Part 1.

A Cleveland Childhood

We had just come to the end

We had just come to the end of the long flower garden that left my head dazzling with color and every kind of scent. At first the white sign seemed out of place, then it thrust its words at me, "All was Beautiful until you came". I was riding my bicycle back home up and down the streets, then over to the Library. I must have been 8 or so. He was tall and handsome, about 16. At one point, he said to me, "You know there is a word in there," pointing to the library, "that says what you are!" I had no idea, till he took me and found the word "homosexual", pointing his finger, as long as the finger in a da Vinci painting. But I thought, "All was beautiful until you came."

Terry and I both rang

Terry and I both rang Ray's back door bell. We had all agreed the night before that on Easter Sunday we would each wear a small flower in our lapels. Out came Ray with four large daffodils on his thin lapels. We all got as far as the alley behind the bowling alley. Ray went into a wild rage, tearing off his sports jacket, throwing it to the ground, jumping on it over and over again. He went home and his mother chased him around and around the dining room table with a broom.

The company had arrived

The company had arrived; the air became mixed with different perfumes. The end table lamps on both sides of the sofa were lit. The hurricane lamps on the buffet in the dining room were lit, also the one in the niche descending the stairs. Each bedroom upstairs had its own dresser lamp; they too, were properly lit. A voice from downstairs said, "Where is Bobby?" As I reached over to grab the banister, I died on each stop as I walked down.

From the neighbor's garage

From the neighbor's garage to her back door there were sixteen small square slates of stone to walk on. I would watch many times from our garden when Mrs. Costello would park her car, then walk those sixteen squares to her back door. Each square she stepped on, she would raise her eyebrow. I sat in front of the mirror and practiced it for days. I finally mastered it— but we didn't have the stone path.

I had just come to the end

I had just come to the end of Van Gogh's life, sitting at the long oak table in the library. A tall stocky army officer walked over to the middle-aged librarian sitting behind her desk. The back of his uniform was draped in long pleats on both sides. He talked without looking at her, leaning forward, only placing his finger tips on the top of her desk. Finally he looked at her, at the same time stretching the corner of his mouth as far as it would go. As the last words came out, the tips of his fingers grew as white as snow.

She was at the other end of the hall

She was at the other end of the hall in her bedroom among her Apple Blossom, Lily of the Valley, Lilac and Paris colognes that were all carefully displayed on a tray of gold leaf, lime-tinted glass mirror. One brassiere strap up, the other one hanging half-way over the back of the fan chair, her handmade garters tossed over that old chair she re-upholstered last spring. The Venetian blinds were all pulled down and closed tight. One nylon lying on the floor, the other one about ready to come off. She leaned forward and crossed her legs, fan-spread her little toes, running her little pinky up and down, between each toe with quick little smells in-between. At the bottom of the stairs the old man sat watching TV with his hands in his pockets, scratching away at his balls.

I grew up six blocks from a small factory building

I grew up six blocks from a small factory building, surrounded by rather large woods (Kuhlman Woods). A good part of it was used from "six-foot solid wooden boxes." Most were stacked one on top of another. The boxes were in a maze, arranged with narrow paths, which led, many times, to a dead end. The boxes came from the factory and were filled with "World War II Airplane Parts." As kids, we used to love to park our bicycles outside of the woods and go climb up onto the boxes, jumping from one box to the other one, or playing Tarzan. One time, when I happened to be alone, which was rare, a girl appeared out of nowhere. I guessed she saw my bicycle parked outside of the woods. After we became acquainted, she told me she studied "ballet." I said, "What's that?" And before I knew it, she went up on half point, into an "Arabesque", then a single "Pirouette", a lovely "Attitude", and a slow "Penchée" right on top of all those war boxes. I was astonished! I never saw anything so beautifully executed with the human body. She invited me to her parents' home. I told her I wanted to learn how to dance. Then she told me, moving her graceful hand toward me, "Whoever turns my ring 32 times gets to kiss me." And the sleeping beauty came to life.

