ELI LEVIN, comments on Eli’s comments on the Santa Fe Bohemian community

By Paul Henrickson, Ph.D., © 2008 tm

I only recently came across a reference to Eli’s book describing, somewhat, his remembrances of Santa Fe’s Bohemian artists group…

The very first thought that came to me about the author and his subject was “how fitting!”. Although Eli had, in so far as I had known him, never quite fitted the classic description of a bohemian, at least not in his appearance which, for the most part, was that of a clean-cut, handsome sexual provocateur.

However, no more now than when I was living in Santa Fe do I understand what motivates Eli to paint. It seemed then, as it seems now, that there was nothing about the physical qualities of the paint itself that interested him. It seemed, then, as it seems even now, that it was only the subject matter of the work that touched his imagination…lean, or fat buxom, lesbian women, sex, bar brawls and drink…at least other people’s drink, and those associated episodes of personal humiliation that gives special meaning to the term “bohemian”.

I did appreciate, in the few sections I was able to read, Eli’s delicate avoidance of compromising reports. Ford Ruthling

calling the bar to ask for Eli was not, I suspect, motivated by Ford’s suspecting Eli was an alcoholic. If anything had developed from such a phone call I can only say “lucky Ford”.

What I was unable to locate were reprints of Eli’s comments on Barbero and Shapiro. Barbero I do not know, Shapiro I do. I am familiar with their paintings and now can more fully understand Shapiro’s attraction, or, rather, interest, in Barbero, whose work is much more informed, sophisticated and genuine than his own and, understanding this, I am now able to express the appropriate compassion.

That is, compassion for Shapiro who, being sufficiently sensitive to know that there is meaning, perhaps even more than symbolic, to the works artists, some artists, produce; he has been and maybe still is, unable to reach that point. He may, at least, be getting the idea that art, that is “good” art, “meaningful” art is not a mere pastime for bored housewives with wealthy husbands or the remainder of what was once called an Edwardian dandy. Perhaps Paul Shapiro will be more fortunate than Paul Brach whose life ended without, I believe, his having learned a damn thing about what art was. Brach made circles all his life and so did Sonja Henie and while her circles were under superb muscular control neither she nor he had the intellectual capacity to do much else.

Shapiro possessed the intuition that Barbero knew something he didn’t and self and preservational interest demanded he discover what it was. Perhaps it was a virus he might contract if he were just close enough.

While Shapiro may still be floundering in a morass of misdirection, Eli has achieved a resolution of sorts. even though the message he conveys may simply be that of the mystery that touches upon the very compelling interest one gender takes in the other.

Cezanne had it at one point and worked through it to a more detached, i.e. scientific, view of the architecture of light. Sex, like the rich flavor of French vanilla and caramel ice cream is something one cannot endure as a constant. It is sometimes sufficient merely to observe and every once in awhile a raw carrot is required.

When I and Father La Voix went to Jerusalem to attend an art/religious convention Eli provided me with the name and address of an Israeli friend of his, a Ms. Duggan, who at fifteen in 1948, during Israel’s war for independence “manned” a machine gun and in 1973 hosted me in her small apartment with a shared three-storied court yard down through which the upstairs neighbors surveyed me. It was certainly not a situation a properly bred Bostonian would consider appropriate for

dalliance. Even Edgar Allen Poe conducted his affairs with more discretion.

The tour operator’s leader, John Potts contacted the tour members to tell them they should gather at a certain place at a certain time to receive preventive shorts against possible infection from something or other, and Ms. Duggan showed me the way and accompanied me in line and by way of some confidence after meeting John Potts, the tour director, informed me that his name “Potts” in Hebrew meant “arse”. Without much reflection over the matter I told her that her name “duggan” in Chamorro meant “arse”. She wasn’t sure whether to believe me or not, but didn’t’ question me. I suspect because she was unsure what “Chamorro” meant. Her reluctance to respond discouraged me for I was quite ready for a lively arsey exchange.

I do believe that Santa Fe may be a site of extraordinary energetic impulses which draws individuals to it for one reason or another, but then while the draw to Santa Fe may have some unique characteristics it is not alone in having a draw, it is also a battleground for aspects of spiritual development and for four hundred years inhabited by scores of mean spirits who have grasped the reigns of civil power and who feed off the excess spill over of creative energy others employ in their search for personal meaning.

