A New Yorker's Stories

by Philip Gould

  TWO EXTRAORDINARY TELEPHONE CALLS

  An extraordinary thing happened this afternoon in both time and place. I had my customary lunch at a neighborhood senior citizen center and walked home at a leisurely pace, stopping at one or two coffee shops to see if someone had left today’s Times at a table. I actually picked up two sections of the paper and then went on to the local framer to pick up the eight color drawings by my late wife; they were masked and mounted and looked stunning framed, as it were. By the time I reached home the afternoon had progressed so I had only fifteen minutes to rest before heading out again.

  I didn’t get much rest because in that brief span of time I received two telephone calls, about a minute apart, from Africa. One was from Yaya, calling from Togo, to tell me in a very excited way that he had several objects he was about to send to me and he was sure I would be more than pleased with his selection. African dealers often wax ecstatic about their wares; sight unseen. I tend to keep my reservations. I met Yaya two years ago on his first trip to the States. He arrived with no money in his pockets and a very sore tooth. I thought he was hopelessly naïve and needy to come to New York in such a state. I understood that he was the son of a chief in his homeland and was probably spoiled rotten. Still, my impulse was to help him. I suggested he look for ambusol in a nearby pharmacy for the toothache which he did and I learned later that he was temporarily relieved of pain. I also gave him money in advance of merchandise he expected in the mail. Things worked out. He eventually saw a dentist and later still I got some artifacts for my collection. On his second visit to New York a few months later he ended his time here again broke. I was loathe to give him money again just when he was about to leave the country. We struck a deal: he left an African object with me as security, security because he thought it was worth much more than the advance I was prepared to “lend” him. That was at least a year ago and today’s call from Togo was the first word from him since that deal was made. I am, of course, curious about the objects he said he would send to me but I am also not a little skeptical about long distance promises.

  On the heels of this call, the phone rang again, this time from Niger. Niger is a landlocked country of West Africa most of which is part of the Sahara Desert and extremely poor, although now I hear rumors of oil being discovered under the dunes. Oumarou was on the line calling for the first time since the return to his native country not very long ago. He was one of my constant dealer-friends. We have known each other for at least fifteen years. We developed a sort of symbiotic relationship. He got to know my taste and my interests in African art and often acted as a go-between with other dealers, that is to say, he would select works from these merchants fully confident that I would be satisfied with his selection, and for a small mark up present the works to me. I was spared, in effect, the haggling that is expected in all transactions between African dealers. I understand that such back and forth negotiations between Africans can last three or four days. Oumarou’s health was not good. He suffered from a systemic disorder that required injections three or four times a week. He was often weak and out of commission. His health was a serious obstacle for his work since he could not always make the necessary rounds to keep up with the incoming merchandise. In the last weeks before his definitive departure for home in Niger he was at a loss for paying the rent on his single room apartment. When I gave him a check he invariably asked to leave the payee open; I’m sure the check went directly to his landlord. His situation was untenable and he decided to return home. His departure was a loss for me for we had many, many long hours of conversation. In the beginning, these talks were about stratagems for keeping the prices down for me and high for him. We were both apt at that game. For the last two years, I think he no longer had the strength to slug through the process. He then proposed, quite candidly, that I name my price. If my figure was fair enough or close enough to his expectations the deal was made. The arrangement was working. Then we had time to talk about other things, about matters of health, about our families, about the state of the world. I should note that our conversations were in French. Oumarou was educated under the French system and he had the bacheloriate or the equivalent of the bac. I was always eager to match wits with him and to challenge my French language skills. His call this afternoon was a surprise, the second of two surprises in a matter of minutes. I felt great, knowing my African friends were thinking of me and wishing to continue our connections. (6/24/09)

  I REMEMBER MAY KRAMER PHELOSOF WHEN

  Quite a long time ago a “gang” of kids, or, I should say, a gang of adolescent kids used to hang out after school in a little park in the neighborhood that was far from affluent; everyone was struggling through the depression. But as kids we had our camaraderie to cheer us up day by day. We made some very solid friendships that lasted a lifetime, and my friendship with May was one like that. May and I met frequently in the park and sometimes on the elevated subway line that took us to school and back every day. May was bright, saucy, and fun to talk to. This was especially true when the subject of Ben Phelosof came up. May was determined, early on, to marry Ben. I could not have agreed more. I knew them both pretty well. Ben was like a mentor to me, just a little older, but infinitely wiser and we had many long conversations as I walked him home in the evening and then he would walk me home in turn. May recognized Ben’s virtues as I did and since she was disposed to a life of the mind, (she was, after all, an early winner of the Phi Beta Kappa key at Hunter College), her attraction to Ben was entirely understandable. The issue was how to get Ben to return her acknowledgement. May and I strategized from time to time on how she could win Ben over. And I remember how she would lift her face, with engaging eyes and a wry smile at one suggestion or another; she was thinking all the time. Whatever she thought up must’ve worked because May and Ben got married and shared a long life together. I did say May was intelligent and determined.

  I was happy for the both of them and we kept our friendship going over the years. From the time of the War, I am referring to the Big War, and afterwards, wherever I traveled I sent little souvenirs back, which I was gratified to see, years later, were still decorating their home in Rochester.