The ballet Russe de Monte Carlo

The ballet Russe de Monte Carlo was in town. You could always tell what rooms the dancers had in the Auditorium Hotel by standing outside and looking up to the windows that hand colored tights hanging in them to dry. A big party was given for the Ballet Russe dancers and the students from the Serge Nadejdin School. Serge Denham was standing at the entrance — all in black — announcing the dancers as they came in. Irina Borowska was the star that night for her debut in "Unicorn". Lobster, champagne, and caviar were served. The next time I saw Borowska, she was standing in a perfect square pattern on the linoleum floor, circled by a few cigarette butts, behind the white line waiting to sign for her unemployment check.

Math was my worst subject

Math was my worst subject in the 9th grade. My teacher, Ms. Richard, was cool; she was a smart dresser and read Vogue and had a figure to match. I can still smell that hand lotion she used on her hands. Just the way she moved her hands back and forth was fascinating- She could have been in the Peony Pavilion Opera. The school had a reputation for tough Italians, I remembered my brother saying. He always made friends with them. Not me; I stood my ground. One time, one called me a fairy. I told him, “It takes one to know one!” One time in class I remember Ms. Richard said to a tough Italian, “ we can both roll up our sleeves and step out into the hall.” She took no bull! She always said, “If you want to be smart, first you have to learn how.” I told her I was going to my first ballet performance at the Music Hall. She said, “I am going, too”, but she never went. Late one afternoon, when all her favorite black girls gathered around her, she turned to me and said I would have to stay after school. I told her that I couldn’t stay because my husband was waiting for me outside.

The haunted house

The haunted house was at the end of the Kelso Avenue. The street at the end had a slight curve in it. My friend Joseph and I would look at it on our way to the woods through the years. It was mostly covered with ten-foot hedges that surrounded the house. We never ventured through the tall hedges. We lived only a block away. The story went that the couple who lived there married very young. After the husband died a sudden death the wife went half mad, just walked out of the house, and locked the door-never to return. Everything in the house was left at that hour; the shades were all drawn. It was a good size house, with four bedrooms, an attic and a basement. What stood out in our minds were the large, dark green hedges that circled the house in a ghostly fashion. The neighbor across the street, Mr. Ives, always trimmed the overhang of the hedges off the sidewalk. I got small jobs cutting lawns to make a few bucks here and there through the neighborhood. It meant a lot to a nine year old. A few years later I got curious and went through the hedges, where everything was dead except for the locusts. I walked around the tall weeds to the front porch, every step on the wood made an eerie crack. All the shades were drawn, and the door locked tight. On my way out, I noticed a few basement windows through the tall weeds. As I got closer, I could see they were rotted with age. I gave one a little push and I realized that with the right tool I could open it. The next day I told Joseph, and asked him if he would be interested in getting into the haunted house with me early in the morning. He agreed. I got a small crowbar and we planned to meet in his backyard at 6am, 6:00 came, but there was no Joseph. So I called him, “Joe-e-e-ey”. He woke up and came downstairs and joined me in the yard. Off we went, with crowbar in hand, to the haunted house. Before we walked through the small opening of the hedges, we looked around to make sure nobody was watching us. Little did we know, across the street Mr. Ives was watching us from his dining room window; he was getting ready for work. We got the window open without much trouble. I never forgot the first look into the basement tubs, which were rotted with cloths; the stopper was never taken out. (Dali where are you-your best masterpiece is yet to be painted!) Joseph held the window for me as I lowered myself down onto the moss tubs. We slowly made our way through the dim, smelly, cobwebbed basement to the steps leading upstairs.....

Shit, I’m sitting here writing

.....(Shit, I’m sitting here writing this in my back room with my new soundproof windows closed-and I heard a crack in the other room!) Slowly, we walked up the staircase; at the top the door was halfway open. As we peered through the opening, the room was dimly lit from the only existing light, the corners of the shades. Our hearts jumped up into our mouths. To our horror, there on the dining table what looked like a dark coffin was only two mattresses stacked one on top of the other, filled with tons cobwebs. When the shock wore off and the room took on less spooky feeling, we kids got to have some fun. We went into the bathroom, opened up the rusty medicine cabinet and found tubes of toothpaste; grabbing them in our hands we squeezed it everywhere…celling, mirror, walls. As we came out of the bathroom and into the living room we heard footsteps coming up the front porch. It was Mr. Ives, trying to peek through the cracks in the shades. He had seen us going through the tall hedges. We made a beeline for the stairs, out through the window, and ran down Kelso Avenue. He never told our parents.

