Autobiography

Below is the complete text transcript of my first and only autobiography as an artist, "Mosaic and Shards" written and published in 2009. The misspelling of "mozaic"as "mosaic" gives away my long permanent residence in The Netherlands where the langauge so permeates me that I am prone to switch between Dutch and English without being aware of it. Looking back at this story now, I feel it could have been better edited and better written but to do that now is a much too daunting project to undertake. However there is one major error about the birthplace of my mother which I now need to correct. Irina was born in Perm not Vladivostok. I haven't reproduced the photographs as most of them are to be seen elsewhere on this site. As this book is now out of print and many people still want to read it, I post it here for those interested.

MOSAIC AND SHARDS

2009

An Artist’s Life

MICHAEL LASOFF

No image or written text may be reproduced without written

permission of the artist.

Table of Contents

Foreword Page 4

1. First Years Page 7

2. Becoming Interested Page 14

3. Art School Page 18

4. Floating Page 26

5. To India Page 31

6. Floundering Page 47

7. Return to the Art World Page 52

8. Crisis Page 60

9. Renewal and Transfiguration Page 61

10. Photographs Page 65

Foreword

Who would want to know? A life passes by as swiftly as a

cloud, it evaporates with time and only the vast sky remains.

This little event in time called life, what does it signify?

Much less what could my life ever mean for another baffled

human being?

Approaching an age when looking back is as important as

looking forward, I see my days laid out before me like a

mosaic full of perfect glittering stones. Next to those

beautiful shining moments lie dark unfinished shards. To

make sense of it seems a useless quest yet at moments the

light falls at so sharp an angle as to illuminate the mosaic

into sensible depiction. The sudden imminence of

understanding is painfully close, almost touching but not

quite yet grasped. It is exhilarating, blood rushes faster,

everything is promised and there follows a peaceful

satisfaction. The circle completes itself. Then it is gone,

disappeared, missing, mislaid, abruptly absent and lost as

quickly as it came. That second of apprehension has

dissolved just like the fleeting cloud of life.

I awoke this morning and from nowhere decided to write

about my life. It was one those singular moments in which a

pattern in existence comes close to perception. Perhaps by

writing more will be comprehendible. Perhaps the words can

glue the pieces into the right places. Perhaps it will all fit. As

I write this now, a redheaded woodpecker has landed on a

tree in front of my window. Why does this move me, me

who does not believe in signs, who does not believe in

anything? What is this happiness with otherworldly

significance? Even when we know something does not exist,

why does it make us happy to think that it does?

Enough questions. I will write, write about those minutes of

my existence that had impact, some of which were funny,

some disturbing or enlightening. The emphasis has been on

my first twenty years. I’ve devoted considerable space to my

travels in India and have ignored many of my remaining

travels. It is because the first impression cuts deepest. The

formative years are those in which much of what is

experienced leaves a blueprint for further revelation. Without

me knowing it, all these events were shaping me. These

exterior events were molding an interior being.

My private life for the most part has not been revealed; this

is not a story about disclosures or confessions. There is

nothing to hide but the proceedings that govern the personal

part of my life are integral only to me. Their interest lies in

the vulgar imagination. Someday, perhaps those crude forms

will be shaped into amusing satire for fiction.

I have always felt as a Renaissance man, practicing many

lines of profession: painting, composing music, writing and

more. This jack-of-all-trades has been forged by my

ancestors’ blood but also by the chance collisions made with

so many other people and countries. This is not a story but a

picture, a mosaic with or without meaning. And I have

experienced it.

* * *

In studio Iordensstaat 2005

1. First Years

Before I could speak, there are three distinct memories. One

is of a fireplace in New Hampshire where my parents had

gone to visit my grandparents. The intense heat and the

hypnotic swirling of the flames hypnotized me. My trance

merged into a dream of raging fires that menacingly

approached me from a dark distance. I felt threatened. It was

the terror of primitive man confronted with the mysterious

unknown, the fear of a nameless flame that slays and

devastates everything that lives. The dread was so great that

this dream later came to haunt me for years.

The second memory was of my grandfather, who was a

concert violinist, playing “The Flight of the Bumble Bee”

from Rimsky-Korsakov above my crib. I was delighted and

laughed at the zooming sounds. His bow sped across the

strings imitating the hectic bee’s buzzing. This pleasure in

exotic sounds has stayed with me to this day, as I tamper in

the bizarre electrical sound world of synthesizers.

The last recollection is like a photographic imprint in my

mind. It is an image of a child struggling to close the lid of a

silver sugar pot. The pot and its lid were the cause of endless

hours of intense frustration. No matter how hard I tried, I

could not close the lid securely on top of the container. The

irritation overwhelmed me. It must and should close. Years

later my mother gave the sugar pot back to me as a gift. I

now see that the lid closes and the entire struggle had been a

question of not yet being coordinated. That strange mixture

of patience and impatience crowned with a heavy dose of

annoyed frustration is a sensation similar to what happens to

me now when struggling with a difficult area of a painting or

when perplexed by the stubbornness of my computer. The

sugar pot drama is embedded in my character. Things must

fit!

One event that I do not remember but was recounted to me

by my mother happened at an early age just after learning to

speak. I was staring at the ceiling for a long time. Suddenly I

jumped up and started circling the light bulb above me in a

tribe-like ritual dance. As I paraded around the lamp, I raised

my arms and incanted in a hefty voice the words, “Light!

Light! Light!” It must have sounded like a howl from

prehistoric times.

Light, fire, sounds and strong-willed determination were my

primary elements. Over the years, those innate features

expanded but in some ways remained intact for the future.

* * *

I was born in Chicago April 13, 1948. My parents moved

within a year to Saint Paul, Minnesota. My father was a

counseling psychologist and my mother was a dance

choreographer. Apart from the fact that I had very loving

parents, their backgrounds contributed to stimulating me in

every way to do the things I wanted to do.

My great grandfather, Wolf (Velvil), was a Jew who came

from Poland by way of Argentina to the United States

looking for a better way of life at the beginning of the

twentieth century. My grandfather, Julius, was a builder and

bricklayer and like my grandmother, Rose, came from the

working-class. They had two sons, Al and Ben, my father.

My father was known as the rebel of his family. He broke

away from the blue-collar conventions, was a brilliant

student and went to Brooklyn University at the age of 16.

His brother, Uncle Al for me, was known as a visual talent.

He attended Pratt University and studied design. His great

disappointment in life was that his design for the logo of the

CBS eye was stolen from his desk at school. It could not be

proved and thereby he missed his chance to become rich.

Before leaving for Europe I visited Uncle Al, who gave me a

long and warning speech about the woes and dangers of a

career in the visual arts, all of which was true. And yet he

saw that I was determined to attain my dream. With tears in

his eyes, he saw me off furtively glad to know that someone

in the family was pursuing a career in the visual arts.

My mother, Irina Fedorovsky, was the only daughter of a

famous Russian singer, Olga Averino and the Boston

Symphony concert violinist, Paul Fedorovsky. The Russian

family was a whole different kettle of fish. It was a musical

family. My grandmother, Olga, was the godchild of Modest

Tchaikovsky, brother of the famous Peter. Listening to my

grandmother recount stories of her past was like hearing an

ancient fairy tale. She had looked into the ferocious eyes of

Rasputin; she recounted with a great deal of gusto the never

ending practical jokes that her father and Scriabin would

mercilessly play on friends and family. Rachmaninoff was

deeply befriended. Her countless anecdotes peppered with a

good dash of humor was at times like a recounting of the

history of Romantic and modern music. Combined with her

charismatic personality, her sharp intuition in human

behavior, and her deep philosophical insights, her presence

and words were nectar that I from my youngest days eagerly

swallowed up.

As landowners, with the coming of the Russian revolution

my grandparents had to flee Moscow. My pregnant

grandmother, Olga, diagnosed with TB and given a few

months to live is known to have said to her doctors, “A few

months? Ridiculous! I will live to be over 80.” She lived to

be 94. Escaping east on trains in open boxcars, which later

turned out to be a blessing in disguise as this helped to cure

the TB, the train raced across the whole of Russia, always

keeping one city ahead of the Reds until arriving in

Vladivostok, last stronghold of the White revolutionaries on

the cold edge of Siberia where my mother was born. Paul

and Olga remained there the next two years after which they

fled again to live five years in China and finally came via the

back door of Canada into the United States. The story of this

family could take up a book.

My mother grew up in Boston and wanted to dance. She was

diagnosed as having a heart-murmur and was unable to

become a dancer. So she went to New York to attend school

at Madame Daykahanova’s and acted at the Henry Street

Theatre. Later the medical world discovered that the murmur

was not dangerous. She went back to dancing in Minnesota

and eventually became a choreographer.

When my parents married in 1946 it was a great disturbance

for the families. A mixed marriage was hard to condone.

However my mother’s parents of Russian-Greek Orthodox

heritage accepted it and eventually my birth two years later

was the reconciliation for the Lasoff clan.

The first twenty years of my life were spent in a frigid

Minnesota climate. In contrast summers were hot. The

outdoors, whatever the weather was, became my ground of

operation.