They are the parasites who, at times, force unwilling decisions on others, decidedly more open to personal development such as Don Fabricant, Brad Smith, Frank Ettenberg and I.

One of the more satisfying realizations knew that Don Fabricant had finally broken through to a significant creative level before he died peacefully, I am told, in his bed. That may have been Don’s timid way of exiting an increasingly distastefully aggressive ethnically-based social milieu where, ironically the descendants of Sephardic Spanish exiles, many of whose ancestors accompanied Christopher Columbus were being advised by such prominent members of society as Rabbi Hellman, Stan Heidus and the converso central-American priest at San Ysidro to openly and covertly frustrate Anglo ambitions in New Mexico. Even the onetime Attorney General of New Mexico, the not unattractive Patricia Madrid urged her Hispanic constituents to frustrate the immigration of Anglos into Hispanic territory. One wonders whatever happened to the rights of the conqueror.

These were probably not the “top level” reasons that Brad Smith fled to Chicago, Illinois; Alan Pearson to Hamburg, Germany, I believe, Frank Ettenberg to Vienna, Austria and I to Calypso’s Isle where Odysseus was kept a sex slave for seven years. One might compare this to a form of cultural migration or Diaspora or, as I have some times thought of it, as a “Santa

Fe Seeding”. In any event the accumulated accretions of intense Santa Fe experience probably cannot help but add a newer flavor to these older communities.

“Seeding”

A painting by Paul Henrickson. C.1983

Eli’s experience in Santa Fe goes back to 1964, mine goes back to 1951. He was 26 when he came to Santa Fe, I was 22 and it was still possible for a local artist to have an alcove exhibition at the Museum.

Alfred Morang was the art critic for the Santa Fe New Mexican and there was no Santa Fe Reporter. Now, as for being Bohemian, Morang was, at that time, living a style I considered Bohemian, which, kit would

appear had been taken up by Tony Macione a generation later. I knew one personality like that at The University of Northern Iowa called Walter Ugorski who, with his live-in “nephew” enjoyed making a case out of unorthodox social behavior such as basting the Thanksgiving turkey with a used paint brush and serving it while standing in the nude. In my experience conventional society is harsh enough on its treatment of aberrations without becoming so extreme as to taunt it into retribution…but, perhaps, after all, that psychology may be correct in that if the behavior is sufficiently outrageous the general public may not have figured out an appropriate response. Nevertheless, Ugorsky who was an accomplished draughtsman (drawer) has, via the internet; one work listed to his credit…a realistic oil painting of a river bank.

Walter Ugorski (not anything to do with Santa Fe, just an example of a “Bohemian” who also knew how to paint)

Gustave Baumann

Pansy Stockton

Alfred Morang

Tommy Macaione

Eugenie Shonnard

Josef Bakos

Fremont Ellis

Walter Mruk

Dorothy (Lady) Brett

Such was the general image of art in the Santa Fe/Taos area at the time when I first arrived. Fifty years later it was what follows below:

David Barbero

Sam Scott

Kris Hotvedt

Kris Hotvedt

Don Fabricant

Peter Rogers

Janet Lippincott

Doris Cross

Storm Townsend

Bradford Smith

The above two collections of images representing works done in Santa Fe before and after an approximate fifty year period demonstrates, I believe, that in that period of time the creative activity in Santa Fe had not diminished. There was a great deal of activity. There were perhaps a hundred art galleries, six museums, for bronze foundries and quite likely a thousand or so creative practitioners and for a town that, during that time period, probably averaged a population of 50,000 an impressive score indeed. From my point of view every village of 50,000 population should be so lucky!

Images by Walter Chappell:

Images by Sam Scott:

Images by Michael Naranjo

Images by Eli Levin:

Images by Bradford Hansen-Smith:

I haven’t yet found a copy of Eli’s book so I am lacking the advantage of knowing what he had said about Forrest Fenn and sponsored such a well-written and thoughtful response from this Air Force Major which I also found on the web. The indication was that Eli had given Forrest a “going over”. I am most curious about what that was. I have a few stories about Forrest myself but most of them have to do with what amounts to his expensive locker-room jokes. Like placing a video camera in the guest quarters of his gallery for when Kissinger and Onassis, (Jackie that is) might come to visit. I guess he thought I might find that amusing as well for else he wouldn’t have mentioned it, but I told him straight away ”Forrest, you can’t do that!”