Ted watched as the snot

Ted watched as the snot poured out of Edwin’s nose. Ted saw running noses before (like his own) but this just kept coming. And tons of tears, too. The snot was all over Edwin’s yellow-checkered shirt. He didn’t have a handkerchief, and there was his house going up in smoke and red flames. Ted’s sister was holding Ted’s tiny hand, and said to him, “ go give your handkerchief to Edwin”. Ted couldn’t do it; he was brought up in a spic-and span house, and Edwin was always gooey looking; and the snot just kept pouring out.

My brother’s wife

    My brother’s wife worked at the corner of our street, East 140th, in a large factory. Since she was only a block from our house, she would come over for lunch, which my mom made. One time, Mom was out. She came over and was tired, so she took a nap, between the living room and dining room, on the thick, rose print carpet floor. I was outside playing with my friends; across the street was a group of older teenagers talking. I ran into the house for something, and I noticed a body lying on the floor, under the arch. I carefully walked over and looked. She didn’t move. I ran out, and slowly walked over to the parking sign, close to the group of older teenagers. With my right arm out stretched holding onto the post, I slowly walked around, with tears coming, down my cheeks. One of the girls said, What’s wrong, Bobby?” I said, “ I think she’s dead!” They said, “Who”. Now, all nine were walking toward me. I said, “ She’s my brothers wife and isn’t moving”. They said, “ Maybe we should take a look”, so all nine went up the back porch steps, through the screen door, into the kitchen, through the living room where she laid. Some walked around her, and stood in a circle looking down. One guy said, “I should take her pulse”. As he bent his knees and was about to reach for her hand, her eyes opened, all nine jumped back. She became like a child, trying to get her herself up from the floor and I ran out of the house.

    My sister-in –law said to my mom- “oh, I know dad would love my wood”. My mom wasn’t crazy about it from the beginning. But my mom let dad store it up in the attic for a while. Then my mom said to my dad, “ I really want it out of the house”. I think when mom would go up in the attic she would see that shadowy gray box in the corner, with the shining, brash handles. My Aunt Olive was staying with us all the time. One evening when we had just finished dinner and were about to taste dad’s favorite dessert- mom made strawberry shortcake- we heard this scream coming from upstairs. It was aunt Olive; she was hysterical. When she went to take the first step down the stairs, she forgot about the banister- and went flying down sideways into my dad’s arms. She swore she saw the gray box move in the attic. It was late February and the snow was still on the ground. There it was- laid right next to the garage-not far from the garbage cans. The sanitation men came the next morning; they could see it from the next yard. Mom could hear them say, “No way is I going near that box!” So my dad had to chop up the coffin case and save the brass handles.

Hearing my first Opera

Hearing my first Opera was in Buffalo, New York. My mom’s sister, my aunt Coco, took care of me when I was very young. All I remember was that she had diabetes; she considered me her favorite. She also painted pictures with lovely colors. Later on she had to leave us, and go back to Buffalo. That’s where she was born. When I was 6 or 7, my mom took me to Buffalo, and with my mom’s sister, we went to see my aunt Coco at the state hospital. I was not allowed in, so my mom and aunt took me around the grounds towards the back. A few hospital patients were cutting grass. We stopped and looked way up, and there was my aunt Coco, out on a terrace, waving to us. That was so painful, seeing her up there, she had on a white robe. I remember she had to shout down, and we to her. As mom and my aunt were talking to her, my peripheral vision caught two woman hanging half-way out between the bars of the windows, unraveling two huge rolls of white toilet paper, sweeping them back and forth, singing at the top of their lungs, “ II Trovatore,” and waving to me! At one point, my aunt Coco said to her sisters, “ Now watch your pocketbooks.” It was like a nightmare to me. My aunt Coco never came out; she went into a coma. I remember some years later, when we went to Buffalo, my aunt took us to the cemetery. She didn’t have a head stone, so it took us some time, uncovering the grasses, to find her plot number. I spotted way over to the right, a pile of rubbish—ribbons, old pots, dead flowers, broken statuary—in a large heap. Looking, I found the right shape, not too big in size, and placed it over the spot. Before my mom’s other sister died, years later, she’d always said, “please don’t take me to the state hospital.” They never did!