I was an active, inventive and enterprising little creature. I

like to think of myself in positive terms although I was also

emotional, vulnerable, jealous and dominating. My wish to

rule manifested itself as leader of a club called “The National

Beavers”, called that because of our protruding front teeth

and some vague patriotic inclination. I was self-elected

president determining the movements and activities of my

fellow members, not without a great amount of

resourcefulness. Our secret club call was the cawing of a

crow. I loved crows. For me they signified sharp

intelligence, quick attentiveness combining the sinister with

a pointed insight into the world. To maintain my iron hold

over the presidency, I rigged the elections every year so that

I could win. Bribery and blackmail were not beneath my

moral code. My leadership was marked with conniving

plans but also much entertaining activity.

There was never a dull moment and never enough activity

for me. Everyday began with a new idea in my head. One

day I plotted to become rich by selling popcorn and soft

drinks. The discovery was that by adding more salt to the

popcorn my cronies would become thirsty thereby increasing

soft drink consumption. Among these shameless schemes

was the idea to present a play in a closed theater space

advertised as free entrée. The con-man's hitch in the

operation was that after the show ended, the spectators were

obliged to pay a penny to be liberated from the theater space

I had on the sly closed with lock and key.

My notoriousness as leader/despot went so far that members

of my club who did not agree to my ideas or plans were

subjugated to a tribunal, not unlike the Communists, in

which their crimes were publicly decried and denounced.

They were purged, stripped of political privileges and denied

rights to enjoy any of our activities until I saw fit to reinstate

their fallen status. I suppose my active imagination to keep

everyone entertained kept me away from a full scale

revolution. I founded our club newspaper (another

moneymaking plot), I held regular crime watches to

investigate missing objects and misdemeanors in club rules. I

even thought up a plan to dig a hole to China which took the

good part of a summer until abandoned at stomach length

depth due to heavy rains ruining all chances of ever

beholding China.

At six I was relentlessly drawing, piles and piles of comics.

Some of the personal comic book icons I invented I list here.

Paul Kane, clever handsome detective with a sharp nose for

smelling out criminals accompanied by his not so brilliant

and rather sloppy sidekick, Mud Wilson. Sissle Bud,

strangely named mischievous crow character who had a

reputation of getting himself quickly in and out of trouble.

Besides comics, I drew pictures of skaters, birds, and a

portrait of Abraham Lincoln. I cherished drawing. If there

was paper, I would draw.

Tradition in our family was that every child had to learn to

play an instrument. I took up the piano and proved myself

musical but not inclined to practice. I much more enjoyed

fooling around, improvising. Because my mother was

involved in modern dance, at an early age I was exposed to

the music of John Cage. What could speak more to my

imagination than to make my own prepared piano? I opened

our piano up and put everything from pieces of paper to

forks between the strings. This complete new musical palette

inspired me to whacky avant-garde compositions that must

have tested the tolerance of my parent’s ears and the

endurance of our piano.

Living in Minnesota meant long cold winters. Those days I

would wake to see snow above my shoulders. We would

trudge our ways to grade school but once there I enjoyed it. I

had an insatiable desire to know everything. Science

interested me as did history, mathematics and grammar. I

excelled at school, had my club of friends, had magnificent

parents and two wonderful brothers (whom I tended to bully

but nevertheless loved very much). My parents had an upper

middle-class income which made me privileged without

knowing it. Youth was a sparkling mass of revelation and

activity as the first six years of grade school went carelessly

by.

* * *

2. Becoming Interested

At the age of thirteen, I decided to become an artist. My

parents were visiting a friend in New York. Being the bored

and reticent 13 year old that I had become, I wearily flipped

through books as my parents continued to talk to their friend.

I found an art monograph of the German painter Emile

Nolde. When I saw this book, it was as if a whole magical

world opened up to me. Here was a painter who was a

conjurer, a magician juggling whatever colors or forms he

chose to use with complete lack of restrictions. He had an

inexpressible force where everything was possible.

The colors, the distorted forms, the uninhibited expression

all exhaled freedom and power to me. This is what I wanted

to do. My vocation was set. My decision was steadfast. My

conscious life as an artist began here.

With determination I accelerated my drawing output,

burrowed art books from the library, read about art, visited

art museums, all to quench my voracious appetite to absorb

this matter. As productive as I was in churning out comic

books, the same frenzied industry was now applied to the

new mediums of watercolors, pen and ink, gauche, collages

and ultimately oils.

My interest was ravenous for the visual arts but it likewise

included literature and music. One of my first oil paintings

was a portrait of the pioneering American composer, Elliott

Carter. I painted his thick sweeping and curling hair to recall

the daring and thrilling compositions I so admired. As piano

lessons continued, my patient, wise and very beloved

teacher, Sanford Margolis, was astute enough to see that I

would never be a studied performer. He knew that piano

practice did not agree with me and therefore set out on an

intensive program to learn how to improvise. Our weekly

lessons were one big orgy of spontaneous sound but always

within a parameter of limitations. It is to him that I owe my

continued interest in musical composition, without his

enlightened teaching, I would not be composing music

today.

At age 14, I found a novel in the library called “Tarr” about

the life of an artist living in Paris around 1917. The author

was in reality also a painter, the eccentric and cerebral

dynamo, Wyndham Lewis. His influence over me was to be

a keystone to many of my further developments as an artist.

After attempting to imitate him, I slowly was able to break

from under the spell. I think what most appealed to me about

Wyndham Lewis was that he was a multi-talented outsider,

few really liked him. He was aggressive in his intellect,

sharp, satirical, talented, with strong opinions and much

visual inventiveness. For some reason not many have taken

him seriously. His writer friends like TS Eliot, James Joyce

and Ezra Pound did. There were a few artists among others

Henry Moore, Michael Ayrton and Francis Bacon that were

aware of his gifts. But somehow he made himself impossible

to love. As for myself, I think I can safely say that Wyndham

Lewis was almost exclusively the man that lured me into the

mesmerizing world of art.

At age 15, I designed a cover for my later abandoned literary

and arts magazine called “Turbo”. The cover represents a

machine-like insect in black sharp angular silhouette that

recall some of the early English Vorticist movement’s

energy. In my efforts to recruit literary talent for my

magazine I had a long interview with the then completely

unknown Andrew Wylie in Cambridge, Mass. I had read a

poem of his and thought that this was the kind of work I was

looking for. Mr. Wylie gave up writing only to become the

biggest and richest literary agent in the world. I also bumped

into Robert Creeley but did not consider him good enough

for my magazine. What lofty ambitions!

One of my close high school friends was Dennis Lang. We

met in the last years of high school and found ourselves

talking about everything. Dennis had a great interest in film

and among other things that was also one of my passions.

After polluting our minds with an overdose of avant-garde

films we decided to corroborate on a film project. I would

think of images and impressions for a rather loose story line

and Dennis would do the actual work. The film was called

“The Game”. It was a silent 16 millimeter film accompanied

by the clanging and turbulent sounds of George Antheil’s

“Ballet Mechanique”, America’s bad boy of modern music.

My contribution to the film was a minimum but the medium

enchanted my imagination. The scenario revolves around a

running young man who appears hounded by unknown

pursuers. The assault of quickly moving images culminates

in the young man taking refuge in a telephone booth and

shooting himself with a water pistol. The film won some

prizes. I give all credit to Dennis. Only recently, through the

wonder of Internet have we found each other again. We are

resuming exchanges from where we left off 40 years ago.

Life is remarkable.

By 16, I had already discovered Francis Bacon, the painter,

and was amazed at his cruel yet enlightened vision. There

were so many artists that I loved, especially the modern

ones, Picasso and Matisse, heading the list. Like everything

else that engrossed me, there was always inside me a

crammed and overpowering energy to assimilate, to

investigate, to explore all the visual treasures and exploit the

information through imaginative channels.

The paintings and drawings accumulated as I persisted to

imitate all the celebrated modern artists. It was my learning

assignment. However the authentic secrets to uniqueness in

style were yet to be revealed. That would take another 20

years to happen.

* * *

3. Art School

Freedom! Liberation from all the conforming standards of

middle class high school! No more expectations of

normality. Yes, art school was one big joyous jump into

insanity. I swear that art schools then were a safe-haven for

many half-wits, neurotics, dysfunctional border-liners and

disturbed anti-social misfits. These lost souls were received

with open arms. At any rate that was the situation near the

end of the 60’s and beginning 70’s.

Not only were these schools recognized lunatic asylums,

they were run and often taught by questionable cutting-edge

pendants that held the torch high for absurdity, imbecility

and verbose madness. Not that I didn’t enjoy it. I loved it. I

loved watching human folly, especially when it was thinly

disguised under the coat of progress, innovation and

intelligence. I loved challenging these righteous warriors of

advanced art. I loved to listen to their inflated jargon and

occasionally I would punch holes in the thin air balloons of

their artistic caprice.

My primary introduction to the batty world of art began the

first days of art school at the Minneapolis College of Art and

Design in 1967. I was confronted with the then young and

upcoming showman, Christo. His project, happening or

whatever you would like to call it, rallied all first-year

students to help in packaging a huge cloth balloon of air that

would be bundled and subsequently lifted up by a helicopter

at the art school. This bag of air would be transported to our

local Mecca of modern art, The Walker Art Center, where it

would be dropped from the helicopter and displayed as a

magnificent trophy of conceptual art for all those interested.