When he became informed of my CD book “In Broad Daylight” my account of his having photographed a painting of mine attributed to Albert Bierstadt of which I later found an exactly similar copy one/half its size in an all Bierstadt exhibition he had at the gallery, his response was not one bit as gentle. On the contrary it was threatening.

I do take the theft of images rather seriously since such an event distorts the understanding of any event that comes after and

what a person understands about the creative process can be vital to an individual’s development as a human being. In regard to that I feel that anyone who claims that Jeff Koon’s “Blue Diamond” is a work of artistic genius joins Koon’s in mocking legitimate effort. It may not be apparent to everyone that there are differences between a practical joke and a work of art although it is conceivable that a practical joke can be artful.

One time, after I had seriously criticized Eric Sloan for pandering to Brezhnev in sending this Soviet leader a painting of a sickle Forrest evidently mistrusted not just my ability, but anyone’s ability to tell the genuine from the fake he invited me into his living room to view a copy of Gauguin hanging over his mantle. At that time he and Connelly, the fellow who was shot along with JFK, were sponsoring an exhibition of fakes, labeled fakes, and he then brought out a postcard showing the same Gauguin image as was above the mantle and asked me to tell him which one was real. An impossible question really because it made no sense, except the sort of sense that snapping a towel at someone else’s naked butt makes sense. But, not feeling up to educating an Air Force Major I let academia slide that slope and answered the question. The post card was the “real” Gauguin, of course. When he asked how I knew it was then I knew that he really didn’t know good from bad and that he told the truth when he said it made no difference to him whether it was art or plumbing parts he sold…he liked the process of selling. And as the adage goes “Buyer beware”. I just wonder how the world might function if it were populated by people who knew something the way Bruce Chatwin knew things.

In the fall OF 1951 in the home of someone in Seton village I met in a rather unusual way Pansy Stockton. I had seen her earlier in the year with her husband in the Fiesta day parade, I think it was then she was in a baby carriage wearing baby clothing and a baby bonnet…a sense of humor, I suppose at her own 200-pound expense. Her husband pushing it. Now, she, may have been with her husband at this party, I am not sure. I was just sort of stunned that I was suddenly so close to a famously big woman wearing one of those huge paisley shawl with a twelve inch fringe that she had simply whipped off the piano and wrapped around her.

It was, I suppose, the imaginary reenactment of that dressing process which had arrested my gaze…but from her reaction it may have been more a stare…for without a further introduction she announced for all in the room to hear that I was absolutely correct “I’m not wearing anything underneath.”

One published comment about Eli’s book mentioned that it was one of three that anyone truly interested in Santa Fe could not be without. I would add another and that would be “The Spider in the Cup”. By Norman Males. The author’s name is a pseudonym the use of which I can fully understand since the language, although clever, was scathing and in some cases misleading as to the truth, more fantasy than fact, comparing Pansy Stockton taking a sun bath to a tortia, Jacques Cartier to a eunuch and reporting that John while courting Rosalie of the Pink Adobe took, in a spate of drunken anger, her Dalmatian puppy and put it into the restaurant freezer. It died. This I can believe of John who built my gate house at 428. There are moments when extraordinary products come out of minds searching for the appropriate

connections. It is here where, I believe, we might discover the therapeutic value of art and more genuine creativity.

Both Eli and I have written art criticisms for newspapers. I have not read his, but he has read mine and the newspaper, The Santa Fe Reporter, published a letter he wrote correcting my attribution of a surrealistic construction by Salvadore Dali, at the Chicago Art Institute. A construction which changes an old automobile into a fantastic moss-filled cave with waterfall. I checked with the Institute and they confirmed my attribution, but John Konopak, who was then arts editor, would not allow me to comment further on Eli’s letter saying it was not the Newspaper’s policy to engaged in disputes with readers.

John, however, had his own problems and for some rather obscure reason corrected my original wording in one criticism from being “impressionistic” to ”expressionistic” which even some high school readers would have detected as inappropriate. Editors are supposed to be informed so, perhaps, there were other motivations for this odd and unethical change.

Well, not to wear out the patience of the reader the entire purpose of this response to Eli’s book is simply to reintroduce the concept that the notion of being “bohemian” is only tangentially associated with being a creative artist. The link between the two is the contemporary notion of propriety where the Bohemian provocatively flouts it, the creative artist ignores it. The creative artist behaves more like that of a tight rope walker between the two threats of a Scylla (social propriety) and a Charybdis (the whirlpool of bohemenianism).