I sat there watching

I sat there watching Gary drinking his milk, and eating his gram crackers. He ate the crackers with crisp, fast bites, the milk leaving a light half-moon over the blond hairs of his upper lip, way before the advertisement. He asked me one evening over the smell of fresh cut grass if I ever saw a dog get hard. As we sat on the front steps he called Tippy over and started to jerk him off. I got scared when I saw the long red thing. I thought the dog would go mad.

Part 2.

The New York Experience

We meet on the street

We meet on the street as old friends, and he told me his friend was having an orgy. He invited me to come. “Sure, what time, what place?” He said, “ Around 8:00Pm.” I arrived at 8:00. It was one of those new red brick buildings, very square. There were a good handful of young guys already there, and there was my friend. The owner of the apartment was an elderly guy, wearing this elaborate dressing gown, sitting in a grand wing chair. I noticed everyone sitting around chatting. This was my first orgy on a large scale; more guys seemed to pour in as the evening went on. I noticed to my surprised the door was never locked, which made me a little nervous. As I sat there in the living room, I could feel curious eyeballs roaming, and I thought to my self, “ How does something like this get started?” Well, no sooner did the thought finish, than my friend stood right up in front of everyone and stripped! Well everyone followed like firemen sliding down the pole. For the next four hours, guys were everywhere- sofa, floors, halls, bathroom, hanging from the shower rod, under the tables, over the tables, in the closets, under the sink, and forget about the bed! Halfway through the evening I noticed the owner sitting there with an old friend talking his ear off, while this “Rite of Spring” was whirling through the male odors. He just seemed to sit there all evening in a state of worry talking about his dining room table that never arrived from Bloomingdale’s.

He asked me if I would

He asked me if I would live with him. He was sitting in the rose wing chair. We had just finished eating dinner. I noticed his white linen napkin was never touched. I looked down at his fingers dripping with chicken fat. I knew we could never make it.

Some years ago

Some years ago I visited Charters. It was my first time. I wet with a friend who knew Charters like the back of his hand, which made me feel somewhat intimidated. So going back there alone some years later was a great thrill—to visit old places I remembered, maybe walk around outside of the Cathedral which I didn’t do the first time, feeling less intimated but still in awe! After the cathedral, I walked through the village with its cobble streets, canals everywhere, quaint houses, walls covered with vines and beautiful flowers. Weaving through the streets, I came to an open area, and about 35 feet away was a parked car with its hood up. There was an older man leaning over doing some work, and a younger guy assisting him with a large 3-tired toolbox at his feet. In the moment that I spotted them, the younger guy saw two girls across the street. At the same time he went to take a step, completely lost his balance and stumbled over the toolbox, and the more he fought it, the worse his balance became. And, making such a racket- in this dream like setting – I could have been in Detroit.

Janice brought her new boyfriend over

Janice brought her new boyfriend over the other night. They not only brought wine, but four different loaves of bread and cheeses. I did clean the carpet before they came; we all sat and ate on the floor. I noticed when he would laugh it seemed like a voice buried under layers of fat. Well, they are gone now, and I realized he never took a look at my paintings on the wall-only a fast glance. I really wasn’t surprised. I noticed early in the evening, sitting close to him, with the right reflection of light his glasses were very smudged. Anyone with smudged glasses doesn’t look at anything clearly.

The old baths were great

The old baths were great. The two back rooms had double bunk beds, and the clientele were on the older side. But as I remembered, this one young, beautiful Italian guy told me that’s what really turned him on; he enjoyed the hungry look in the eyes they gave him. The main attraction of the evening, when things got heated up, was always the back room. Two guys on the top bunk-fucking away, first- just getting into it, then slowly picking up speed, until the bunk was really rocking, and you could hear the shrieks of pleasure. By that time, all the older guys had gathered around, peeking over the top of the bunk. Now, the heat is on! And shouts are heard from all around, urging them on. Well, by now, the night attendant in the front office had to get up from his desk and start the long run down the hall to the back room, trying his best to quiet everyone down. One evening, I remember sitting on the bottom bunk, and this older guy came over and slowly sat down next to me. Before I knew it, this guy’s hand had found its way onto my knee. I slowly moved it away, and got up to walk around. Walking through the halls, I took up a conversation with a black guy. As we were talking, the older guy, who had put his hand on my knee, came walking by, with a white towel around his waist and dark sunglasses on. The black guy said to me, “Do you know who that is? That’s Truman Capote.”