Projects like this always do well in the press. With a great

deal of awe the event was hailed as a pioneering step on the

road to contemporary art evolution.

I have always been astonished at how so many artists take

their own work over-seriously, among them myself in the

beginning. Experience has now taught me otherwise. A

friend and I thought we would test Christo’s sense of humor

and constructed a small model carton helicopter that was

able to pick up a balloon of air and transport it from one end

of the art school auditorium to the other. We summoned

Christo aside with the words, “We are great admirers of your

work, Christo. Being humble students that we are, we can

only make small attempts at understanding and reshaping

your thoughts. Our own little project is a miniature bow to

the greatness and scale of your own achievement.” He went

to see our own Lilliputian happening, my friend holding the

balloon and I lifting the balloon with my carton helicopter

simultaneously creating stuttering helicopter sounds through

my mouth and throat as the helicopter and balloon lifted to

maximum height of my arm stretch. Christo frowned

furiously and walked away without a word.

My following encounter was of a much more fruitful type.

The next “visiting teacher” was Roberto Matta, last living

real Surrealist who decided to give us a demonstration of his

art. He precluded his demonstration with a long dissertation

about the fact that neither artists nor journalists were

acquainted with the original Surrealist manifestos. His

passionate cry was that all members of an enlightened

society should read this. When the accomplishment of a

visual movement is dependent on the rhetoric of the

movement’s leaders, I become distrustful. Personally I put

forward that art speaks on its own terms and not through the

mouthpiece of language. This said I will rest my case.

However it was Matta’s demonstration that taught me

something essential to creating.

Vital to the religion of Surrealism is contact with the

unconscious. This precept prescribes techniques as automatic

writing, dream analysis and indulgence in all things

primitive to attain this contact. Our free and uncontrolled

body movements are closely related to these underworld

regions. In other words, if I make a scribble half asleep, the

marks left on the paper will indicate some activity deep in

my brain that is vital to my profoundest being. Matta’s

method was to use soft charcoal and in a semi-trance apply

this to a huge canvas, scratching, pushing, gesturing many

abstract marks upon the surface. After the canvas was

cluttered up enough, he would stop and slowly concentrate

upon his blotches and scratches. Once past the meditation

phase, he continued to draw using these abstract marks as an

inspiration to fantasize figures and machines. In much the

same way as children will imagine creatures on wallpaper or

in the vague form of clouds; Matta was using his splotches

as stimulation for his own busy imaginings.

The impact of this lesson I did not feel until years after art

school. Caught in an impasse after making paintings in an

almost academic way, which entailed pre-studies, many

different drawings that in their final phase were carried over

meticulously to the canvas and following that blocked in

with color in much the same way that Renaissance artists

did, I remembered Matta’s lesson and decided to give it a

try. The jump from a rationally controlled way of

constructing art to an almost irrational and much less

restricted way of painting was an ominous one. It was my

great leap into the unknown darkness of my own spontaneity

and energy. But it worked, it happened 20 years after

finishing art school. The road was long to developing my

own style. For whatever the oratory and propaganda of the

method, which I leave for what it is or is not, the technique

did work. My own manner of painting came at last to life.

My subject matter now originates after a vehement session

of abstract spattering and gesturing. I surrender to the

unconscious and let things happen. In this fashion I still

continue to work.

Returning to the struggling young artist at school, my further

education was enhanced the next few years with the

teacher/artist Michael O’Neill. Contrary to Matta, Mr.

Michael O’Neill was a teacher of the old tradition. He had

been a student of David Bailey in Philadelphia. This school

of teaching emphasized clarity of line, distinctness of tone,

classical relationships in composition, strong draftsmanship

and purity of form. Their art stems back to the skills of

Ingres and the steaming feuds between Delacroix and Ingres

were for them still an actuality.

At our first lesson we were told to throw away our dirt sticks

(charcoal) and to use no softer pencils than 2H, a hard sharp

lead that won’t allow any smudging. For our first lesson, the

studio was emptied and we were split into 4 groups that each

was directed to a corner in the room where we were expected

to make a drawing of that white corner. It is still impossible

for me to imagine a more difficult task. Scratching with our

hard pencils almost cutting the paper in an attempt to create

a shadow, hopelessly trying to think of how two planes that

meet each other can be made into an interesting drawing plus

the merciless critique of our possessed and fanatic teacher

were all the ingredients of a thorny task. It was a tormenting

challenge but challenges are what I am fond of.

The goals of the lessons were to see things intensively and

correctly but not only that. One recurring sentence that was

drilled into our ears was, “make a metaphor of the situation”.

You concentrated, you observed well and then you translated

the information seen onto a paper with a line or shade that

was not the same as what was perceived but a new allegory,

symbol or metaphor that would arouse in the viewer a

similar experience to what was distinguished. The ability to

create or imagine this new metaphor was “art” manifesting

itself into a drawing.

My other important teacher was James Burpee. He came

from the San Francisco school of the late 50’s. California

was just then bathing in a realist revival and Jim’s teachers

were Diebenkorn and James Weeks. These artists stressed

very strong geometrical configurations, the use of almost

locked jigsaw-like compositions where every form, be it a

scissors or a shadow was an entity or sub entity complicit to

the composition.

The third year in art school was spent abroad at Ateliers 63

in Haarlem, Holland. This school was set up as a reaction to

the established Royal Dutch Arts Academy. The Netherlands

had long been under the yoke of a severely conservative

teaching tradition that was still locked into the late 19 th

century way of instruction. A small group of well-known and

advanced artists decided to start a new type of school. This

school, “Ateliers 63”, called that because it was founded in

1963, was more a place to work than a place of training.

Talented young artists were given a studio to work in and at

the end of the week, their work was criticized by

professional artists.

A most important teacher there was Edgar Fernhout. He

made me aware that painting was serious business. I gained

respect for my medium, for the paints that I used, for the

space I was allowed to have. As what happened more often

in my life, I over-incorporated this seriousness into my own

trail blazing faith with a disproportionate belief in my own

ego. The young contending artist had become a proponent of

the new esthetic, a soldier of beauty that combatted and

defended the world from conceptual disillusionment, an

individual that championed professionalism back into the

arts. Suffice it to say that youth glories in itself.

Language will never be a strong point for most visual artists.

And speaking English by a Dutch artist is a language in

itself. One of the artist-teachers that came to my studio to

give a weekly critique was Rainer Lucassen. He was at that

point glorified by the Dutch art world in the pantheons of

modern art museums as the Dutch version of an American

pop artist. This small man with large glasses and a huge

cigar would come into my studio puffing away and take a

long time looking at my paintings. The silent tension would

rise and finally between the larger and larger billowing

clouds of cigar smoke he would say, “I tink…………. I

tink…………… I tink I like it………………….I tink I like

it…………………. (very long pause)…………not.”

“Coming home” was what my first year in Europe felt like. I

had never been comfortable living in what I thought was the

cultural desert of America. My reading of much European

literature and my partial European ancestry were cause for a

great attraction to this continent. I felt connected again. The

abundance of art treasures, the new types of people and food,

culture often speaking on every corner, nourished me with

delight.

My travels were an education in themselves. The first week I

jounced over to England to see the great Balthus retrospect.

In Paris I took in Poussin, the Impressionists, Post-

Impressionists and many moderns. I sat at the foot of the

Acropolis trying to imagine a thousand years of Greek

civilization. I toured Italy to marvel at the Renaissance

masters. One visit stands out above the others. It was in the

little San Marco church of Florence which houses the otherworldly

beauty of 15th century's Fra Angelico's frescos. The

interior of the church is divided into several separate niches,

each niche telling an episode in the story of Jesus. The

frescos combine a simplicity of form, a subtlety of pastel

color and a searching empathy for the expression of human

spirit that enchanted and struck me with all the power of a

modern art masterpiece. I was transfixed and amazed. I was

moved. Fra Angelico, this monk of hundreds of years ago,

did everything to me that I hoped one day my paintings

would achieve with their public.

By the end of the year I felt more at home in Europe than in

America. I wanted to continue my stay at Ateliers 63 but the

director had other plans and did not want to have me any

longer. I did however have the support of the very gifted

Dutch artist, Co Westerik. He encouraged me to continue

painting and tried to champion my cause. His admiration of

my work was a compliment to my ego. I left Holland with a

slightly self satisfied though equally sad feeling, being

compelled to complete my last year of art education in

Minneapolis.

I came home and the Vietnam War was raging, pop heroes

were dying, demonstrations were erupting everywhere.

People dressed like gypsies, took drugs, talked like morons,

ate healthy or unhealthy food, talked about “getting back to

the country.” The last year at art school was like the time

itself, one big circus, a carnival of colorful people gesturing

on the stage of political manipulation, self-indulgent

performances and exuberant nonsense. The hippie children

had gone wild but they were now being asked to partake in

serious business.

Just a few weeks after graduation from art school, I was

requested to take an army physical examination. The young

naive and slightly cocky artist who was shy with women but

loud arguing about art, this newly educated product of his

time who no longer ate meat because he thought it was cruel

to animals, was now being asked to be cruel to his fellow

human beings. My country was calling me to war.

