Arts and Letters

I dreaded the day of my father's death since I was old enough to comprehend the idea. Therefore, I wish to use this opportunity somewhat selfishly, to frame a personal picture of Bob that will at least allow me to adjust to the deep sadness I feel and the loss I must reconcile.

Robert Gwathmey's father died before he was born, and he was raised by his mother and three older sisters, which had a major impact on the nature and quality of his fatherhood. I was, as the only child and son, the direct beneficiary of a most extraordinary upbringing, that was both an example and a lesson in compassion, commitment, and devotion to art, ideals, fellow man, and family.

Bob was simply, from as far back as I can remember, my best friend. He was my father, but our life experience manifested itself in us sharing a private and exhilarating exploration that neither of us had ever known and that bound us, and still holds us, in a unique and uncompromising place.

He believed that art must affect morality and was a means of communicating a statement and a hope. Life as an artist was contributive, noncompetitive, and private.

Bob painted at home and was uncompromising about his schedule. He was a craftsman and perfectionist who did not believe in the “sketch” per se, but in the “resolution”; thus his self-criticism and intolerance for the “almost” was contagious as well as infectious.

I remember vividly my friends talking about what their fathers did for a living, becoming somewhat confused and embarrassed, running upstairs to his studio and asking him, “What are you going to be when you grow up?” My obvious perception of his painting and drawing was that it was clearly not work at all and very similar, in fact, to what I did for fun.

He saved time for me and was as insistent on its realization as he was about his work schedule. Every Monday night my mother and I would meet Bob promptly at 6 o'clock at the Sea Fair Restaurant on 8th Street, so we could be together before he taught night school at Cooper Union, after having taught all day. He believed that anyone who could work at a job by day and still have the energy to go to school at night to pursue art deserved this extra time and commitment. He taught life drawing, and hundreds of people over the years, who were his students, have been touched by his unselfishness, loyalty, and sense of humor, as well as by his passion for art and enthusiasm for life. John Hejduk, the Dean of Architecture at Cooper Union, once his student, my teacher, and our mutual friend, said:

He came from a generation that had a deep feeling for the social situation. He taught ethics and morality, not only in art, but insisted that they were not disconnected from the society in which you live.

Every Tuesday and Thursday night we would walk from our apartment on 68th Street and Central Park West to the Translux Theatre on 52nd Street and Broadway to see the newsreel. We would talk, look in the appliance and car showroom windows, speculate and dream together. After the one-hour newsreel, we would go to a bar on Eighth Avenue where the bartender couldn't wait to see the man who told great jokes, wore tweed jackets and plaid shirts, and watch his little kid eat raw clams.

On Wednesdays he would have Artist Equity meetings at the apartment where I could listen to his fellow artists and friends discuss at length the sociopolitical climate and problems of the times. I realized, even then, that I was a child sharing a different vision from the mainstream, where art and social consciousness were morally and intellectually integrated into our daily life and one's self-esteem was worth suffering any consequences.

On Friday night there was always a dinner party or a private fund-raiser for a fellow artist, writer, or actor to defend him/her against the House Un-American Activities Committee or any other supportable left wing or social-conscience cause. I ate early, but listened late, again realizing different values and commitments that were not simply accommodated but were life determining. Saturdays were for college football games or track meets or basketball games and excursions to simply experience events, crowds, weather, travel, competition, and variety.

Sunday mornings, we would get up early, have breakfast at the corner diner, where I would have hash brown potatoes and coffee, which were clearly “risqué” and “extraordinary.” We would then take the subway to LaGuardia Airport and watch the planes take off and land, again fulfilling our mutual fantasies and aspirations. Sunday afternoons werereserved for museums, I being the recipient of a continuous explanation of the history of art and descriptions of intentions and perceptions of paintings and sculptures through the eyes of my artist/teacher father.

He took me to see The Informer with Victor McLaughlin when I was ten and to The Grapes of Wrath twice before I was twelve. We walked in the May Day Parade every year, and I was always holding his hand as a participant in a picket line or demonstration to protest a form of intellectual, social, or moral injustice.

I mention these reflections to illustrate a conclusion. I lived my early childhood with a father who could not wait for me to be an adult (he shaved me when I was eleven) so that in some way he could see if he “did alright” as a father, and then somehow reverse roles and relive a childhood he never experienced, through his son.

I feel privileged and humbled by my father's life example that is both inspirational and demanding. I love a man who always left more than he took, who believed passionately in the nobility of his fellow man, and who dignified compassion. I miss the one person who without question was my best friend in life, and who remains my conscience in death.