Sanding machine

Sanding machine, sanding Mary’s living room floors, up and down, back and forth, long narrow strips of wood- yellow- gold- little white dots- long narrow spaces between planks, small lights sparkling between cracks. Is it mid-afternoon or is it midnight? Five handsome Cubans circled around a large litter can turned upside down, eyes all staring up above- waiting for the cracks to fill up with shadows. A few drops of sand fall between the cracks. The time is ripe; the leader climbs up onto to top of the liter can, peering through the narrow cracks. All files unzipped, all beat in time with the leader, sanding machine making loud noises. One slip in your walk you have a large gouge in the floor. Hands become sweaty, blisters begin to show on the hands, always looking behind, careful not step on the leather cord, whipping it to the left then to the right. It’s midnight; lights flicker off and on like diamonds between cracks. White trousers in kneeling positions, switchblades snapping in and out, cops hiding behind columns, flashlights going off and on, and bodies felt up. Do you give it, receive it, or take it? Mary returns, she had a great time in Europe, and bought a new car. Sliding her feet on the newly shellacked floors as she glides in, dropping all her packages to the floor screaming, “ The floors are gorgeous-just gorgeous!”

I had to take the subway

I had to take the subway to the 116th street stop, by Columbia University, to St. Luke’s Hospital to have my stitches out. Columbia is still very new to me, so I enjoyed walking all around the campus, thinking of Federico Garcia Lorca and Edmond White. I headed down to Riverside Park. I think Riverside Park is lovelier up their, it’s wider, and descends in many tiers. As I walked down a long stone staircase to lush green lawns and majestic trees, I walked a path, and then spotted another path up above. I walked up and strolled for a while and found a lovely bench all by itself in the opening of trees. I remember before walking up I saw five young Spanish boys, chasing one another over a silver razor scooter with lime green wheels. As I was sitting reading “The Farewell Symphony” one boy came up the path on the scooter. The other four were chasing him, trying to take the scooter from him. Finally, after some tugging, they just came to the bench and surrounded me. I started asking them questions about the scooter; they are a new item out on the market now. I then asked them about a good Spanish restaurant in the area. Two of them told me of a couple, one of them on 125th St., Floridita, and Elvalle, on 135th St, and Broadway. We talked for about a half-hour, while they kept spitting, and in between they are talking and taking turns riding the scooter down and up the lower path. The oldest one is seventeen and said he signed up for the navy. They all had nice faces, but the one I found most attractive, had coffee-color skin, with chestnut curls, and Caravaggio black nails. At one point, the one I found attractive said to me, “What are you reading?” I turned the cover and said, “The Farewell Symphony”, “I never saw anyone reading it on a bench or in the subway (Edmond White 239).” Then off they went. Before leaving, all four shook my hand, and said, “nice talking to you; nice meeting you.” My favorite one was riding the scooter on the lower path, which they ran to, chasing and grabbing one another.