* * *

4. Floating

The art school had been a wonderful arena of laughter,

discovery, and pleasure. Near the end of the last year my

favorite teacher and by that time close friend, Michael

O’Neill got himself shot in a shop. It was a silly argument

about something small. The owner got angry, pulled a gun

and shot Michael in the back six times.

By now, 1971, I felt that America was in a spiral of selfdestructing

violence. We were involved in an unjust war,

using terrible weapons, there were riots and corruption was

high. The shooting of my friend closed the door for me. I

wanted to leave and never come back. I never have really felt

as if I was an American. I adore the landscape. I love Native

Americans. I even enlisted myself as a member of the

American Indian Movement. But being an ordinary

American didn’t figure into my chromosomes.

The army was hot on every young man’s tail to get them

enlisted for the ever increasing demand for cannon fodder,

including me. I considered escaping to Canada to stay at my

grandmother’s summer home in Prince Edward Island.

However the idea of being in everlasting exile from my own

country seemed suddenly to be going too far. Perhaps “never

come back” was not exactly what I meant. Being a

conscientious objector meant being almost permanently in a

work camp. If there is anything Americans hate more than

atheists it is people who will not die for their country. I

wanted to live, to paint not to sit in a work camp because of

moral objections to an idiotic struggle.

It was now a question of playing my cards well to get thrown

out of the draft as a mental case. Looking back now perhaps

I was that already without having to put in the effort. Not

long after art school's graduation, I was called up for my

army physical examination. I was unprepared. An

acquaintance told me that many people were getting around

the problem by taking a drug called “speed”. It accelerated

the heart’s tempo whereby the army judged you unfit for

service. I had never done this before nor do I ever hope to do

it again. I took what was said to be the adequate dose to fool

them. Indeed my heart zipped away like Speedy Gonzales. I

went to the army building to do my duty. No entrance! All

doors barred, masses of police, no way to get near to the

building. Demonstrators had chosen that day to bomb the

building. My first strategy had failed. We were informed that

there would be a later call up. I whizzed back home feeling

as if I had drunken four pots of coffee.

Exhausted and disappointed, my parents came to my rescue

and offered the help of a psychiatrist to write a letter

concerning my unfitness for the army. I acquired my letter

and took it with me for my next examination.

For some reason, possibly it is just my generation; all

positions of authority arouse in me an unremitting desire to

disrupt and aggravate the system. The sight of any kind of

uniform raises my adrenaline. I have immense pleasure

watching television programs like “Sergeant Bilko” or

“Dad’s Army” where the inherent ineptness of these

institutions is made farcical.

Seeing my commanding doctor yell out to us “men” to strip

and buckle over so that he could stick his finger up our asses

as we were ordered to cough somehow stimulated my

imagination to cough directly in his gritty face. The army

was not happy with me.

By 11:45 it was getting close to lunch time but there was just

enough time to have an appointment with the army

psychiatrist. I sat down and gave him my letter. He smirked

at me and said, “I don’t even have to read this. We know that

all psychiatrists and doctors are against the war so why

should we pay attention to them. You’re going have to talk

to me, young man.” So that I did. I concocted a story about

my knowledge of an extraterrestrial conspiracy set on

dooming the human race to oblivion. Unknown to most of

us, our planet had been infiltrated by aliens who were

devoted to undermining our existence. Quite obvious

actually. One half of us are normal peace-loving good people

and the other half are extra-terrestrial creatures given to

abnormal violence and delusions of power. The good half

was the remaining few that had not yet been indoctrinated.” I

went on like this for a fairly long time, genuinely trying the

doctor’s patience. Suddenly he said “Stop this bullshit. I’m

hungry and want to eat my lunch. I am giving you the lowest

rank possible. You will never be able to serve in the army

again, understand me? You probably will never be able to

get a job either. Get out of here.” I have seldom felt so

relieved.

The army out of the way I had to think of something to do

with my life. I did not want to continue my education. I just

wanted to paint. But how? Where? My good friend at the

time, Philip Stellmacher, had the use of a farm in western

Minnesota. I could live with him there and we could paint

ourselves sick in the quiet of nature. I took him up on the

deal and we proceeded to get ourselves in contact with

Mother Nature, complete with cigarettes, macrobiotic food

and alcohol. After a few days of communing with the

cosmos, the city heralded us back like a magnet. We drove

three hours back to Minneapolis civilization, filling up on

cheese enchiladas and drunken bar conversations. Then we

got “messed up” by the city and had to flee back to the farm.

This back and forth shuttle continued for about three months.

Poor Philip was desperately in love with a woman named

Laura. Laura had accompanied us to the farm a few times

and Philip was convinced that this was the love of his life.

After awhile Laura appeared to have more interest in a hippy

whom Philip christened as “Headband”. Unfortunate Philip

was stricken so hard with jealousy that he began imagining

Headband everywhere. He had to keep an eye on Headband

to determine exactly what Machiavellian plans Headband

was up to. He had to keep an eye on Laura to see if she was

cheating on him. In a moment of desperation Philip decided

to break into Laura’s apartment to read her diaries. As a

good friend it was only logical that I had to help him in this

venture. Someone had to keep on the watch out as Philip

ransacked her apartment for her diaries. After screening

Laura’s movements long enough to know that she would not

be home, the day of the break-in arrived. Successfully prying

the door open with a knife Philip searched the house like a

madman. He found the diaries just where he suspected them

to be. The now profusely sweating Philip began to read her

diaries out loud, “There’s not a word about me!” He

screamed. “Headband neither! Hey, what’s this? It says here

that ‘Michael is my true love’!” It was the first I had heard of

it. Now I was getting the mistrusting eye. The trust was later

restored but by now I was beginning to understand that I was

befriended to a maniac.

By February, 1972 my parents were once again so kind as to

buy me a ticket to Holland. I had earned money at an auto

assembly line and had a small inheritance from the sale of

my grandfather’s violin. With this in my hand I left America

never to permanently return.

* * *

5. To India

Spreading its rosy rays over the crystalline mountains, the

sun flushed the jagged range with a soft filtered pinkish

light. The sky was glass aquamarine and had a glow as if in a

Persian fairy tale. And truly this was Persia or as it is now

called Iran. The morning air was crisp and we had just

crossed the Turkish border. I was on my way to India after a

few months stay in Holland. I will never forget that sight,

never feeling closer to a dream in real life as at that moment.

The rugged majestic mountains were completely bathed in

that rose-pink dawn light; the sky had an otherworldly gemlike

blue quality. The air was sharp. For a moment I was

transported into a vision whose grandiose and mesmerizing

beauty has stayed with me for the rest of my life.

America was behind me. I surmise that my trip to the East

was a modish thing to do for my generation. The

enchantment of Eastern philosophy, in my case Tibetan

Buddhism, and the curiosity to experience a different part of

the world had a strong pull. I began hitch-hiking across

Europe but by Istanbul discovered that it was just as cheap

and much safer to travel with trains and buses. They say that

Istanbul feels like the gateway to the East when traveling in

that direction and like the gateway to the West when coming

back, a view I confirm.

The glittering bazaars, the hypnotic and tangled music, the

spicy food, all contributed to the sensation that I was

approaching another continent. And yet with Iran the feeling

was even stronger.

Anyone traveling to the Middle East will tell you that the

attraction of the place has much to do with the intricate and

compelling architecture. But it also has to do with the

people. We in the West have lost the fine art of

communicating and living with each other. In the East

contact with other human beings feels special. A dinner is

not only a happy event, it is a celebration of good company,

laughing, enjoying life. The economic poverty of existence

seems to be more than compensated with a natural richness

in social contact. If anything, that is the thing I most miss

living in the West now.

Although I did not want to admit it, I looked and acted like a

full-fledged hippie. I distinguished myself from my lesser

sorts by describing myself as an artist strongly distancing

myself from hippiedom. Wrong, the spirit of the time had

invested itself in me and I was just another long-haired,

slumping, guitar playing, mushy thinking hippie. It was of

course the proper hippie thing to do by traveling to India.

One of the holy places of Islam is Medina, Iran. Quite

remarkable it is to see how architecture correlates and

kindles religious feeling. While not adhering to Islam, I

could appreciate how the many labyrinthine ways, the

intricate geometrical patterns, the fine cut stones and

ornamentations could together contribute to invoking a

divine sentiment. I walked the streets of this holy city in

utter wonder of its hallowed splendor. At one point I felt

someone pulling on my arm. It was an Iranian who said very

quickly and loudly, “You are the most holy person I have

ever met!” and then hastily walked by me. Unaware of why

he would say such a thing I was later informed that for the

Islam bearded people are indeed regarded as consecrated.

What a terrible misunderstanding.

* * *

Of the Islamic countries, Afghanistan was the country I most

enjoyed. It was and still is one of the poorest countries in the

world but the people are proud. It was the only country

where I never encountered a beggar. Crossing the border

from Iran to Afghanistan in a mini-bus we were caught in

my first ever sand storm. This whirling cloud of red dust

made virtually everything blurred. It came as a torrential

blast, blinding the road and giving you the feeling of being

inside a womb of diffused but sharp pink light, nothing else.

How the driver was able to see anything is to me a mystery.

The storm left just as quickly as it came and suddenly we

were in Herat.

