting for a chance to get in. This show has been well received by the press and people respond. My Danish friend and I walked up to the guard at the door, I showed my UNESCO card, and we were let in. Diana viewed the show while I sat in the little dark room to watch the slide projections of Picasso's late paintings. When I got up Diana was at the exit door ready to leave; she didn't linger long over the Picasso paintings. We walked up to 25th Street to visit another gallery where the proprietor is an old friend and where the artist currently on view was sitting in the back room; he was a fellow student in Hans Hofmann's school back in 1947. We had a round of introductions and congratulatory comments before parting. We ended our afternoon together at a Punjabi restaurant on Tenth Avenue, frequented mostly by South Asian taxi drivers. I ordered two Marsala teas, Indian style. I was quite sure Diana had never tasted the drink before. The restaurant was nearly empty at four-thirty in the afternoon. We took our time over the tea and talked easily in the quiet space before boarding the bus that took us both back to our separate domiciles. (5/18/09)

TWO EXTRAORDINARY TELEPHONE CALLS

An extraordinary thing happened this afternoon in both time and place. I had my customary lunch at a neighborhood senior citizen center and walked home at a leisurely pace, stopping at one or two coffee shops to see if someone had left today's Times at a table. I actually picked up two sections of the paper and then went on to the local framer to pick up the eight color drawings by my late wife; they were masked and mounted and looked stunning framed, as it were. By the time I reached home the afternoon had progressed so I had only fifteen minutes to rest before heading out again.

I didn't get much rest because in that brief span of time I received two telephone calls, about a minute apart, from Africa. One was from Yaya, calling from Togo, to tell me in a very excited way that he had several objects he was about to send to me and he was sure I would be more than pleased with his selection. African dealers often wax ecstatic about their wares; sight unseen. I tend to keep my reservations. I met Yaya two years ago on his first trip to the States. He arrived with no money in his pockets and a very sore tooth. I thought he was hopelessly naïve and needy to come to New York in such a state. I understood that he was the son of a chief in his homeland and was probably spoiled rotten. Still, my impulse was to help him. I suggested he look for ambusol in a nearby pharmacy for the toothache which he did and I learned later that he was temporarily relieved of pain. I also gave him money in advance of merchandise he expected in the mail. Things worked out. He eventually saw a dentist and later still I got some artifacts for my collection. On his second visit to New York a few months later he ended his time here again broke. I was loathe to give him money again just when he was about to leave the country. We struck a deal: he left an African object with me as security, security because he thought it was worth much more than the advance I was prepared to “lend” him. That was at least a year ago and today's call from Togo was the first word from him since that deal was made. I am, of course, curious about the objects he said he would send to me but I am also not a little skeptical about long distance promises.

On the heels of this call, the phone rang again, this time from Niger. Niger is a landlocked country of West Africa most of which is part of the Sahara Desert and extremely poor, although now I hear rumors of oil being discovered under the dunes. Oumarou was on the line calling for the first time since the return to his native country not very long ago. He was one of my constant dealer-friends. We have known each other for at least fifteen years. We developed a sort of symbiotic relationship. He got to know my taste and my interests in African art and often acted as a go-between with other dealers, that is to say, he would select works from these merchants fully confident that I would be satisfied with his selection, and for a small mark up present the works to me. I was spared, in effect, the haggling that is expected in all transactions between African dealers. I understand that such back and forth negotiations between Africans can last three or four days. Oumarou's health was not good. He suffered from a systemic disorder that required injections three or four times a week. He was often weak and out of commission. His health was a serious obstacle for his work since he could not always make the necessary rounds to keep up with the incoming merchandise. In the last weeks before his definitive departure for home in Niger he was at a loss for paying the rent on his single room apartment. When I gave him a check he invariably asked to leave the payee open; I'm sure the check went directly to his landlord. His situation was untenable and he decided to return home. His departure was a loss for me for we had many, many long hours of conversation. In the beginning, these talks were about stratagems for keeping the prices down for me and high for him. We were both apt at that game. For the last two years, I think he no longer had the strength to slug through the process. He then proposed, quite candidly, that I name my price. If my figure was fair enough or close enough to his expectations the deal was made. The arrangement was working. Then we had time to talk about other things, about matters of health, about our families, about the state of the world. I should note that our conversations were in French. Oumarou was educated under the French system and he had the bacheloriate or the equivalent of the bac. I was always eager to match wits with him and to challenge my French language skills. His call this afternoon was a surprise, the second of two surprises in a matter of minutes. I felt great, knowing my African friends were thinking of me and wishing to continue our connections. (6/24/09)

