Continuing the story
Feeling the weight of history these days, the untimely death of Cornell's president Beth Garrett, the passing of our son Dan three years ago last month, my mother three years ago this month, my father in June of 2014- feelings of nostalgia, as much as loss, and as I age, the sense of a limited horizon. So why not put some thoughts down?
My father was 42 when he painted "Valhalla ", oils thinned with turpentine to create a watery feel, something I also gravitated towards when I was using oils, and also now with inks and acrylics. They say you never really lose your first drives as a painter, and I started with water colors, so...
My father started drawing and painting as a young teen, and wanted to be a professional artist. But the familiar caution, "From this one makes a living?" steered him towards medical school. We grew up hearing that the quota on Jews at the University of Buffalo is what kept him from medical school- but as he was dying in hospice, he told me that his grades weren't actually good enough to get in, so he became a lab tech.
I was 46 when I started painting, driven by an irresistible urge, out of the blue. I felt , not without reason, that I had a lot of catching up to do, and insisted on proving to myself that I could render accurately before I let myself explore abstraction, which is what I always wanted to do. I've followed my instincts, but those instincts led me on strangely similar paths as my father, truly subliminal. I was an exchange student in Switzerland when my father painted Valhalla and gave it- sold it?- to his first cousin, also named Irving. I had never seen this painting before today.
Both my father and his cousin were named after my grandmother's father, Israel, Americanized to Irving. Irving Osofsky was the son of my grandmother's sister, Gittel. He had one leg, after his father Sam unwittingly ran him over in the driveway when Irving was a child, an event that was very hard to recover from, as you can imagine. Irving was a brilliant scientist at Bell Aerospace in California. I visited him and his family when I was 10. Irv had a motorcycle with a sidecar, which was unbelievably cool, and he and his wife Leatrice and their children took me to Knott's Berry Farm and Universal Studios.
Irving's son Sam sent me a letter last month, saying he was cleaning out his parents' house last fall after his mother died, Irving having passed away years before. He told me he wanted to send back the painting so we could enjoy it- I wrote him that given the size it would probably cost too much to ship; but ship it they did.
This lovely gesture means so much, and reminds me how important family is, and history, and doing something with your life that has meaning. I'm grateful to be able to share these thoughts with you.
My father was 42 when he painted "Valhalla ", oils thinned with turpentine to create a watery feel, something I also gravitated towards when I was using oils, and also now with inks and acrylics. They say you never really lose your first drives as a painter, and I started with water colors, so...
My father started drawing and painting as a young teen, and wanted to be a professional artist. But the familiar caution, "From this one makes a living?" steered him towards medical school. We grew up hearing that the quota on Jews at the University of Buffalo is what kept him from medical school- but as he was dying in hospice, he told me that his grades weren't actually good enough to get in, so he became a lab tech.
I was 46 when I started painting, driven by an irresistible urge, out of the blue. I felt , not without reason, that I had a lot of catching up to do, and insisted on proving to myself that I could render accurately before I let myself explore abstraction, which is what I always wanted to do. I've followed my instincts, but those instincts led me on strangely similar paths as my father, truly subliminal. I was an exchange student in Switzerland when my father painted Valhalla and gave it- sold it?- to his first cousin, also named Irving. I had never seen this painting before today.
Both my father and his cousin were named after my grandmother's father, Israel, Americanized to Irving. Irving Osofsky was the son of my grandmother's sister, Gittel. He had one leg, after his father Sam unwittingly ran him over in the driveway when Irving was a child, an event that was very hard to recover from, as you can imagine. Irving was a brilliant scientist at Bell Aerospace in California. I visited him and his family when I was 10. Irv had a motorcycle with a sidecar, which was unbelievably cool, and he and his wife Leatrice and their children took me to Knott's Berry Farm and Universal Studios.
Irving's son Sam sent me a letter last month, saying he was cleaning out his parents' house last fall after his mother died, Irving having passed away years before. He told me he wanted to send back the painting so we could enjoy it- I wrote him that given the size it would probably cost too much to ship; but ship it they did.
This lovely gesture means so much, and reminds me how important family is, and history, and doing something with your life that has meaning. I'm grateful to be able to share these thoughts with you.
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