Herat is known as the first real test for Western stomachs to

brave Eastern bacteria. After one day I was lying in bed

marveling at the fact that all the walls were painted almost to

the ceiling but not further and groaning with stomach

anguish. Attempting to eat something healthy but not too

spicy, I was astonished to see that within 20 minutes the

piece of apple I ate came out exactly the same as it went in. I

will spare you more details and merely say that after two

days I survived the test and was able to continue on my

journey.

Afghanistan has a strange charm. The nomads, the colorful

cloths, the sparkling and often beautiful silver jewelry are

some elements of allure. Sometimes speeding past in our

ramshackle vehicles across the desert, a solitary statue or

crumbling minaret from a long gone civilization could be

seen accented against the vast nothingness of sand and rock.

It reminded me of the words of Shelly’s famous poem

Ozymandias, “Nothing beside remains. Round the decay of

that colossal wreck, boundless and bare the lone and level

sands stretch far away.”

I never saw a woman’s face there but by seeing the children I

could imagine that they could be exceptionally fine-looking.

The little girls were like miniature works of art, so moving in

their expressions, such striking eyes. The old people were

proud and everywhere we were invited to share the hot

fuming zesty “chi” or tea.

Traveling from Herat, we approached Kandahar within a day

and were told that this was dangerous territory. My total

unawareness of politics has since then increased and I now

know that we were traveling through the heart of Taliban

territory. The beautifully laid out plateaus and curling

valleys gave no indication of the inner turmoil within that

nation.

After another day we were in Kabul, that bustling exotic

place spread over a flat dusty plane wedged between dry

looming mountains. In Kabul I was told that we Westerners

would be complete fools if we did not smuggle money into

India. The Indian rate of exchange was exorbitant and the

black market here in Kabul was greatly to our advantage.

The police authorities even recommended that tourists go to

the black market because in their words no one in his right

mind would go to the Bank of Afghanistan. Convinced that

this was a viable strategy, I decided to put half of my new

Indian rupees into my boots and see if I could launch myself

into the fine art of smuggling.

* * *

Before approaching my destination of India, I had to pass

through Pakistan. No nation gave me a more uncomfortable

sentiment than this one. What is it that irritated me so, that

gave me such a queer edgy feeling? There was a sort of

nervous fanaticism creeping under the skin of so many of

these people. They were anxious and emotional, ready to

join a crowd, search for a scapegoat and kill someone.

Out of curiosity I visited a secret place where weapons were

being handmade. Blindfolded, a few of us Westerners were

transported to a distant site outside the hills of Peshawar and

were introduced to a small group of hardworking and

amazingly friendly craftsmen. To give these people credit

the sheer craftsmanship to make rifles with such lack of

advanced tools is a marvel. I’m not sure why I was allowed

to see this small gun factory. I presume that these people

were so proud of what they were doing that with child-like

trust I was allowed to admire them. Now almost 40 years

later I realize what I was seeing was a munitions storehouse

for Al Qaida.

The impression of Pakistan remained uncomfortable the

whole week that I was there. It is the only place in my life

where I encountered a déjà vu experience. One night while

in Peshawar I lost my way. Looking around me I suddenly

had a notion that I knew precisely where I was. I was able to

navigate all the streets, knowing exactly where the baker, the

butcher and the clothes-maker were without ever having

been there before in my life. I returned to my hotel with a

convinced reaction that I must have had a bad former life

here and wanted to leave as quickly as possible.

* * *

Finally our day for departure to India approached but not

without traveling through that cavernous and irksome divide

known as the Khyber Pass. Once again we were blindfolded

as all tourists were suspected of being possible spies and the

eternal strife between India and Pakistan was raising its head

again.

As soon as this very long, winding and slow crossing was

completed, I finally arrived at the Indian border full of false

confidence that my smuggling act would succeed. Earlier on

in Istanbul, I had made acquaintance with two English globe

trotters that in their twenties had already traversed the earth

ball three times. Their life ambition was to work at odd jobs

across the world with the aim of rotating around the globe ad

infinitum. Impressed with their knowledge of the habits and

customs of different peoples and cultures I hooked on to

them as a sort of insurance policy for my own safe ways. It

was these two that convinced me that smuggling money into

India was an enormously profitable venture. They

themselves had their boots custom made in Afghanistan so

that large stashes of money could be cunningly hidden inside

their heels.

The border control station was very small and had to handle

many tourists. The work tempo was not quick at all. It was

my first introduction to the Indian conception of time which

is I swear a slow motion affair. Resigned to waiting my turn

I observed the other tourists having their bags thoroughly

checked and often having to strip. There was even a massive

boot control for smuggling! The rumor spread fast that the

Indian officers were all corrupt and would take bribes to get

through customs. Once the full amount of smuggled money

was apprehended the officials made a deal to keep exactly

one half of that total and you were allowed the freedom to

travel on.

Occasionally I have inspired moments in my life. This was

one of them. When asked to open my baggage I broke out in

one of my very rare angry diatribes of fiery indignity. I

yelled, screamed and slammed my fist on the table. How

dare they insinuate that I was lying to them? How dare they

expect to get away with corrupt practices when I had it in my

power to show them off? How incompetent to even think

that I would consider smuggling money into their country?

“All right,” I said, “Don’t even waste your breath asking. I

will take off my boots for you.” Grabbing at my right boot in

an acute explosion of bluff, the agent looked at me with a

white face and said quickly, “No, no that will not be

necessary. You may carry on. Welcome to India.”

Needless to say, my two friends who had invested a

considerable amount of money in their false bottom boots

had both half their fortunes vanished and were very put out. I

was miraculously rich.

* * *

Being in India was like being in a lush garden. After all the

Middle Eastern dust and waste there was growth again;

abundant verdant flowers, so many diverse trees and profuse

foliage; the intoxicating smells of Indian cooking and the

teeming activities on markets and streets. It was good to be

here. It felt relieving. It felt human. My bus made the long

prodding trip to Upper Dharamsala, a small Tibetan refugee

village at the foot of the Northwest Himalayas, my

destination.

At that time my interest in Eastern philosophy was strongly

anchored in the Tibetan Buddhist teachings. I still find

myself occasionally muttering the Buddha’s watchword,

“Not this. Not this.” A friend from Ateliers 63, Brasjo, had

recently renounced his artistic vocation and decided he

would study to become a Tibetan monk there. We had

exchanged letters and his admiring descriptions of the

splendor of this region were what persuaded me that this was

the end location I wanted to see. I was not disappointed.

The first thing that struck me was that, contrary to all the

other people in the East, the Tibetans are always smiling.

Their innate good-feeling radiance, their complete honesty in

dealing with everyone and their humorous charm are

characteristics that have endeared them to me for the rest of

my life.

Our hotel owner greeted us with extraordinary kindness and

much laughter. At one point I considered him more holy than

the monks. We talked to him often and after a few weeks he

revealed his story to us. “You tourists think that I am good. I

am not good. I have not been a good person. I will pay for

what I have done by having to be reborn a thousand times. A

person who follows the Buddha must respect life. I have not

done that. I have killed a man.”

It was the first time in my life that I have met a murderer,

and what a kind and beautiful murderer he was. What a

punishment to know that you have to prove yourself a good

person in a thousand lifetimes.

* * *

Just a few days living in India and the short war of 1971

between Pakistan and India broke out. America was siding

with Pakistan so I became prime suspect for the local police.

Most of my days were spent either making drawings and

water colors outside or drinking tea in the hotel. In the hotel

lounge, there were usually some tourists, a few locals from

the village and a group of four police who generally had

nothing better to do than drink tea. Excuse me, they had me

to watch! This was before the days of digital cameras and

ordinary cameras were probably too expensive for the police

budget. One member of the group was a police artist. His

task was to surreptitiously make portraits of me while I

unsuspectingly drank my tea. At one point I took my sketch

book to the tea room and clandestinely began to render my

own depiction of my colleague artist. Just before leaving, I

walked up to the group and presented the illustration to the

Police Academy saying, “Look, this is my portrait of you. I

now think I have a right to see the picture you made of me.”

There was an icy silence and no one replied. After that the

police disappeared from the tea room never to be seen again.

* * *

Upper Dharamsala, the village of exile for the Dali Lama

and his entourage, was a cozy one-street village high on a

Himalayan mountain overlooking a spectacular view of the

valley. I am told that since the Dali Lama received the Nobel

Prize in the 1980’s it has become completely

commercialized. The center of the town had the prayer

wheels that are continually being rolled and chanted upon.

You could often smell yak butter which the Tibetans like to

drink in their tea. The street was a vibrant array of many

different people richly dressed in dark maroon red jackets

with silver, amber and turquoise adornments. Their

extraordinary faces had handsomely carved out lines

representing much humor, humanity and strength of

personality.

The nearby monastery was adorned with multicolored flags

where huge horns, in colossal raging blasts of sound, could

be heard echoing over the mountains. I am sure the avantgarde

20th century composer Edgar Varèse would have loved

it. I did.

I was able to secure a room to rent on the mountain for about

10 cents a day. I attended a few classes about Buddhism and

met the man whose name I have forgotten second down from

the Dali Lama. He was convinced I would return. Who

knows?

In my little room I boiled my vegetables as the food from

restaurants was so hot there was no way it could possibly be

swallowed without scorching your insides out. At that time I

was a vegetarian so essentially I was happy with my little

burner, one pot and one vegetable. In the daytime I took

hikes over the whole mountain occasionally stopping to

make drawings. Evenings were disconcerting as a little

mouse friend liked to scurry over my face at three in the

morning.

