It was one of the times of my life, meeting Bob Rauschenberg. I call him Bob because that is what he named himself in 1947, in a bus terminal, the day he arrived in Kansas City to attend the Art Institute, when he was only 22 years-old.
You know the question about about who you would dine with if you could go back in time? I usually answered Picasso or Cezanne or Gauguin. What was I thinking?
Why go back in time when we've got Bob right here in the 21st century? Or at least we did, until Monday, May 12, 2008 at 10:53 p.m. when he died at his Captiva Island studio in Florida.
It's understandable to me that he would want to shed himself of Milton Ernest, his given Christian name. During his so-called formative years in Port Arthur, some called him Miltie or mispronounced his last name — “Rooshenberg.” I like to think the new nomen,which reads the same in both directions, foreshadowed the reflective and palindromatic nature of his work—a body of work that rocked the 20th century art world. But this is no art history piece or critique, rather a memory of meeting a man, a very famous man, whom I hold in high esteem for playing by his own rules and being bright, generous and kind about it.
I was told, before heading to the press junket for Raushenberg Festival Week in
Lafayette, that “Mr. Rauschenberg was quite the drinker.”
I liked him already.
The opening of his new exhibition there, “Scenarios and Short Stories,” was dedicated to his mother, Dora.
I liked him even more.
Lafayette was chosen for the opening mostly because it is his family's home. His parents and sister Janet moved there from Port Arthur while he was away, serving in WWII. It was to be the last opening of an exhibition of his new works.
Pictures of Bob had revealed a fair-haired man with a bright white, energetic smile, reflective, alive. In my mind, there is always a breeze blowing through his hair. The man in person is the same, only better because I could approach him.
Preparing for the press conference, questions ran over and over in my mind. What do you ask the single most prolific and influential living artist in the world? All of the other writers there, from Art in America, The Times Picayune, The New Yorker, they would already have figured it out.
A lesser man might have appeared withered in a wheelchair, but Bob has presence, a
projection of character that only living in the moment can produce. His entrance set the cameras to flashing and the reporters to firing the questions. I was told I asked the most. It was out of pure nerves if I did. Trying to bring it home, as it were, I said that near his hometown in Texas, was one of the few remaining independent artist co-ops in the country, The Art Studio Inc.. "Mr. Rauschenberg, what do you say to these artists in the trenches who are struggling to keep such organizations thriving in this country?"
"You are the artists," he said emphasizing the you.
He said to throw a party, raise some money. As artists, we should be able to throw the best parties in town with the best decorations, using the least amount of money.
He wasn't just throwing advice around. He started the Robert Rauschenberg Foundation in 1999, a non-profit devoted to, among other things helping artists in crisis. It was a foundation that didn't require so much paperwork, like others, he said.
As he left the building, I ran ahead of him to snap a candid. Embarrassed by my paparazzi style, I apologized. Bob gave me a big open smile and said, “Nice socks.”
I wore them, multi-colored and striped, in his honor. He was once quoted as saying that a pair of socks is no less suitable to make a painting with than wood, nails, turpentine, oil and fabric.
Speaking of parties, I had really been looking forward to the one planned for that night. It was held on an estate named Moonshadows where Bob was staying. I was chauffeured a distance from town to a plantation home on tree-covered, grassy knolls overlooking a lazy Louisiana waterway, draped in Spanish moss. Bob's pal Dickie Landry was playing saxophone with a Zydeco band. Crawfish canopes and demitasse cups of gumbo were served with chilled white wine. Men in seersucker suits, carried silver-tipped canes and wore panama hats. Pastel-bedecked ladies of the museum guild ornamented the garden.
Bob was joined by friends from around the world and his family, including ex-wife Susan Weil and their son Christopher Rauschenberg.
One friend, famed dancer and choreographer Trisha Brown, was with him the entire week. Their admiration for each other was clear and never obsequious. Most of us had met her the previous night where she recounted a story about finding herself in a pickle at the San Carlo Opera House in Naples, with a ballet to perform and no sets or costumes. Bob flew in from the U.S. to bail her out.
“With only two days to opening night, I called Bob. He was taken to a junkyard in Naples where he dragged in these huge, twisted, rusted metal pieces. He painted and drilled day and night, no one in the opera house bothered him. They knew something magic was happening. He bought soccer flags at the airport and used them as backdrops. We wore plain black leotards that Bob cut and fringed."
As they spoke, you could nearly hear the audience breathing.
At Moonshadows, other guests began to arrive in an attire less pastel. I began to
notice a lot of black. I thought, "Oh well these people are from New York. I overheard conversations about Lou Reed, Laurie Anderson and other living artist giants as if they were next door neighbors in the city. Then I realized these people were wearing the black Rauschenberg Festival Week t-shirts. This would have been a serious fashion feau paux, considering Lafayette was putting on the 'dog' for this collection of mighty distinguished guests. But it was pure perfection, to quote Brown. Fans had cut and fringed their shirts as Bob had done for Trisha's leotards in Naples. It reminded me of an early '70s fad where we cut the ends of our shirts and pants legs into a thick flat fringe, like a dust mop. I was certain, at that moment, the fashion started in Naples with Bob and Trisha.
This was my payoff for spending more than 20 years finishing a BA, studying art history. It was people like this who were all about the art, and about listening and sharing that made me want to be a member of the church of art. And here I was with the Pope of Pop, Bob. He was sitting right next to me, sharing a glass or three of wine. In the conversational mix, it came up that I was representing a Beaumont/Port Arthur newspaper. Port Arthur being Bob's first home, they naturally wanted to know about the art scene there.
The dreaded question.
What is available for an artist in Port Arthur. Hmmm. Aside from the museum of the Gulf Coast, with a gallery dedicated to Bob, there is a gritty oil town on the choppy Gulf with the highest rate of poverty in the state of Texas. I guessed that if there was to be an art "scene' in Port Arthur it would be up to people like me to build it up.
"You do and I'll slap your face," he said smiling at me.
Startled, I jumped straight up out of my chair. I didn't know if I had just been complimented or insulted. Maybe both, or maybe it was the wine. Walking toward the grassy slope, heading away from the dwindling numbers I try to understand what I just heard. My response had been so immediate, so...knee-jerk. Why? I walk some more and I come to a conclusion. Because this man is electric. He knows how to shock. Then, walking up behind me is son Christopher Rauschenberg, looking concerned. A protective son, he hopes I am not going to make this moment into a thesis statement.
I returned to Bob's side, bent toward him and adhered my lips to his cheek, keeping my eyes on his. I think I surprised him too because his eyes opened really wide as he smiled that smile and laughed that laugh. Pure perfection indeed.
The big gala was set for the following night. But I had seen all I needed to see. Still,what's an experience if you can't share it with the ones you love? I drove two and a half hours back to Beaumont to fetch my husband. "You have no choice, you are going to meet Bob.
And he did. I introduced Jeff to him and I swear, it felt like I was introducing Jeff to my father for the first time.
The moon was full. The glass walls of the new museum reflected moonlight onto the white columns of the adjacent building turning them into smooth-bodied sirens. We found a grassy spot and watched museum patrons from a distance, gliding,speaking in muted tones. We heard that Bob had left the building. The lights on the portacache dimmed, the gallery doors slammed shut and the crowd disappeared like a ghostly dream.
Three years later, almost to the day, Bob died. Like his Erased de Kooning, Bob will also be difficult to erase from the world he called a canvas. Like his works, he has become greater for having once been at all.
And I have become more for having once met him.
