Arts and Letters

I first met William Zorach thirty-five years ago. I was a young sculptor and it was my first show. I wanted Zorach to write an introduction for my catalogue, but I was hesitant to ask him so I sent my wife, Renee, having heard that he was partial to the fair sex. He was very kind to her. He told her that he knew my work and thought highly of it and immediately wrote the introduction which, one might say, launched my career. From that time on we were close friends.

Zorach and his wife, Marguerite, were always understanding and generous. He frequently gave to young artists not only his own strength but also financial help. When young sculptors had no money for rent, he would give it to them as easily as he gave his encouragement. He would visit them in their studio; he would recommend them for prizes or fellowships.

Zorach revived the craft of direct carving in stone and wood. This is why his work lives with an inner life. As he grew older, his work grew in stature. It became more severe and monumental. He was a humanist in the highest sense. He was a great teacher. There is hardly a sculptor today who has not been influenced and touched by him. He lived a long and fruitful life.

He was a charter member of the Sculptors Guild. Among others were Robus, Maldarelli, Baizerman, and many youngsters including myself. Our first exhibition took place in 1938 in an empty lot at Thirty-ninth Street and Park Avenue. I'll never forget how he worked with us, cleaning the lot with a pick and shovel, planting shrubs and bushes, and arranging the sculpture. He placed the work of younger sculptors in prominent places, relegating his own to the rear. When I asked him why he did this, he said, "I want them to see your work. You are young and need attention. Anyone who wants to see my work will find it."

I'll never forget the evening we spent with Marguerite, Zorach, and a few of his close friends at his home on his seventieth birthday. After dinner he said, "You want to see paintings? My old paintings?" He pulled them out from a high shelf one by one. Each time he said, "See this? I painted it forty years ago or more." My wife, Renee, admired one small one of a dancer—of course we admired all of them—but that one of a dancer a bit longer than the others. Zorach said, "You like it so much, you can have it." He went to the sink right away, washed it with a soft rag, and gave it to her. This was typical of him—giving a gift on his birthday instead of receiving one.

He shared with people—both those he knew and those unknown to him—beauty and friendship and knowledge of art. I deeply believe the man, William Zorach, and his work will live forever.