* * *

The days passed slowly. I began to wonder what I was doing

and why I was there. A young Tibetan tried to marry me to

his sister but I politely desisted. The war had ended. I just

soaked in the spectacular scenery and all the warm ambiance

of the people living there, not only Tibetans but I was told

six groups all speaking different languages lived on that

mountain.

Following a few months stay I received a letter from Loes,

my later wife-to-be, telling me that she was divorcing her

then first husband. I was in love and wanted to go back to

Holland to be with her. I decided to travel to New Delhi and

see if I could fly out of India as the Pakistani border was still

closed. My original idea was to take a bus there. It was to

leave at 6.30 in the morning. Being now accustomed to

traveling on all sorts of public transportation in the East I

was aware that delays were standard protocol taking

anywhere from ½ hour to three days. The night before I slept

comfortably and left the hotel completely relaxed to meet my

bus at 6.40. To my great consternation it had left exactly on

time! Why in God’s name? Well, this was the starting point

of the trip so they left on time, after that, traffic and roads

facilitated the bus being late everywhere else.

I was angry, with little cash and frustrated, I returned to my

old hotel. The kind old killer owner offered me free tea and I

sat dejected wondering what I could now do. A few

Americans were sitting there, heard my story and kindly

offered a free trip to Delhi in their van as they were going

there that same day. I felt lucky. In fact I was even luckier

than I ever could imagine.

An hour later, we were driving the steep dirt roads up and

down the mountains until coming to a particularly deep

ravine. There appeared to be a great commotion ahead and

we stopped to take a look at what had happened far below. In

the chasm was the wreck of a bus that had fallen from high

and was now an alarming wreck bathed in blood. The bus

was the same bus I should have been on that morning at

6.30.

* * *

I arrived in Delhi. My more than generous father had once

again bailed me out financially and I now had enough money

to take an airplane across Pakistan to Afghanistan. Leaving

India was a memorable experience for once again I had a

bizarre incident at border control. I came to the airport and

saw that the usual slowed down time procedure was at hand

for checking passports. Most of the tourists were getting long

complicated questions to answer in Indian English which is

quite often a hybrid type of language that only Indians

understand.

The passport control agent looked my hippie-ness over and

said rather rapidly, “Are you a vegetarian?” “Excuse me,” I

answered. I was not sure I was hearing correctly. He raised

his voice significantly louder, “I said are you a vegetarian?

DO YOU EAT MEAT?!?” “No, no,” I answered

dumfounded. “Carry on.” I could swiftly leave passport

control and India.

* * *

My trip back to Europe was in no way uneventful. I

experienced special hospitality in Tehran from a total

stranger, who brought me to his family, fed me like a king

and offered me a opulent and comfortable place to sleep. I

was anxious to move but was told that if I wanted to cross

over to Turkey I would have to take a roundabout detour via

bus to the high Northwestern town of Tabriz instead of using

the faster train. There had been, as there probably is today,

problems concerning the Kurdish population. The only safe

place to cross was far north though even that was considered

risky.

I decided to take my chance with Tabriz. As much as I

enjoyed the Persian hospitality I wanted more than ever to be

in Holland. After a very rough trip to Tabriz we remained

there several days waiting for the bus to go to Turkey. Two

mini-buses finally arrived. Suddenly everything was a sprint.

Some of the baggage had to go on the second van while the

passengers wanted to have their luggage on the bus they

were traveling in. We were told that there was no time to

change buses. We had to rush, rush. I began to feel

mistrustful although I wasn't sure why. I insisted my luggage

stay with me and watched suspiciously how some of the

other passengers’ luggage was unwillingly loaded onto the

second van.

We rocketed away but driving recklessly fast is a vice known

throughout the East. Approaching Turkey I saw the imposing

sloping outline of Mount Arat, the mountain where Noah

supposedly landed his ark. The driver seemed nervous. We

saw a roadblock ahead but just before arriving the driver

swerved into a small road on his left. “What are you doing?”

we tourists yelled. “It’s a shortcut. You will be in the next

town much faster.” The road got smaller and smaller.

Behind us were sirens. We were being chased by the police.

The driver would not answer any more questions but left the

road completely and headed his vehicle directly into the

mountains. Perhaps we were hostages to some sort of

terrorist kidnapping.

Strange it is when a person is in shock how slowly he is able

to react in a simple way. We had been in this wild chase for

what seemed more than ten minutes. Suddenly one of the

passengers awoke from the stupor and yelled, “We are not

going to take this. Pull the van to the side!” The driver

ignored him and continued speeding up the mountain until

he came to a plateau where there was no further place to go.

We mastered the steering wheel and the van stopped. Our

kidnapper jumped out of the truck and ran like a crazy man

further into the mountain. I’m not sure if he had a gun with

him or not. To our great comfort, the police came.

But the comfort was short-lived. Back in the border town the

Turkish police detained us for hours asking long questions

about the disappearance of the second mini-bus and where

we had dumped the stolen luggage. We were now the prime

suspects! Turkey has always been well known for its

inclination for barbaric prison techniques and abnormal

punishments. The original fear of being kidnapped had now

exponentially exploded into a fear of possible life

imprisonment for an uncommitted crime. Perhaps I am

exaggerating. After hours we were released and left free to

continue our journey.

* * *

The next big town was Kars. There we could take a train

further. Fine, but as expected the train was delayed. When

would it come? No one knew. If Allah wishes was our

answer. We could stay at our hotel and when the train came

we would be warned. After a night’s sleep we asked again,

when will the train come? If Allah wishes. The cold in

northern Turkey has to be the most arctic temperature I have

ever experienced. Believe me, coming from Minnesota, I

thought I knew what cold was. No way. This was an ordeal.

While waiting, I think I ate so many rice puddings I could

dream of them. Finally in the middle of the third night we

were awakened. Our train had arrived and as usual it was a

frantic charge to the train. Once boarded, we waited another

two hours before actually departing. It was a miracle! The

train did move and we were headed west.

* * *

At the next big city we were transferred from the train to

large fully packed buses where some of our accompanying

passengers were goats, hens or sheep. The temperature was

way below zero and the bus heating did not work. Even with

leather boots, my feet needed to be wrapped in newspaper to

avoid freezing. After traversing the rest of Turkey on wintry

roads strewn like a virtual battlefield with ruined buses along

the snowed-in sidelines, I at last arrived in the cosmopolitan

what now seemed Western city of Istanbul. I was sick of the

East. I yearned to be back as quickly as possible.

There was enough money left to travel to Germany so I took

the sleeper train across Europe. I awoke in night-time

Frankfurt, stepped out of the train and went walking into the

city. Lights shone, cars riveted by, signs shouted their neon

slogans and people moved over the busy streets as hurried

automatons. It felt empty and useless. All the warmth and

kindliness of the Eastern people had disappeared. I had

returned to a bitter sterile environment of materialistic

wealth and spiritual poverty. As the mechanical screeches of

cars and trucks increased, as the blinking lights bombarded

my eyes, I slowly began to realize a sad and definite leavetaking,

a final farewell to the East.

* * *

6. Floundering

“The most interesting woman I ever met was myself.” This

remarkable expression was made by a male Brazilian artist I

met in the 1980’s. It signifies the absolute absurdity of a

large period of my existence from 1971 to 1986. It was a

complete feeling of being cut off from the world and not

knowing who I was. For all I knew I could have been the

most interesting anything in the world apart from being

myself. But who that was, I did not know.

Not having met myself, I had no idea who I was, what I was

doing nor for whom or for what I was doing something.

When I returned to Holland I lived a year with my future

wife-to-be and in 1973, Loes and I married. The joy of our

years together was often overshadowed by self-doubt, by

frustrations and alienation from the art world, my desire to

be a part of it as well as my desire not to be a part of it. But

our marriage was a very happy one. So much of what I am

today I owe to her. So much of what I have become came

through her encouragement and support.

I had to earn a living. After attempting many odd jobs I

landed my first real job as a fork-lift operator. My inherent

pleasure in arranging space was rewarded by the task of

keeping a large warehouse of advertising folders in order.

Learning a new language was paramount to achieving more.

I decided that since the Dutch found my Bachelor of Fine

Arts degree valueless, I would start all over and become a

drawing teacher on their terms.

These attempts were misguided. I am not a teacher. The

strength of a good teacher is that he or she can criticize the

pupil in a constructive way. I tend to bless all efforts and

have difficulties being hard on a student. My favorite

teachers were always hard on me but I could not be.

Trying to learn Dutch, to work at a job way below my level,

to study and take classes in the evening plus all the new

adjustments of married life all contributed to a complete

stand still in my painting, a stop which lasted three years.

By 1976, I had changed jobs and now worked for a computer

company. To my great fortune, after one year the situation

changed to a part-time job. Suddenly there was time to paint

again. It all came back to me in an entirely novel way. I

persisted to paint but even so felt it was not yet my personal

style.

Living in isolation, producing work in a dark secluded

studio, it all added up to little.

