It's a weird thing to process. Last time we spoke was ten years ago at my sister's wedding. He was glaring at me across the room, angry over my not fulfilling a particularly unrealistic expectation of his a few years before. I walked over and reminded him that it wasn't the time or place for his nonsense, and to stop. To his credit, he did. That's it, our final interaction. We'd never gotten along. He was alcoholic, unapologetically racist, and pushed me away at every opportunity. He was in the same room as my son once, never met my daughter. He could have chosen to live differently, but didn't. If I'm mourning anything, it's that.
I was there, too! Didn't meet Stanley, either. My biggest memory was discovering a room full of giant Jeff Jones paintings! In ore recent years, I was able to become an online friend of the now-late artist and I'm quoted on her website!
ReplyDeleteI remember a room of Jones/Wrightson/Kaluta/Windsor-Smith art at the following year's show in NYC. Probably off my funnybook radar in '77 :)
ReplyDelete