There she is, puffing

There she is, puffing on her cigarette as I enter her Madison Avenue apartment. Spic and span, everything in its place. She shows me the four-pedestal dining table that she wants restored, pointing at the same time to the area where her husband always sits, saying, “He’s such a SLOB.” She loves telling me the story about Andy Warhol who lived next door in his townhouse. One afternoon her window washer was out back cleaning her dining room windows. At one point he lost control of the squeegee and it went flying into the air. It landed right on Andy Warhol’s terrace just as he was about to glue on his wig. She said, “ Oh my God!” puffing away. “I’ll have to go down to retrieve it.” When she got to her lobby, there was Andy Warhol with the squeegee, and a copy of his magazine, Interview. She invited him up, which lead to many visits. He loved her collection of Van Gogh’s. She said he loved to sit in her study and talk for hours, nibbling on carrots and Greek olives marinated in lemon. She told me he did six paintings of her brother, putting her cigarette to the side of her blue jacket with large gold buttons. “Do you know what those paintings are worth today?” I said, “He should have painted you.” She said, “ He was going to, but we were in Spain, that’s when he died. I’m going to San Francisco next week, and God, don’t let me near Neiman Marcus. I’ll buy everything…..and where will I put it? You can’t get anything more in this penthouse,” standing next to her hand painted wallpaper from China which took months and months to arrive. “Oh, before you leave I have to show you upstairs, the bed, where my husband sleeps, where his head greases the headboard…such a SLOB!”

As I was sitting

As I was sitting in my favorite restaurant, I noticed one of the Mexican bus boys just standing by an empty table, holding a sliver platter, and staring wide-eyed into the sliver platter, slowly tipping it back and forth, in a trance. I was studying his face, trying to think what was going on in his mind. Was there a little water in the platter? Why was he rolling it side to side? He had high cheekbones, a jaw that protruded out, with straight black hair. Was he thinking of “Matthias Grunewald, Madonna, Mescaline, Yucca, Gore.” I went back to eating. When I looked up later, there he was, at the end of the restaurant, sliver platter in his hands, holding it close to his heart. Maybe he will take me into a candle-lit room of red velvet, and talk of ghosts, witches, fairies, voodoo; or should I just let him go on thinking about the three stooges?

I had an ex-lover

I had an ex-lover that told me he loved the smell of horseshit. On one of my walks through Central Park, I noticed some piles through the bridle path. Some were fresh. I went to the store and got a brown gift box, with silver ribbon. I went back to the park, and filled a good portion of the box. I took it home, gift wrapped it, put the lovely silver ribbon, on, and took it over to his apartment. Boy was he surprised!

I met my first Arab

I met my first Arab. His father was the director of a Muslim religious center. My friend asked his father one time what his thoughts were about gay liberation. He said, “ We don’t pay any attention to them.” One time I placed a few paintings in the son’s hand. (Like Emily Dickinson) “She came to me with two day lilies and placed them into my hands and said, “ This is my introduction.” The first words that came out of his mouth were, “Can you make money from this?” He told me his 9th wife said to him, “life is like taking a bite out of a shit sandwich, everyday.” Some years later, he went on to write a religious book. I remember being with him and his wife when at one point, he had to turn to his wife and ask, “Am I not an “Artist”?” She said, “ Of course you are an “Artist,” darling”

After the unemployment office

After the unemployment office, I headed for the coffee shop. As I approached it, lady was standing in the front with a pale white face wearing lime earrings, peach nail polish, many layers of ribbons in pastel colors an her head that all matched the orange yellow, pink, rose, and lavender blue veins in her legs.

He was a walking encyclopedia

He was a walking encyclopedia; he could count up to twelve, in Romany. His worst enemy was his looks, which he believed played a very important part in gay life. One evening, after a small argument, standing there in his cut-off Versace pajamas and pointed white Morocco slippers, he reached over to the coat rack, put on his black London Fog raincoat and pulled down on his head a black net cap (looking like Red Skelton) with his ears out. He screwed up his face like a squashed yam. He now takes center stage, house lights dim, the orchestra runs for cover. The gold curtain slowly open, Francis Bacon takes out his paints. There he is jumping up and down hysterically. “See how ugly I am! See how ugly I am!”

California Style

California Style: An acquaintance of mine died in California. My friend called me up to tell me. He said he got a call from California. This woman who called was a good friend of the fellow who died. (She was also involved in the will). She told my friend she was there with another friend in the hospital room when he died. She said it was a peaceful death. She went on to say, “We sat there a full hour, and laughed all the way through.” (Maybe she was laughing because she got a building?) Then I remembered, years ago I heard about a guy, a hot stud, who died in California. A few friends were gathered in his hospital room. One guy couldn’t stand it any longer and went over and lifted the bottom part of the sheet. “Delivery please: two orders of frog legs, funeral luck chicken, calf’s brains, pork blood, pig tail, Mary Dugan banana split, Big Joe’s fantasy cheesecake-and, if you want, you can throw in some opera (Parsifal).

