Brushstrokes

Though I live in Connecticut, my work as an industrial designer takes me across the New York border, on a regular basis, back to my old stomping grounds in Westchester County. It is something like the life of a steelhead, venturing out to sea, in my case, Seattle, by way of Massachusetts, and then back to the place of my salad days. Lately, quite tired of The Road, I have, on occasion, taken to staying over at my parent’s home, the place of my becoming of age, to enjoy their mellow company and save myself and the environment from the ravages of life on the highway.

A few weeks ago while staying over at my boyhood home I woke up early to get to work. The morning was cold and crisp. A fresh light snowfall covered the landscape and showed this wonderful town of Croton-on-Hudson, quite nearly at its best. I grabbed my camera and took the opportunity while defrosting the car to record the scene. I took a number of photos, and, at the last, I took the above image, gazing across to view, through the trees, what had been the home of George Biddle, artistic giant of the twentieth century, a shaper of modern art history.

Standing there, looking through the trees, I recalled meeting George Biddle.

In my youth, to say I was a walker was an understatement. A peregrinator is probably a more apt description. As a teen, while heading home, on a few rare occasions, I would see George Biddle, walking ahead, a fit, tall, rail thin man in his upper eighties. As I recall, he would be on the left side of the road, facing any oncoming back road traffic. I would be overtaking him on the right side, at the ready for a kind offer of a ride. We would both look over and give a warm and friendly “hello”. A conversation would start and I would cross over to his side. We would walk along together, at his pace, until he reached his driveway, me continuing on. I had no idea of the greatness in whose presence I was in. I had stumbled across his house a few times while traversing the woods, and was in complete awe of his home; stone, beautiful, with a heavenly quality.

It would be impossible to do his life and career justice in these few paragraphs. This was a man who attended Harvard and Harvard Law School, and later abandoned a promising career in law to pursue his passion for art. He traveled the world and was well acquainted with twentieth century icons of the arts and literature, all the while experimenting and exploring media, in both two and three dimensions. He taught, served his country in the world wars, and, through his friendship with FDR, was integral in launching the Federal Art Project. Of his artwork, of the work that I have seen, it may be said, that it possessed a reality all its own, a benchmark of greatness. I noticed, at times, a high horizon line, I think, owing to his Lincolnesque stature. This was how he saw the world. I find his paintings magnificent in composition, color and subject matter.

There is so much more to tell. This was a full, engaged life.

The last time I saw him, we walked along as before, conversing and getting further acquainted. As we approach his driveway he looked right at me and invited me to just stop in at his house sometime. I think I just smiled and said nothing. He took a few more steps, turned to me and invited me again with purpose. It was clear, he really meant this. I mentioned the invitation to my father who lit up when he heard this and said that I really should visit. I never did.

A few months later I went to college. In a phone call home, my mother mentioned that George Biddle had passed on. Right then, I learned a lesson that, unfortunately would be reinforced with time, a lesson to be honored.