  Out of that modest neighborhood in central Bronx, the guys and gals of our after-school gang became parents and grandparents, lawyers, professors, firemen, community leaders and loyal friends. I’m glad I knew May; she was my friend, for we shared a precious meeting of mind and sentiment, which made each of us better for it.

  CHAPTER II: REFLECTING ON COLLECTING

  BACK TO THE OLD ROUTINE

  Today was my first day after my return from a month’s long stay abroad when I could resume my customary routine. Saturday: I took the subway to Times Square station to have my lunch at the senior citizen center nearby. My friends there recognized my absence without knowing precisely why but we carried on our usual conversation as though no really unusual hiatus had occurred. My friends this day are music lovers and they took note of the important concerts coming up and how they might obtain free or low cost tickets that are usually available for the music lovers without much money.

  I left soon after the lunch was finished; I had other things in mind for the rest of the afternoon. A demonstration by Tibetan citizens and Tibetan sympathizers formed a long column along 42nd Street. The buses on Broadway were blocked from going further downtown. I had to make a quick change of plans. I decided to walk all the way to the open-air flea market on 39th Street between Ninth and Tenth Avenues. I met two of my friends there and picked up some interesting pieces. One was an altar front hanging from China with embroidered fantastic faces done in a folk style; not great art but perfectly authentic for its genre. It will make an excellent wall hanging for my daughter’s new apartment. I also bought a string of agate light rose-colored beads which I visualized as at least two different necklaces when I add other colored beads in a novel arrangement.

  Then I took the bus number 16 to 34th Street and Broadway where I changed to bus number 7
going down Broadway. I got off close to 25th for the outdoor flea market there. I met an old African dealer who, I was pleased to see, had woven rattan trays made by the Kuba people in Zaire. I have a few of these constructions which I regard as excellent examples of the handicraft skills which I am pleased to add to my collection. On I went to the Garage, an indoor flea market which I scanned quickly as the afternoon was getting on and I was getting tired, and in need of some refreshment. I made my way down Sixth Avenue looking for the usual street vendors that congregate there hoping to find one that carried leather wallets. I lost mine in Guatemala (and that is another story). Nothing on Sixth Avenue so I turned the corner and started to walk west on 23rd Street. Sure enough I found a vendor in a little alcove selling a variety of things including leather wallets. I looked at a couple and bought one for five dollars; mission accomplished. But before the exchange was completed someone called out my name. It was another African dealer who had recently arrived in the country. He has been an important dealer from whom I bought many interesting pieces of African art in the past and I was very pleased to hear him say that he had brought with him this time objects that would be of interest to me. I am sure he is correct and I got his cell phone number before we parted. We will meet during the week coming up and in the meantime I can dream about what treasures he will show me when we actually sit down together. What a nice day! To top off the afternoon I stopped at my favorite coffee shop on 23rd Street right near the entrance to the Seventh Avenue subway train, the train I take to get home. I love the coffee there and I treated myself to a sesame-seed bagel with cream cheese, heated slightly in the microwave machine.

  I crashed at home, closed the blinds, flung myself into bed, I needed to rest, even to fall asleep for a little bit before supper. Not a chance! I got a call from another African dealer who was on his way. I could not say “no.” Within an hour my friend arrived with a sack in hand. I prepared some tea for my friend in advance and also offered him some sweets. When I finished my sandwich of ham and cheese, my friend pulled some things from his bag: a very bad example of a Kotsinger terra cotta sculpture which I pointedly ignored and several ceramic jars from Mali as well as four aluminum pipes from West Africa. I ended up buying the ceramics and the pipes, the pipes against my better judgment because sometimes sentiment is more important than reason. Well, my first fully functional day back in New York was not bad at all, I thought to myself. I have not lost my touch. The City is still my oyster. (3/28/09)

  LAND OF OPPORTUNITY, USA

  I’ve said for a long time that the best way to see the world is to spend two weeks in New York. That may sound strange coming from a New Yorker who has spent a lot of his life traveling around the world. As a collector of sorts, mostly of what one calls “tribal arts,” I’ve combed faraway places for textiles and artifacts. But the most extraordinary finds are at my fingertips, so to speak. Just yesterday I found three scarves from the Central Anti-Atlas Mountains of Morocco, of very fine wool with widely spaced red-brown patches made with henna. At another dealer’s outlet, about a thousand feet away, I found three textiles from the Southern Philippines; Mindanao, to be precise. The Moro people there wear sarongs of silk with tapestry-woven bands running vertically and horizontally to divide the surface into panels. The sarong I bought made use of the ikat technique, which is unusual and must derive from neighboring Indonesia. A couple of hours earlier The Museum for African Art on Broadway just below Houston Street sold me a copper bracelet of the type known as Manilla, found in West Africa and used as money. They are horseshoe-shaped, with trumpet-like ends. I had bracelets of this sort but none the size of the museum piece which has a nice speckled-green patina—a sign of age.