Chinatown

Chinatown has some good restaurants. The best ones are family owned. Sometimes you can be the only non-Asian there. One of my favorites is the Tea Party Dim Sum (1920). One time when I went, I remembered a small, tasty dish I had had, but couldn’t remember the name. I tried to describe it to the waitress, with her large silvery tray of many dishes, but no luck. Then, I thought, I’ll draw a picture, so I asked for a paper and pencil. She disappeared and came back with paper and pencil. She disappeared again, and as I was drawing away, I happened to look up where the huge silver doors, which led to the kitchen. I noticed, one by one, seven chefs in white outfits walked out and were standing side by side close to the silver doors, and all eyes were right on me! They were getting the biggest kick out of me drawing. The waitress returned, looked, and said, “Oh yes, we have dinosaur soup,” and walked away with a little giggle.

Prose Poems: CopyRight 2015

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to thank the following people, who never wavered

In their excitement and support of the project:

Ann Tanenbaum, art patron

Melvin Walker, lover of art

Lois Gremore, dance teacher

Daniel Ragone, opera coach

I also wish to acknowledge the invaluable encouragement of Barbara Ann Levy, gallery owner and art lover. I also wish to acknowledge Ken Johnson who wrote in the The New York Times in 2000 – artist, poet, and former professional ballet dancer.

ROHR THE UNEXPECTED

KORNBLEE GALLERY

“Staggering technique. I was held, from painting to painting, by the spectacle of such craftsmanship. “

John Canaday, The New York Times (1971)

"A  silence , by comparison , makes Munch's Scream read like a child's fairy tail.
-Judith Van  Baron/Arts Magazine (1974).

“I’m starting to hallucinate.”

Two studio visits, New York Times critic Vivien Raynor (2008)

 “Rohr is subtle, raw, beautiful, and real… and sometimes he does a Grand Pirouette.”

ROBERT FRANK ROHR

NEW YORK, NEW YORK

Robert.F.Rohr@gmail.com

BORN:                                    Cleveland, Ohio. 1935.

                                    Now living and working in New York City.

EDUCATION:             Serge Nadejdin, Imperial Russian Ballet School

Art Director – Former Imperial Theaters of Russia, and Ballet Soloist

                                    School of American Ballet, New York City

American Ballet Theater – Full scholarship through Dimitri Romanoff

TEACHING POSITION:         Assistant teacher and choreographer,

                                                Gremore Dance School, Oberlin, Ohio

DANCER:                    Cafarelli Opera Company,

                                    Cleveland Orchestra, Cleveland, Ohio

Rohr has performed works by Herbert Bliss, Madeline Graves, Thomas Andrew, Peter Gadke, Nelle Fisher and The Bolshoi Ballet (Spartacus), The Metropolitan Opera House, and Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo II (Gala Spring Performance of “Blue Bird Pas de Deux” from The Sleeping Beauty)

REVIEWS:                  Elmore Bacon                                    Cleveland Plain Dealer            1955

                                    Jim Frankel                            Cleveland Plain Dealer            1956

                                    One World Day Celebration Cleveland Plain Dealer            1958

                                    Jim McCafferty                      Columbus Ohio Dispatch        1963

ENAMELIST:             Kulicke Academy Art Institute

                                    Metropolitan Museum of Art *

                                    A La Vieille Russie *

                                    Cartier, Tiffany, Steuben Glass *

                                    Carvin French Jewelers

FINE ANTIQUE RESTORATION (New York, Restorer):

                                    Charles Sunquist

                                    Ackerman and Son

                                    Sotheby’s / Christie’s

                                    Arnold Glimcher

                                    The Franklin Report (book) ★★★★★

WRITER:                   Prose, Poems, “All Was Beautiful Until You Came”

* by commission

ROBERT FRANK ROHR

AWARDS:

1957-Serge Nadejdin- Full scholarship
1985 – Funded by Artist’s Space Grants, New York, through The National Endowment for the Arts

1990 – Melvin Walker Estate

PRINCIPAL COLLECTIONS:

Mrs. John D. Rockefeller, III
Rockefeller University, New York

Ann Tanenbaum, New York

Charles and Sylvia Tanenbaum, New York

New York University

City University of New York

St. Vincent’s Comprehensive Cancer Center, New York

St. Luke-Roosevelt Hospital, New York

Cordelia Roosevelt, New York

Paul T. Khoury, MD, New York

Boricua College, New York

John Contigugalia, New York

John Ong, MD, New Jersey

Sharadh Bhaskharone, New York

Kayt Brill Bech, New York

Juan Carlos Negrete, Mexico

Thomas Kortus, Prague Czech Republic
Gail Goldwasser, Beverly Hills CA
Barbara Korbin PsyD MfT, New York
Lois Gremore, Oberlin Ohio
(Anonymous), Australia
(Anonymous), Philippines
(Anonymous), India
(Anonymous), Puerto Rico
Michael Chong-Castillo, New York

REVIEWS:

Vivien Raynor, Two studio visits (2008)

Mary Abell, Selections: painting, catalogue essay, Dowling College (2001)

Ken Johnson, The New York Times (2000)

The New Jersey Art Forum (1982)

Dorothy Hall, Park East (1976)

Judith Von Baron, Arts Magazine (1974)

John Canaday, The New York Times (1970)

Yale University Library, Rose Gerlach Collection, Kornblee Gallery, New York.

Third Annual Art Students Seminar; Dowling College Visual Arts Department

Round Table Discussion – “The Creative Process of Robert Frank Rohr”

SOLO EXHIBITIONS

2007               BORICUA COLLEGE, NEW YORK

2000               BARBARA ANN LEVY GALLERY, NEW YORK

2000               THE CENTER FOR PSYCHOTHERAPY

1998               BARBARA ANN LEVY GALLERY, LONG ISLAND

1996-1997    THE CENTER FOR PSYCHOTHERAPY, NEW YORK

1991-1993    DUNCAN GALLERY, NEW YORK

1989               UPSTAIRS GALLERY, NEW YORK

1986               KORNBLEE GALLERY, NEW YORK

1983-1985    THE CITY UNIVERSITY OF NEW YORK

1982               UPSTAIRS GALLERY, NEW YORK

1979               FABER GALLERY, NEW YORK

1976               DUNCAN GALLERY, NEW YORK

1973               KORNBLEE GALLERY

1971               KORNBLEE GALLERY

GROUP EXHIBITIONS

2001               ISLIP ART MUSEUM, LONG ISLAND, NEW YORK

2001               A. GIORDANO GALLERY, DOWLING COLLEGE, OAKDALE, NEW YORK

2000-2001    BARBARA ANN LEVY GALLERY, LONG ISLAND, NEW YORK

2000/03/04 ARTISTS ARCHIVES OF WESTERN RESERVE, CLEVELAND, OHIO

1997               LEVY-GORMLEY GALLERY, LONG ISLAND

1986               KRAINE CLUB GALLERY, NEW YORK

1982               THE PINES, LONG ISLAND

1982               PICTURE GALLERY, NEW YORK

1982               RIZZOLI GALLERY, NEW YORK

1980               FABER GALLERY, NEW YORK

1979               ERLICH GALLERY, NEW YORK

1979               CORPORATE ART DIRECTIONS, NEW YORK

1979               CLEVELAND MUSEUM OF ART, CLEVELAND, OHIO

1976               NEW GALLERY, RUSSELL SAGE COLLEGE, TROY, NEW YORK

1976               KORNBLEE GALLERY, NEW YORK

1975               COUTURIER GALLERY, STAMFORD, CONNECTICUT

1973               KORNBLEE GALLERY, NEW YORK

1972               WORKS ON PAPER BALTIMORE MUSEUM OF ART, BALTIMORE, MD

1971               AVANTI GALLERY, NEW YORK

1971               MEMBERS GALLERY, ALBRIGHT-KNOX, BUFFALO, NY

ROBERT FRANK ROHR

Paintings – SCROLL

Oil Stick on Cloth Paper

 Artist’s Statement

These are paintings depicting my fascination with the power of the human face, which, for me, often lies at variance from the typical American idea of beauty.