Part one - the early years
CHAPTER ONE
Over My Dead Body
The door to room number 502 barely gave way as I used my shoulder to press myself into what turned out to be a vast, mahogany-paneled courtroom that held the emanations of 120 years of rancor. Dressed in my best Liz Clairborne raw silk summer suit and flat, black patent leather shoes, I sat down, along with possibly a hundred other very humble and anxious people waiting to be called by the Honorable Nora S. Anderson. As much as it may have appeared to be, this was not an Immigration court, this was the Surrogate court in Lower Manhattan where I’d been summoned. Having had the heart-wrenching, stomach-turning surprise of being served a petition at my front door three months earlier in 2014, I received the gross accusation of “swiping Ahmed Yacoubi’s [1] trove of works after he died.” The scene made me realize this was not going to be what I had hoped for - a potentially personable appearance where I could look the judge in the eye and explain my side and receive her sympathetic ear. The judge’s bench was massive and set several steps up and wide enough to accommodate assistants to either side of her, taking directions and papers as she efficiently grasped each defendant’s situation and perfunctorily presided over their lives. The undersleeves of my suit were now wet with sweat.
I took a shot of Yacoubi shopping on First Avenue.
Ali, by way of his “bottom feeder” lawyer (named such by a quite well-respected lawyer), was demanding I “turnover” all of the property that was once Karima Yacoubi’s (Ahmed’s daughter) that had been stored in Manhattan for 30 years, ever since her extraordinary father’s death in 1985. The idea of my literally having to hand over 64 precious paintings of this brilliant artist into the hands of this “snake” (as once described by the artist himself) struck fear and revulsion in my heart. The fact I had witnessed the artist birth most of these paintings layer by intricate layer and tried my level best to assist the artist in exhibiting the breathtaking canvases for 7 intense years couldn’t possibly be understood. After his horrible and pre-mature death, the fact I purchased the priceless creations in 2006 to protect them from oblivion was entirely disregarded. Despite my best efforts, still few could comprehend the multi-leveled historical importance of Yacoubi’s legacy. And now I was expected to surrender them into the hands of this creep acting on behalf of a son Yacoubi had never accepted as his? It was only because a small painting had recently sold exceptionally well at auction in Casablanca that the son’s interest finally arose about his father’s work.
Of all the injustices and bitter ironies heaped upon this pure and inspired man, having his remaining collection fall into the custody of greedy, ignorant goons was not what I was willing to have happen since fighting for the beauty and value of his life and work for 38 years. (Go to "Book Readings" for Chapter Two)
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from CHAPTER THREE (38 years earlier)
Women in Love ...
From that time on, I was frequently invited to his loft for dinner with a variety of guests for his delicious cooking, great music, and intellectual discussions. These open and stimulating friends of his provided me with more understanding about him and hope for our relationship despite his being surrounded by beautiful women like the Puerto Rican model named Maybelle.
Maybelle's portrait for the Ford Agency
Ahmed posing with Maybelle
She would always visit with her talented, sensitive, gay friend Matthew, and his friend, a truly black-skinned fellow named Psyche. Having grown up in Fairfield County, CT and having spent two years in Boulder didn’t prepare me for intermingling with native New Yorkers or the older, more worldly friends of Ahmed’s but I held my own in conversation. Once when I arrived before his other guests, I could see how busy he had been with a variety of canvases he was working on, now placed in different spots in different stages. When I commented on the luscious colors he was combining, he thanked me, saying, “You’ve broken the spell”, revealing he’d been blocked and felt new inspiration. Later, I journaled:
Ahmed’s paintings do contain the full spectrum of what I, as a mortal, might anticipate being the journey of life and death. You might ask immediately how one’s imagination could ever exhaust the possibilities of the soul’s travel - but that is exactly what Yacoubi’s paintings do - create, expand, and multiply the myriad phases of experience. One painting alone cannot be appreciated within the normal time span of a typical gallery-browse. To sink in, or to be mystified by the flowing and transforming images formed by the indeterminable depth of his colors is to be permanently transfixed by this living style. Formed by his deft palette knife, viewers are taken on a journey limited only by lack of courage and adventurousness.
"Dream of Japanese Woman", oil on linen, 1976
detail of "Dream of a Japanese Woman"
With everything so new, so different, so overwhelming, I needed time alone. Writing, seeing foreign films, and developing a new discipline around my own creative desires proved necessary. Retreating to my own world of meditating, reading spiritual texts, and spending time with what I experienced as God’s presence centered me and enriched my heart with a transcendent sense of peace.