ROBERT MARX; AN AUTHENTIC LIFE

 Robert Marx had the kind of tall, rangy body that hinted at the youngster he must have been — outdoors, riding horses, planting trees, comfortable in his skin — a Sam Elliott/Clint Eastwood kind of man. He smoked cigarettes in those days — a habit he gave up after a heart attack about 40 years back —wore plaid flannel shirts nearly exclusively, and grew the mustache that he wore the remaining years of his life.

I didn’t know him when he was young, of course. Nor do I know how he got from Germany, his birth place, to the United States. A bunch of talented European artists landed in Upstate New York during the 1950s and 1960s — Kurt Feuerherm, Tage Frid, Frans Wildenhain, Hans Christensen, Robert Marx.  Who said “they came for a better life?” That sounds about right.

They took jobs teaching in newly developed college art departments. I asked Bob Marx in an interview last year: “Can you teach art?”  He answered “No. You can only guide people.  I worked alongside the students in class. They could ask questions, watch how I did things.”

Is that enough? I don’t know that either. I’ve never taken an art class. Design, yes. But not art. Sure, even I could learn perspective, color theory, art history. The great violinist Itzak Perlman said “Music is what happens between the notes.” 

Art is what happens beyond technical skills. 

These artists brought with them a universe of talent and equally important, an “old school philosophy” of what it meant to be an artist — to lead an artful life — a life of authenticity. They approached life with curiosity and intellect and generosity. 

“Art must lead beyond the arts, to an awareness and a share of mutuality.” (Paul Klee)

Robert shared the last third of his life with Francie. While he was tall and quiet, she is tiny and bubbly. Robert twinkled; Francie is LED super-wattage. They were regulars at classical concerts and loved good movies. Walls at their house are lined with books and favorite movie videos. Until a year or two ago, they thought nothing of loading up the car and starting out on multi-state swings to visit old friends and galleries.

I asked Bob: Have you kept any of your paintings? 

“Yes, I have 5 or 6.”

Why did you keep those? 

“I was trying to get to something and they came closest.”

I think Bob was referring to the music between the notes…his art. 

Robert died September 21, 2020. He was 94 years old.  

 

Robert Marx (photo by Joan Stormont)

COG IN THE WHEEL OF LIFE

 So, you’re old. Really old! Now what? 

You are no longer defined by the job, nor the children, nor the things you bought for your powder room, nor the tile you choose for the re-do of your powder room because guess what?  That was twenty-five years ago and who cares? Nobody much comes to your house so nobody ever uses it!

You are old and depressed. It’s called being “irrelevant.” Now what? You used to be “somebody.” Everybody knew you. Well, maybe not everybody when you really think about it. But you had friends that met twice a week. Now they’re dead or moved to Phoenix.  Chris Rock says in a NY Times interview that you can’t count on friends anyway. But you think your friends are different? Ha! They’ll still move away to be close to “the son in Nevada.”

You worked at (an office, a factory, a store, a farm) and somebody was always needing something that you had. Now? Everything you have is old, worn, out of date, or lost in the last move. Or also irrelevant.

You tried volunteer work which you hated. Your book club/sewing circle/Bible study group dissolved — the Covid 19 quarantine was the final straw. You looked through all the pamphlets for “Continuing Education for the Elderly” and wanted to throw up. You’ve been thinking about writing your memoirs but your life hasn’t been all that interesting and your grandkids don’t read anything unless it’s on their “device.”

Frankly, you did all that “searching and expanding your horizons” stuff in your 40’s and 50’s. You found yourself, made peace with the whole mess and moved on. (You still can’t actually meditate. You try but all you really do is sit with your eyes closed and think about what you’ll have for lunch.)

So what now? (By the way, two caveats for this “irrelevant” situation: you will never be shuffled off to Buffalo if you are rich and give your money away. A whole bunch of people will still call on you with their hands outstretched. Also, if you know how to shake the money tree — if you were a huge donation finder in your previous stints on non-profit boards. But don’t count on that last one. Those sources you tapped? They’ve died or moved to Ft. Myers.)

Google passes on some answers to the age relevancy thing.

First, make sure you can hear, smell or see as well as possible.

Keep up with technology.

Listen to current music.

Go out (after 5:30 pm).

Do not criticize styles - remember your hair in high school?

Entertain and mix up the guest list.

Don’t talk about your health problems (outside the doctor’s office).

Stay as physically active as possible.

Make yourself an authority on something specific or…

Own all the tools!!!

TALK LESS, LISTEN MORE AND ASK QUESTIONS.

O.K. Maybe. But something’s missing from this list — something I can’t quite put my finger on — something I can’t quite find. 

I think it’s this: respect yourself. You are still a significant part of the universal script. Your contribution to this crazy play is necessary. So play your part with gladness and gusto.

  

Charcoal drawing by Peter Allen, "Made In New York"

SOME DAYS ARE JUST LIKE THAT

I’m having trouble writing these days — writing anything at all — emails to family and friends, letters of outrage, birthday messages to grandchildren. I sit down at the computer, type in a line or two and then….nothing. Finally, after I’ve looked out windows, and gone for another handful of salted nuts, I hit the “save” button. After a few days, my desk top is covered with them...debris from days of writing failures. I send them all to the trash. Frankly, that slight effort feels like accomplishment.

Is this depression? Reality? Age related? Diet related? I’m also not exercising as much and that leads to all kinds of mental mayhem. 

Or is this grief? 

This is the 6 month anniversary of “Lockdown” — half a year. Will we ever sit in a crowded theater again? Host a come-one-come-all party? Cheer for our favorite team among  a crowd of fans? Hug and be hugged in return?

We need a warning siren installed in our brain  — SHUT DOWN NOW. SYSTEM OVERLOAD. TAKE COVER.  We do. The sirens are all over the news: alcoholism is up. Gun sales have increased which predicts an increase in suicides. 1 in 4 young people between ages 18 and 24 think seriously about killing themselves. Domestic violence. Public unrest. Anger. BAD DREAMS! 

Whew….anybody have a spare bottle of Valium? 

What do we do with all this cosmic sadness? I wish it was an easy prescription …a pill. “Take 1 daily with ice cream.” 

This week I visited a friend. She lives in a Shangri La that she’s built with hard work, creative genius and admittedly, $$$. It’s been 40 years in the making…beautiful flower gardens, a bird sanctuary… peaceful fields of grasses… a pond designed for frogs and children. She climbs off her tractor, throws her workman gloves across its seat and walks toward me.

“Sit down. I’ll bring out some iced tea.”  We sit outside the required 6 feet apart. In every direction, the view is delicious. If you lived here, could anything bad ever happen? But she is not immune to sadness and trials — her life includes its quota of scars. 

“I asked … to rototill that patch over there. I’m moving shrubs.  He’ll do it, but for him, it’s a chore. Like ‘please vacuum the living room’ chore.  Not for me. I loose myself out here. Sure, it’s hard work but I just….” 

She looks around and begins pointing out changes since my last visit. She doesn’t say “love” … or “satisfaction”…or “accomplishment” but those are obvious. I remember the definition of “happiness” from the Yale happy class.  Here it is. She's offered me a transfusion. I soak it in for an hour before driving back into town.