Arts and Letters

Ever since Barbara Krulik of the National Academy of Design called me to speak about Isabel at the Whitney Museum, as I did a few weeks ago, I have been thinking about her. Yes, and all our other friends who have vanished this year—Raphael Soyer, Stuyvesant Van Veen, Robert Gwathmey, a whole generation of artists gone—who were very much a part of our lives.

I don't know what I can say about Isabel Bishop that would add to what was said on that occasion, but I will read this little essay, "Things I Have Written Down."

Who was this mysterious lady who lived in refined suburbia in a large, dark, stone house in Riverdale and commuted by subway every day to her studio on Union Square to paint working-class girls dawdling along the streets? An enigma. A Puritan, she was, who believed in being on time, dressing in a properly respectable manner and minding your P's and Qs. But, behind this veil of gentility and politesse there was the other side; a soul beating with strong emotions, a passionate nature which spurred her on to action for the good of other artists, particularly the young whom she believed in and fought for.

Unorthodox. Yes. And that was always the greatest surprise to find in conversation and friendly visits with Isabel, expressions of her beliefs, vehement opinions of astonishing audacity, fresh, acute observations on the art scene and fellow artists, unexpected in one so seemingly conservative. That was the paradox, the very quality that made any association with her so enjoyable. The wit to see herself and others with unadorned realism and objectivity. And of course, this remarkable quality gave her power; the power to persuade others by force of her enthusiasm, intellectual finesse, and mastery of the gentle art of politics which she loved and was instinctive to her very nature.

Then, there is the other kind of power, the belief in one's self, which is the very essence of life and creativity and was a fundamental element in our friend's optimistic nature.

Well, so much for all these homilies. And banalities. Isabel would be first to laugh and toss off any well-meaning compliments. The fact remains that Isabel's last years were miserable, in and out of the hospital, suffering with every possible ailment. And she was not resigned. She told me she thought everyone should have the right to end their life with a pill. Isabel was familiar with medicine. Her husband, Harold Wolff, the eminent neurologist, died many years ago in Washington, where he was attending a medical conference. He called her from his hotel room to say he recognized his symptoms and, having accurately diagnosed his illness, died on the way to the hospital.

The doctor was a formidable man. I first met him the summer he came to Skowhegan with Isabel and their son, Remsen. They drove up from Biddeford Pool in his old Packard, which he promptly parked in Bill Cumming's garage to save its whitewall tires, and commuted up and down the hill on his bicycle. He came to every seminar, which he found fascinating because they reminded him "of pathology sessions at the hospital." He also told me he had a passionate interest in the arts. That Van Gogh had died from the complications of syphilis. "All those other psychoanalytic theories were bunk," he said. I was shocked.

The doctor, like his wife, was punctilious about appointments. Dressed in a white suit, he would arrive for dinner and look at his watch! For this summer of divertissement, Dr. Wolff had brought along a young assistant who was working with him on a book; the young doctor's wife was also in residence, plus a Chinese cook to complete the retinue. So you see, there was no time for sloth in a family where everyone went their own way and no nonsense was tolerated. This, of course, is only a guess and may be beside the point, but it does seem to me that this partnership was an important part of the real life of Isabel Bishop. A life devoted to excellence, performance, and trust; in a sense the ministry of medicine and art joined in strict attention to duty.

Well, these are all words and random thoughts. The fact remains. Whatever the reasons, Isabel had a rich and productive life. Her work is a living testimonial to that life.

Art fashions may come and go—expressionism, abstract expressionism, pop art, folk art, and all the rest, but true and fast, Isabel will last. She was always her own person. She never wavered. Essentially modest, all her work bears the stamp of a unique and compelling vision. A single-minded dedication to the values she believed in and the world she loved.

I will miss her always.