  Speaking of African currency, a few days ago I had the good fortune (no pun intended) to come across examples of iron money from North Cameroon in the form of a torque, that is, just short of a complete circle, about six inches in diameter. I’ve been on the lookout for African currency for some time and this type from North Cameroon had never been seen until this week. I felt the thrill of discovery that a paleontologist must feel coming across an entirely new species. Right here in New York.

  A friend of mine who travels to Southeast Asia at least twice a year called to tell me she had textiles I might like to buy. I couldn’t wait. I ended up with several batik shoulder pieces, or selendang, from southern Sumatra. The designs, often taken from Chinese sources, are stamped on fine cotton. These batiks are worn on special occasions such as festivals or religious functions. At about the same time I acquired four textiles from the same part of the world, a dealer was selling at half-price because he was moving to a new location. The four textiles consisted of a large Sumba blanket, which was different from other Sumba blankets by its overall pattern and Borneo-like effects; a sash from Bali worn by a youngster going through the teeth-filing ritual; a shoulder piece from the Minangkabau with gold threads on a deep red ground; and a textile, still under study for the dealer was not clear in his account. It is a waist or shoulder-cloth, long and narrow, dyed indigo blue with a five-inch band at either end, decorated in a discrete pattern with gold thread and edged by small lead weights. I think it must come from northern Sumatra. Part of the fun in collecting is in tracking down precise origins and meanings. Fellow collectors are often helpful in such cases, and sharing finds with like-minded friends is always a pleasure. Another textile I bought did not pose any problem. The Chin blanket from Burma or Myanmar, as the country is now called, is illustrated in Sylvia Fraser-Lu’s book, Handwoven Textiles of Southeast Asia. It is a sort of open plaid of broad bands of solid lacquer-red alternating with finely detailed patterns.

  As though to crown this short period of discovery, I visited the renovated Ancient Greek Galleries at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I was there on the day that the space opened to the public and what a delight it was to walk through the galleries flooded with light and view the cleaned and restored statuary disposed along easily navigable paths. Another museum show I reveled in was one of Japanese bamboo basketry at the Asia Society: elegant and infinitely clever configurations place the Japanese artisan at a very high level indeed.

  In two weeks, I’ve skipped around Asia, Africa, and Southeast Europe without leaving New York, or spending more on travel than a subway token. (4/30/99)

  YOU NEVER KNOW THE SURPRISES IN STORE

  I look forward to the weekends with anticipation and some anxiety because my weekends are the time given to “shopping.” Shopping, not in the ordinary sense of the word. I am out on these days to hunt for antiques, works of art and artifacts that I might deem worthy of acquisition. It’s a fishing expedition, a matter of chance. The Saturdays and Sundays may be rewarding or they may be disappointing. In any case, those days are dedicated days. And who knows what you will come up with. New York is actually a great place for finding objects that originate around the world and that are appropriate for collecting.

  This weekend has been auspicious. I aim for the familiar places: the flea markets about Sixth Avenue and 25th Street. There are inside and outside markets; I go to the outside markets first of all because they are more accessible and generally less expensive, although price is a very flexible and unpredictable thing. Take for example, the Kuba rattan woven vessel which was offered to me for sixty dollars and ended up being sold for six dollars. Hard to explain how the transition occurred except that it does in the course of banter. The woven vessel was small, about seven inches tall and a little lopsided, but I already have several examples of the same stuff and this new one will fit into the group.

  I then made my way down the garage on the other side of Sixth Avenue primarily to deliver a packet of seeds to an African dealer about to return to his farm in Africa. The ambling walk up and down the two aisles led me to a stand where I spotted a totally unexpected object: a sixteenth century Chinese blue and white bowl probably made for export. It had the usual floral spray on the bottom of the inside surface, and similar motifs on the exterior bracketed i
n loosely painted lappets. It looks really good to me. I asked the price. The vendor said “I’m selling it for one hundred and twenty dollars, but for you I will make it ninety.” When I made a counter offer of fifty dollars, he winced and came down to seventy. At that point I spotted a little African iron bracelet with two small figures standing on the spiral ring. I proposed sixty-five dollars for the two objects and the sale was made. The vendor grumbled a bit but agreed. Now I had purchased two objects from two continents and the afternoon was still young.

  Before going to another market specializing in African artifacts I stopped at one of my favorite coffee shops on 23rd Street; just a tiny place with only a narrow shelf and four high stools for customers but the coffee is really good and the croissants are made on the premises. Refreshed, I was ready for the next encounter. This time I was surrounded by wood statues from Gabon, all of which were intriguing. I looked at them; one after the other, turning them upside down, and checking them front to back. If I had my ‘druthers and the means I would have bought them all but, alas, I could only handle one of these treasures. I had to make a hard decision, to choose one that would have all the virtues of the others and something more. I made my choice and we began the pricing at six hundred, a price clearly too pricy for me. We went back and forth, coming down and going up until we reach an agreement which included two small metal pieces: a rattle bracelet (for dancing) in iron from Mali and a brass figurine from Burkina Faso. I went home with six objects that varied in place of origin and in materials from porcelain to iron to brass to wood to raffia. I thought this was a good first day of the weekend and Sunday was still to offer up its surprises. (11/17/07)