Archive | June 2012

Happy Birthday, Sir Paul – Sorry I never knew you!


Englishmen in New York – 1966

In August of 1966, I made it all the way into the foyer of the Beatles’ penthouse suite at New York’s Warwick Hotel, about twenty feet from the bedroom where John and Paul were sleeping. It’s one of the great regrets of my life that I didn’t barge right in and wake them up.

Today, as Sir Paul McCartney turns 70, joining the illustrious crew of septuagenarians that includes Bob Dylan, Paul Simon and yours truly, I’m thinking back to my years as a Beatlemaniac and the long and winding road that brought me to their penthouse suite.

The journey began with the long, distorted twang of an electric guitar – the opening chord of “I Feel Fine” – followed by George Harrison’s catchy opening riff and John Lennon’s powerful vocal, issuing from a portable radio in the studio I shared with another painter high up in Columbia University’s Lowe Library.

“What is THAT?” I asked my studio mate, the radio’s owner.

She put down her brushes and gave me an incredulous stare. “That’s the Beatles,” she said in a tone implying I must have come from another planet.

It was the fall of 1964, and pop music hadn’t been even a blip on my radar screen. As an art history major at Barnard, I’d spent the last couple of years grinding away toward my goal of earning a Phi Beta Kappa key, then spending a semester at the Art Students League putting together a painting portfolio for admission to Columbia’s MFA program. In April I’d married my  first husband, and we were modern jazz fanatics. We owned a state-of-the-art set of stereo components, but never listened to AM radio, and we refused to sink so low as to buy a television set.

Of a dozen MFA students, I was the only figurative painter. My themes had centered on jazz musicians and the Kennedy assassination, but that fall, as the Beatles’ music grew on me, I bought a few fan magazines and began to paint them – fairly abstractly, on huge canvases with big sweeping brushstrokes and barely recognizable features. Abstract expressionism still held sway at Columbia. Robert Motherwell was the big-name artist in residence that year, and the only specific advice I can recall his giving me was that it’s a good idea to have a drink or two before going to the studio.

No one knew what to make of my work, and I suspect they gave me the MFA largely to be rid of me. After that I was on my own, in an apartment on Riverside Drive West in Washington Heights. My husband’s job took him on the road a lot. More isolated than I’d ever been before, I continued to paint the Beatles, more and more realistically. I focused on John and Paul, never quite sure which of them I preferred. When HELP, their second movie, came out in glorious Technicolor, I saw it over two dozen times. After years of academic striving, I’d belatedly regressed to being a teenager.


WMCA DJ Gary Stevens

Top 40 AM radio was my ever-present background music. My loyalties vacillated between WABC and WMCA, but somehow, in the summer of 1966, just before the Beatles’ second Shea Stadium concert, I connected with Gary Stevens, a DJ on WMCA who’d gotten an exclusive in with the Fab Four. He encouraged me to bring my paintings down to the Warwick Hotel where they were staying, saying he’d meet me and try to get me upstairs to meet them and show them my work.

I schlepped three canvases down from Washington Heights by subway (I’d scaled down the dimensions since graduating from Columbia). Somehow Gary shepherded me through the hundreds of screaming teenagers and into the elevator that rose nonstop to the penthouse. We exited directly into the antechamber to their suite, and I arranged my paintings against the wall, ready for the viewing. He told me to wait there while he checked whether they were available.

A couple of minutes later, he was back. “Sorry, John and Paul are in bed asleep,” he said.

“Oh, that’s too bad,” I replied, as my racy dreams went up in smoke.

Why on earth didn’t I say, “Oh, that’s okay – I’ll just go wake them up?” Probably because of my residual Midwestern prudishness – the same reticence that overcame me three years later, when Jimi Hendrix took my phone number and said he’d like to come down to my loft to see my paintings. I waited in vain for days, afraid to leave my loft lest I miss his call. (This was before the days of answering machines.) Why didn’t I simply track down his number and call him instead? But then in 1969 I wasn’t yet a Radical Feminist.

Anyway, happy birthday, Sir Paul. Today, we’re probably both singing Paul Simon’s lyrics – “How terribly strange to be seventy.” But we’re both still rocking.