This gloomy period of my life was occasionally lit up by

vacations and social visits. Apart from a few small shows in

the beginning of the 70's, I had totally stopped exhibiting my

work. The silence lasted for 15 years. I knew no other artists

with two exceptions, my brother-in-law who was and has

remained supportive of my work and my old art school

friend Steven Murphy who now lived in France with his wife

and son.

In the 70’s and 80’s my wife and I met Steven and Martine

regularly for summer vacations together. One of our trips

was to the small French Brittany village of Pont Avon, the

village where Gauguin had joined an idealistic artist

community. Steven and I hoped that this inspiring and

picturesque landscape would work in the way that it had for

Gauguin. Our days began with long walks in the countryside

accompanied by Martine’s cat Minou, who with great skill

was able to walk and stalk on a meters-long leash. The sun

shone and often we took nice sandwiches and good French

wine on our pleasant expeditions. It was a continuing feast.

At the end of the day Steven would ask me, “Well how many

works of art did you turn out today?” I would say, “I believe

at least twenty, but I threw them all away.” I would ask

Steven the same and his reply would be, “Oh, that’s strange.

I threw mine away too.” This dialogue was repeated at the

end of each day for two weeks. In fact, our art production

was negligible. The sheer pleasure of vacation was enough to

overpower any creative impulse that might accidentally spurt

up.

I remember sitting on a large hill there one day overlooking

a scenic valley, peacefully enjoying the view. A young

French teenager came up to us and said, “I could not help

overhearing you speak English. Are you American?’ “Yes.”

I replied. “Oh, I am so sorry for you. I can imagine what you

are feeling on this day of your great loss.” I was not aware of

what or who I had lost so I asked him. He replied, “So you

have not heard. Now I am the one who has to bear this

terrible news to you. Oh, I am truly so sorry to say this, Elvis

died today.”

* * *

By the beginning of 1980 I was becoming frustrated with oil

paintings. The colors were too murky and I didn’t have the

patience to wait the minimum three-day drying period to

paint over areas. Acrylics were the perfect medium for me.

The colors are and stay radiant, they lend themselves easily

to mixing with other mediums to create unusual textures and

they dry within a few minutes. This was ideal for my quick

and energetic way of painting. Because of the fast drying

time I was able to coat up to twenty layers of paint in one

day if I chose. The transparency of some acrylics allows the

underlying colors to speak through or from under the upper

surfaces. This gives a special luminosity. After getting

hooked onto acrylics, I gathered my old oil paint tubes and

put them in a cabinet that has forever remained closed. The

newly adapted acrylics were my friends now and they

continue to be.

* * *

Around 1984 I made my first trip to America after 13 years

of exile. It was strange to come back to a country that had

changed so much in those years. The old skyline of

Minneapolis with its solitary beacon of the Foshay Tower

was now engulfed by countless other skyscrapers. The

dumpy little Mid-West city I had known was now a major

bustling metropolis whose streets and byways were no

longer recognizable to me. People seemed different, there

was less violence, the races got along better with each other,

I saw friendliness again. The fierce lunacy I had left behind

years ago had now traded itself in for a more sedate peace

albeit strewn with a large amount of corporate greed. My

perspective on America had altered. It no longer hurt me or

made me angry. In fact I began to like it again.

Part of this trip to America was to visit friends in upper New

York State. There I was introduced to a woman who had

formally been married to a sculptor whom after many years

had been “recognized” and was now enjoying a life of

wealth and fame. This woman saw my portfolio and

immediately proclaimed that I was of the same caliber as her

ex-husband, that my work must be seen by the public as

well. The best way to do it was to go straight off to the big

galleries in New York City. She knew Leo Castelli who at

that time had the most famous and trendy gallery in New

York. She right away phoned and made an appointment for

me. I think any upcoming artist would have been thrilled

with such a foot in the door. I was miserable. I felt nauseous,

I could not sleep. I began to run a fever. Finally the truth

came out. I was too afraid to show my work to a gallery let

alone the most eminent of New York City. The appointment

was canceled and within one minute my health recovered.

Recently while researching the origins of my family I found

an article about my great-great grandfather Herman Laroche,

life-long friend of Tchaikovsky. Tchaikovsky in an attempt

to alleviate Laroche’s depression about his inability to

compose in a way that he thought suitable orchestrated a

long sketch of his for a fantasy saying that Laroche was the

embodiment of genius constricted by lack of self-confidence.

Were those self-doubting genes from Herman Laroche

dating more than 150 years ago the same ones that were

protracted over me in those floundering years?

* * *

7. Return to the Art World

My grandmother, Olga Averino, often described life as a long

road in which at certain moments along the path there stands

a divide where two closed doors are set in front of you.

Between the two, you have to choose one door to open and

continue. By 1987 my disavowal of the art world had so

alienated me from my profession that I was confronted with

the door of return or the door of complete abandonment. I

chose to return.

How I did it, might fill many more pages. Rachmaninoff who

was befriended to my great-grandfather, Nicholas, is known

to have recovered, after three years of self doubt and not

composing, by means of a therapy of positive affirmation.

My way was fairly similar to that. The fact is that I made the

stride forward. Determined to triumph, I was miraculously

presented with a gallery just around the corner from where I

lived. The name of the new gallery was DubbelTwee (Double

Two because of the address number) being run by the gallery

owner and later very good friend, Leo Adriaanse. I am

perpetually astounded by how when making new decisions,

everything falls into line. Being the last person to believe in

fate, I do nonetheless think that when one person sets energy

in movement with the strength and conviction of choice,

there is a definite momentum that takes place. This is not

cosmic or occult. It is a personal will that pushes and

accentuates existence so that with a sharp and finely tuned

alertness new directions are carved. Within one month I had

the luck to have my first solo show.

By this time, 1987, I had no contacts in the art world thus

having no one to open the exhibition. My wife ingeniously

thought of asking the children of friends of ours to introduce

it. Why not? They were fresh voices of a new generation with

an original view of their environment. Daan and Mischa

Duits agreed to this. Mischa, around 8, was introverted,

observant and very intelligent while Daan, then 6, was open,

boisterous and funny.

Mischa began her opening speech by telling of her visit to my

studio and how she was so impressed with my colors. “Some

people describe these pictures as nudes,” she said, “I

disagree. To me they didn’t look like that for one moment. I

think they are something different. I like to call them

paintings of women clothed in color.”

When Daan had his turn to speak, he beamed confidently

saying, “I too have visited Michael’s studio. Of course I think

the paintings are very beautiful but I want to talk to you about

something else today. Has anyone among you ever taken the

time to consider what a painter must do before he starts

painting? I asked Michael that and he told me that he does all

the preparation himself, putting the wood frame together,

stretching the canvas on the frame, preparing the surface with

rabbit skin glue and ground paint whitener. I think you should

all follow my example and take a good look at the backside

of his paintings. On one painting alone I counted 76 staples.

That means that for one picture he spent an hour sweating

away just to stretch and tack the canvas onto the frame. And

that’s just the beginning. It's no easy profession. There are

many more things to this job than meets the eye. So

honorable art lovers, when you look at Michael’s works of art

today, try also to think of how long and hard he worked on it

just to be able to start painting.”

I was grateful for those attentive insights. As the show

progressed there were two sales which overwhelmed me with

glee and new vigor. Exhibiting my art, the groundwork had

been laid for a lucrative future.

* * *

Quickly following this show I was invited by the Fourth

Floor Gallery in Amsterdam to have a large solo show. The

enormous space allowed me to show large work which I have

always felt to be my strength.

Among the visitors at the opening was a scruffy old man who

marched into the gallery, scanned the space with his small

wet eyes and inquired softly, “I've come for the opening.

Where is the wine?” After watching him for awhile between

all the busy commotion of the vernisage, it became obvious

that this was a local wino cruising the many Sunday art show

openings in Amsterdam for free booze. I decided to show him

the door. He left but not without great protest proclaiming

quite fluently for one so inebriated, “But can't you see? I am

a connoisseur of the Beaux Arts. I partake in the grand

discernment of the higher realms. I am your valued public.

You need me to be appreciated. I am an art lover!”

This exhibition brought many additional sales and new shows

began to come of themselves. With increased exhibitions

came the blessing, or in some cases nemesis for all artists,

coverage from the press. To give an impression of what the

press was saying in the 1990’s here follows selections from

two articulate reviews:

"On the large painting ("Oasis Resonation") a man stretches

his arm out to a lower placed seated woman, touching her.

The man however is painted with two faces which raise

questions concerning appearance and reality, lies and truth.

Here the gist of Lasoff's craftsmanship is underlined. The

artist paints accessible beautiful paintings that do not give

away their secrets, this way insuring us for an exciting viewer

experience."

Lida Bonnema, Hoorn

"The paintings of Michael Lasoff emote a striking charm.

This can partly be explained by the sensitive way in which he

deals with his subjects and by just as an important part by his

technical skill as a painter...The poses of the models are never

placed in a seductive manner and for exactly this reason the

seductive charm is extra effectively present. The painted

women are never the powerless victims of the spying

observer...They are never caught in their nakedness rather

they are enveloped in the consciousness of their own

skins...Lasoff's compositions are daring, always deviating

from the expected...The cleverness of his intervention is that

the background is never in disharmony with the radiation of

the model. Yet, on the contrary, a large part of the sphere and

personality of the painted figure has been defined together by

background. In spite of the restrictions of the theme, Lasoff

succeeds in convincing us of the inexhaustible richness of

appearances of the being, woman and the relevancy this

being has for him."

