I am
one of those people who love "real" maple
syrup. When Ms Keogh, my more significant other, and
I go out for pancakes, I bring my own little jug
rather than use the artificially formulated stuff
IHOP puts on the table. (International House of
Pancakes - a misnomer in that the
"international" refers to the styles of
pancakes and not locations of franchises.) After my
last breakfast at IHOP, while we were departing, I
had inadvertently left the little jug on the roof of
my car. It was many miles later before I realized my
misfortune. I have recently learned that my friend,
Robert Beck, is also exceedingly fond of maple syrup.
The last time I paid him a visit it was a cold
morning. I found him sitting with his neighbor, the
goldsmith Valorie Johnson, in the wide hallway
outside their second-story studios above Bridge
Street. They were waiting for their studios to warm
up. In the meantime, the sun came in the tall
east-facing windows and filled the hall with bright
light and heat. I sat with them and mentioned that I
was thinking of writing about him, because I am very
fond of his work. I also told him the tragic tale of
how I lost my little jug of maple syrup.
The other day a rather large and heavy box arrived
from Vermont. Inside was a "gallon" jug of
maple syrup, a gift from Robert Beck. It is of a size
that would be hard to overlook if I were to leave it
on the roof of my car. It presently fills the top
shelf of my refrigerator.
In the local artist community, Robert Beck is
legendary for his productivity. He is found
everywhere painting. The man is prolific. If his car
breaks down, he gets out and does a painting of it
while waiting for the tow truck.
I first found Robert Beck's work when Ms Keogh sent
me to check out the Ruth Morpeth Gallery, when it was
still in Pennington, New Jersey, before Ms Morpeth
moved to the larger space in Hopewell. Ms Morpeth had
seen Ms Keogh's painting of a pear at a show and
invited Ms Keogh to submit work for her gallery.
It was a fine gallery, though the show there at the
time was not to my taste, being abstract art. Still,
there was no question as to the professionalism and
seriousness of the gallery. The interior space itself
was tasteful, if a bit small, and adjoined a coffee
shop. I was sitting in that cafe drinking coffee when
I saw a postcard announcing the gallery's next show.
It was to be the artist Robert Beck. The postcard was
illustrated with a painting of a Weimaraner stretched
across a living room loveseat, so relaxed he looked
liked he had been poured there. I loved it!
I came to the show and thought his work was
fantastic. I came back a second time with Ms Keogh in
tow. She knew the work and knew of the artist from
when she had volunteered to help with a show at the
Woodmere Art Museum. There was only one painting at
the exhibit she truly admired. It was of a woman
wearing a kimono. She happened to meet the artist
when he came to fetch the painting. It was Robert
Beck. She invited him to come and visit her studio at
the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts, where she
was in her last year as a student. He did come to
visit on the day she happened to be hanging her works
for the annual show of graduating students, the show
being held in the Academy's Museum of American Art,
the oldest art museum in America. A gentleman is
Robert Beck and he assisted her, and Ms Keogh wangled
a visit to his studio.
Robert Beck lived in a carriage house on an estate
belonging to an ageing couple. The long driveway was
merely a track, two gravel-filled furrows on either
side of a grassy mound extending for half a mile from
the road. As we cautiously drove along the driveway,
we were graced by the sight of a herd of deer running
ahead of us just to the right of the driveway. I felt
the deer portentous, promising a good first meeting
and a pleasant relationship thereafter. The deer
turned, crossing our path and dashing into a field
that appeared on our left.
We arrived and soon found ourselves sitting in his
second floor living room. The hardwood floor was
covered with multiple layers of Oriental rugs. We
drank wine and admired the paintings hanging about
the living room, of which half also served as his
studio in those days. I immediately made friends with
his dog, Binkie, an ageing Weimaraner with a
beautiful slate-grey coat, the dog in the painting on
the postcard. That was several years ago, Binkie is
gone.
I can't remember who it was I was driving to the
airport that day, but I think it was my sister. We
were barreling along Interstate 95, southbound,
passing along the east edge of Philadelphia when I
saw her, the S.S. United States. I remembered it from
my childhood and was startled by its appearance. I
told my sister, or whoever it was, that I had just
seen a ghost, a most famous ship. How could it be in
Philadelphia unannounced?
After dropping off my passenger, I got off the
Interstate on my return so I could drive along
Delaware Avenue at the river's edge. It was her, the
sweeping lines, the svelte stretch of her hull, the
grace and grandeur of her form even when docked, a
city block long, the S.S. United States, the greatest
passenger liner in the world! It held the record for
crossing the North Atlantic, three days, ten hours,
and forty-two minutes. She still existed! I studied
her through the chain-link fence that held me back.
She was in sorry state, with patches of rust and
peeling paint.
I brought Ms Keogh down to see her. I asked Ms Keogh
to please paint her. Sadly, Ms Keogh was not
sufficiently inspired, not even when I threatened to
tell Bob about the ship, hoping to make her jealous.
She doesn't like rusty things. She said she would
think about it, but I didn't wait long and did tell
Bob. He painted her and soon sold the painting out of
Ruth Morpeth's new gallery in Hopewell, New Jersey.
In my study, I can look across my desk to the
bookshelf on which leans a portrait of my
Newfoundland dog, Boris. It is a gift from Robert
Beck, a fellow dog-lover, in commiseration for the
death of Boris.
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