Remembering 1979: Year of the Bee Gees, Donna Summer and Etan Patz

Julie Patz with Etan’s Missing Poster

At long last, after 33 years, they’ve arrested the alleged murderer of Etan Patz, the six-year-old boy  who went missing on his first walk to the bus stop near his home. I knew Etan and his family, and to this day, I have a vivid memory of the moment I learned he had disappeared. Like the Kennedy assassinations, the murder of John Lennon, the Challenger shuttle disaster and the fall of the towers on September 11th, the event burned permanently into my brain, and I can conjure up exactly where I was and what I was doing when I heard the news.

Etan’s family and mine lived in the same coop loft building on Prince Street in SoHo. Our daughter Stacey played with Etan, and she spent many days in the preschool his mother Julie ran in their third-floor loft. But by May 25, 1979, the day Etan went missing, we were living in a raised ranch 90 miles upstate in Poughkeepsie. We’d rented the house four months before, after I landed a job as an art therapist at Hudson River Psychiatric Center.

We were ambivalent about leaving Manhattan, but we were becoming disenchanted with SoHo. I’d lived there for 12 years, long enough to see the grungy artists’ lofts being swallowed up by gentrification. Real estate prices were rising, and glitzy boutiques were beginning to drive out galleries. Upscale ladies from the Upper East Side and the suburbs were prowling the streets to check out the newly trendy scene, and teens camped out on the steps of the cast iron manufacturing buildings that were home to hundreds of artists.

We were no longer sure we wanted to raise our daughter in the city. In any case, I’d already confronted a harsh reality: I was a good artist, but I’d never be great, and I’d never scale the heady heights of the art world. After my daughter’s birth, I began researching professional careers that offered the promise of a steady paycheck. Art therapy won out over journalism, and by late 1978 I’d acquired an M.A. in Art Therapy from New York University.

We didn’t want to cut our ties to the city, so we unfolded a New York State map on my drafting table. Then, with a compass, we inscribed a circle centered on Times Square, with a ninety-mile radius delineating the outer boundaries of my job search. So it came to pass that in the wintry depths of February, 1979, I immersed myself forty hours a week in the alien wards of a psychiatric hospital for severely and persistently mentally ill adults.

Oh, the stories I could tell. In fact I did: working at Hudson River Psychiatric Center proved so overwhelming that later that year I began writing fiction as a way of processing my feelings. But first came disco – and specifically the double albums of Donna Summer’s “Bad Girls” and the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack album featuring the BeeGees.

Before Poughkeepsie, absorbed in my art therapy studies, I hadn’t had the time or inclination to immerse myself in music, much less disco, but commuting to and from my work on the wards, the joyfully insistent beat blaring from the radio made me a convert. Stacey was three and a half, and we cavorted endlessly around the living room to the strains of “Bad Girls,” “Hot Stuff,” “How Deep Is Your Love,” and “Night Fever.” Those songs might have remained my most indelible memory of the raised ranch on Robert Road – until we heard about Etan Patz on May 25th.

It was early evening, and I was sipping a screwdriver at the end of a long day’s work on the wards, watching the local news from New York City, when all at once Etan’s face filled the screen. He was missing, the newscasters said – walking along Prince Street to catch the bus for first grade, he’d never made it to school. The police had mounted an intensive search, but as the world came to know, they turned up nothing.

My husband and I followed the news for weeks, and as hope for Etan faded, we gradually reached a decision: we would make a decisive break with the city, sell our coop loft on Prince Street, and use the proceeds to buy a house with a few acres of land in upstate New York. And so we did – by October we were settled in a new home surrounded by 16 acres of woods and wetlands a couple of miles from the Shawangunk ridge west of New Paltz.

I can’t claim we’ve never looked back. We still visit New York City a few times a year, but we no longer feel we belong there – these days we could never afford it. We’re just tourists, like those ladies I once looked down on. Occasionally I’ve walked along Prince Street past Tri-Prince, Inc., our old cast iron coop of three connecting buildings. The Patz family name is still on the buzzer outside, but I’ve never had the courage to ring the bell, nor to phone or write. We were neighbors, not close friends, and what could I possibly say to them?

Lately the press has been full of stories about the crime. Pedro Hernandez, then a stock boy at the corner store where we bought our milk and orange juice, has confessed to killing Etan, but the physical evidence has long since disappeared. How will they ever know for sure? Stan and Julie Patz refuse to talk to reporters, and who can blame them? After long, illustrious lives, Robin Gibb and Donna Summer leave musical legacies we can enjoy forever. We can say they’ve found closure, but for Etan Patz and his family, there will never be peace.


Memorial for Donna Summer, San Francisco, 2012