I REMEMBER MAY KRAMER PHELOSOF WHEN

Quite a long time ago a “gang” of kids, or, I should say, a gang of adolescent kids used to hang out after school in a little park in the neighborhood that was far from affluent; everyone was struggling through the depression. But as kids we had our camaraderie to cheer us up day by day. We made some very solid friendships that lasted a lifetime, and my friendship with May was one like that. May and I met frequently in the park and sometimes on the elevated subway line that took us to school and back every day. May was bright, saucy, and fun to talk to. This was especially true when the subject of Ben Phelosof came up. May was determined, early on, to marry Ben. I could not have agreed more. I knew them both pretty well. Ben was like a mentor to me, just a little older, but infinitely wiser and we had many long conversations as I walked him home in the evening and then he would walk me home in turn. May recognized Ben's virtues as I did and since she was disposed to a life of the mind, (she was, after all, an early winner of the Phi Beta Kappa key at Hunter College), her attraction to Ben was entirely understandable. The issue was how to get Ben to return her acknowledgement. May and I strategized from time to time on how she could win Ben over. And I remember how she would lift her face, with engaging eyes and a wry smile at one suggestion or another; she was thinking all the time. Whatever she thought up must've worked because May and Ben got married and shared a long life together. I
did
say May was intelligent and determined.

I was happy for the both of them and we kept our friendship going over the years. From the time of the War, I am referring to the Big War, and afterwards, wherever I traveled I sent little souvenirs back, which I was gratified to see, years later, were still decorating their home in Rochester.

Out of that modest neighborhood in central Bronx, the guys and gals of our after-school gang became parents and grandparents, lawyers, professors, firemen, community leaders and loyal friends. I'm glad I knew May; she was my friend, for we shared a precious meeting of mind and sentiment, which made each of us better for it.

CHAPTER II: REFLECTING ON COLLECTING

BACK TO THE OLD ROUTINE

Today was my first day after my return from a month's long stay abroad when I could resume my customary routine. Saturday: I took the subway to Times Square station to have my lunch at the senior citizen center nearby. My friends there recognized my absence without knowing precisely why but we carried on our usual conversation as though no really unusual hiatus had occurred. My friends this day are music lovers and they took note of the important concerts coming up and how they might obtain free or low cost tickets that are usually available for the music lovers without much money.

I left soon after the lunch was finished; I had other things in mind for the rest of the afternoon. A demonstration by Tibetan citizens and Tibetan sympathizers formed a long column along 42nd Street. The buses on Broadway were blocked from going further downtown. I had to make a quick change of plans. I decided to walk all the way to the open-air flea market on 39th Street between Ninth and Tenth Avenues. I met two of my friends there and picked up some interesting pieces. One was an altar front hanging from China with embroidered fantastic faces done in a folk style; not great art but perfectly authentic for its genre. It will make an excellent wall hanging for my daughter's new apartment. I also bought a string of agate light rose-colored beads which I visualized as at least two different necklaces when I add other colored beads in a novel arrangement.

Then I took the bus number 16 to 34th Street and Broadway where I changed to bus number 7 going down Broadway. I got off close to 25th for the outdoor flea market there. I met an old African dealer who, I was pleased to see, had woven rattan trays made by the Kuba people in Zaire. I have a few of these constructions which I regard as excellent examples of the handicraft skills which I am pleased to add to my collection. On I went to the Garage, an indoor flea market which I scanned quickly as the afternoon was getting on and I was getting tired, and in need of some refreshment. I made my way down Sixth Avenue looking for the usual street vendors that congregate there hoping to find one that carried leather wallets. I lost mine in Guatemala (and that is another story). Nothing on Sixth Avenue so I turned the corner and started to walk west on 23rd Street. Sure enough I found a vendor in a little alcove selling a variety of things including leather wallets. I looked at a couple and bought one for five dollars; mission accomplished. But before the exchange was completed someone called out my name. It was another African dealer who had recently arrived in the country. He has been an important dealer from whom I bought many interesting pieces of African art in the past and I was very pleased to hear him say that he had brought with him this time objects that would be of interest to me. I am sure he is correct and I got his cell phone number before we parted. We will meet during the week coming up and in the meantime I can dream about what treasures he will show me when we actually sit down together. What a nice day! To top off the afternoon I stopped at my favorite coffee shop on 23rd Street right near the entrance to the Seventh Avenue subway train, the train I take to get home. I love the coffee there and I treated myself to a sesame-seed bagel with cream cheese, heated slightly in the microwave machine.

I crashed at home, closed the blinds, flung myself into bed, I needed to rest, even to fall asleep for a little bit before supper. Not a chance! I got a call from another African dealer who was on his way. I could not say “no.” Within an hour my friend arrived with a sack in hand. I prepared some tea for my friend in advance and also offered him some sweets. When I finished my sandwich of ham and cheese, my friend pulled some things from his bag: a very bad example of a Kotsinger terra cotta sculpture which I pointedly ignored and several ceramic jars from Mali as well as four aluminum pipes from West Africa. I ended up buying the ceramics and the pipes, the pipes against my better judgment because sometimes sentiment is more important than reason. Well, my first fully functional day back in New York was not bad at all, I thought to myself. I have not lost my touch. The City is still my oyster. (3/28/09)