Antoon de Ridder, Ede/Wageningen

* * *

Apart from the voices of critics, to my great amusement are

the comments made by ordinary gallery visitors about my

work. A middle aged woman visiting my studio during my

last year as an art student proclaimed that I was making a

portrait of the wife of George Washington. Another art

viewer announced that a picture of a woman that was for me

influenced by a Native American was not at all Native

American but Polynesian and I should be more aware of what

I was painting. When I begged to dissent I was told to be

quiet because I had no idea what I was talking about. I have

been told that my paintings were the work of a gifted psychic

with magical powers able to cure and do mystical things. My

paintings have offended religious Mohammedans as being

pornographic. A whole show had to be pulled down at the

stately aged building called Orangerie in Overveen because

the Rotary Club found nudes offensive to their tastes. One

elderly woman declared, “That poor artist, he has never met a

beautiful woman.”

The comments continue. Generally they have been very

appreciative. One woman wrote to me that seeing my

paintings on the internet gave her, after three years misery, a

feeling of wanting to live again. A veteran of the Bosnian

War wrote me that my paintings gave meaning to his life

after all the horrors of war. Showing my work to the

important sculptor/painter David Aronson he admiringly said,

“You should never have to approach a gallery again. Your

work speaks for itself. Let all the dealers come to you. You

are that valuable. You have paid your dues.”

* * *

And indeed I let things roll my way. By 1996, via Galerie

Année, which has remained my stronghold gallery in

Haarlem, I was introduced to my first art fair in The Hague.

Art fairs are something like a performance. The excitement of

presenting yourself to a large public has a charged and

vibrant atmosphere about it. Fairs in Germany, Belgium and

Spain followed. The fairs initiate you to a wide range of new

contacts and stimulate sales in a way that shows do not.

Since 1987 until now in 2009 I have had more than 150

exhibitions. Of all the shows, the one I felt happiest about

was in the castle of Alden Bison outside of Bilzen, Belgium.

This castle is one of the few castles that have European status

as a monument. It is often visited by royalty and has an

affluent assortment of handsome rooms and chambers which

in this case were used to house a presentation of European

artists collected by the gallery dealer, Luc Theuwis. As art

expert Luc has impeccable taste and this exposition held in

1999 was an incredible choice of painters and sculptors from

all over Europe. It was the first show in which I genuinely

felt that my work was exhibited next to first-rate artists. All

the work was original and strong. Here were no conceptual

thought teasers; only imagery of artists with individual

visions. I was not alone. Seeing this I became persuaded that

I was no longer an isolated figure practicing antediluvian

craft. Here were definitely other artists of high standing that

worked sincerely within their medium and that had

something to say. The images this type of artist form are so

often not exhibited nor understood by the art world. They are

unknown to the public and sometimes I am afraid end up

forgotten. But today this was not happening. Today was my

day in the company of authentic artists. I was in high spirits

knowing that my paintings were residing within the large

elegant space of this castle. I was pleased with the quality of

my work and I was proud and honoured to be in such

excellent company.

* * *

Along the hectic, sometimes frustrating sometimes rewarding

path of art, my friends in the art world increased again. I

count among these friends Ubaldo Sichi, Mark Visione,

Mohamed Abdulla, Benzi Mazliah and Marion Visone-

Thuring. Through the marvels of the Internet, I have been

able to reconnect to old friends in America like Martin

Mendelsberg, Kathy Staszak, Ben Aronson and James

Burpee. All these people have in some way contributed to

supporting, encouraging and enriching my life. The decision

to return to the art world was the right one.

My wife’s niece, Arwen, who was very dear to me, had two

children, Tessa and Sofie, who became my adopted and much

loved grandchildren. I felt complete and fortunate. In 2001 I

bought a spacious and stately house with a prodigious studio.

In this same year I was selling a painting every week. My

marriage ripened, aging like a good wine, mellowing in

fullness. Travelling became extensive. I loved New Mexico

and Greece. Each new year was better than the last.

All this happiness was so splendid and seemed

overflowing...unending. Then everything fell apart.

* * *

8. Crisis

On Aug 3, 2005 my wife died of lung emphysema. Her death

was sudden and unexpected. Our marriage, if I were to

describe it, was for the first 15 years turbulent, passionate

and disturbing. The last 20 years were easy, rich with joy

and utterly idyllic.

I do not want to go into detail about the storm that followed.

In short, I felt my life had been destroyed, that part of my

being had been ripped out of my body. The dearest thing that

had ever been given to me was wiped off the face of the

earth in one relentless blow. Sucked into the black emptiness

of loss, I could see no possible reason to ever paint again.

* * *

9. Renewal and Transfiguration

After six months no brush had touched a canvas. The grief

that encompassed me was what Emily Dickenson described

as “a funeral in the brain”. It was constantly present in every

thought and movement I made. A good sculptor friend of

mine, Arnold Eck, gave me simple advice by saying, “You

talk about how you suffer but you also talk about how you

would like to paint again. Why not stop thinking about it?

Go up to your studio and just spread the paints out on your

pallet. See what happens. Don’t feel as if you have to paint.

Just begin and see where it takes you.”

I did what he said and to my astonishment I began to paint

again. As long as I was painting I felt no pain. When I

stopped there were tears in my eyes. Then I would paint for a

second time and the tears would dry. The whole process of

painting captured so much of my attention there was nothing

else to think about. Not only was I painting again, I was

curing myself.

There was so much support from my father and mother,

Benjamin and Irina, from my two dear brothers, Mark and

Nick and their caring wives, Susan and Barbara, my nephew,

Idde, and niece, Arwen, my grandchildren and more family,

friends Ubaldo and Mark, my neighbors, many additional

friends old and new, even art clients. Hopefully no one will

be offended by my not mentioning them. There are too many

people to list but they are all, every one of them, close and

dear to me, encircled in my heart. If miracles exist, then it

was when I met my new girlfriend, Madeleine. She, more

than anyone else, helped me to return to the world of the

living. She, more than anyone else, helped me return to

discover and be myself. And she brought something I never

thought I would experience again, love.

* * *

From 2006 until now, 2009, my painting has radically

changed. I believe it has become stronger, more definite,

clearer, more daring, more individualistic. The work

designates the painter. My personal changes are directing my

imagination to further prospects. For all it may mean, I feel

myself a complete entity.

That long, long path to being an artist has been obstructed by

doubt, self-denial, fear of rejection, lack of confidence. It has

finally given way to belief in myself, certainty in the things

that I do, confidence of my position in art and above all

assurance of my place in life. It is a cliché to say that the

closing of one door means the opening of another, but the

cliché, in my case, holds true.

This brings me to a closing question. Why do I paint? I used

to think that painting was as essential to me as breathing.

There was no need to question something so indispensable in

life. Yet that little baby who felt that his silver pot’s lid had

to fit into the jar still feels the need to have things fit. That

little child who sat endlessly thinking about where the world

ends and how could you travel in a straight line around the

world and come back to the beginning, is still questioning

why a dab of color on a piece of cloth can be so imperative

to his being.

Let me put it this way. The arbitrary profession of painting I

think of as refined entertainment. I don’t assume it

enlightens many people, nor does it help them get on with

their daily miserable existences. Much like music or writing,

it diverts for a split second, in some cases it simulates a

euphoric feeling called beauty or it relates to our own

experiences through the stimulation of form, color or

narrative. Essentially we are titillated and in the best cases

come back for more because we are beasts of pleasure. We

constantly seek entertainment because we need it. It holds at

bay the monster of boredom.

So rationally speaking you could call me an entertainer who

serves society by acts of creation. But why do this? Why

would I want to? I’ve already explained the therapeutic value

that painting had for me following my wife’s death. I’ve

spoken of that ecstatic moment when at a lofty height in the

act of painting you feel a transcendence above ordinary

existence. I know that painting absorbs me and is the best of

self-diversion. It appears to make sense that to paint entails

much self-satisfaction and is therefore a valid motivation for

continuance. As yet for some reason it still does not fit. I

cannot wholly accept the pleasure principle as clarification

of the issue. Why do I paint? My answer remains: I paint but

wordlessly do not know why.

The purpose of writing about my past was to pinpoint some

shards or fragments so that I might comprehend in a deeper

sense this mystery we call life. One man, this artist, this

human being is as the Buddha suggests, the result of all his

thought. We are also the result of our experiences, our genes

and many more factors. In writing this life story I had hoped

to get a little closer to answering questions about myself, my

past, my mission in life. I was like most of us, looking for

meaning. I no longer feel a mission. Meaning is an

indistinguishable word. It does not fit.

But will it ever fit? I am inclined to think that nothing is

resolved nor will it ever be. Excluding these doubts, let me

not forget that in writing, there were moments when

illumination and understanding did burn like a beam of light

across the mosaic and shards, that the mystery and

uncertainties were blinded by radiance. Now this short

puzzle of a life has been laid out for you and me to see. If

things fit or not is no longer the question, the feeling of

being closer to myself is more important. The questions

remain, but out of the ashes of these burning dilemmas, I

have renewed, grown and fitted into myself.

* * *