Incensed, Imitation, Immune, Integrity

Last summer when I first walked into the building where I’d soon be renting an art space, I was immediately struck by the camaraderie and welcoming attitude of the handful of artists I had met that day. These included a young woman who had her own line of hand painted pottery. She was very attractive in a conventional sense – svelte, blonde, blue eyed, with a bubbly personality and a dazzling smile. The product of a Southern upbringing, she was raised to be accommodating, non-confrontational and cheerful no matter what, maintaining a relentlessly positive view of each of her life’s circumstances and of other people’s behavior. She was all about fun – creating it, having it – and she did not seem to have room in her life for anything that would get in the way of a good time. She seemed immune to regrets, remorse or self-awareness of any kind. I have to admit that even I, a cynical, introspective and blunt-speaking Easterner was seduced by her charisma and upbeat persona. She was, in a sense, my Karmic opposite. Once I moved into the building, I often found myself wandering into her studio to chat about art, business and life and, perhaps, to have some of her unabated optimism and cheer rub off on me.

When she announced a few months ago that she’d be leaving to start another business in a new location, many in my building were crestfallen. “What will we do without her?” a few wondered out loud, anticipating the energetic void that she would leave behind.

All of the artists in the building strive to express themselves creatively, spending hours in their studios with paints, brushes, canvases and/or cameras, exploring new themes and subject matters or revisiting the same ones to create and deepen a body of work. And so many of us were wary and a bit disappointed when our soon-to-be departing studio mate revealed her new business: teaching groups of people how to reproduce particular paintings. Each session would focus on a different image – perhaps Monday nights one could sign up to paint apples, and Tuesdays one could sign up to paint a mountain scene, etc. And she was not shy about appropriating paintings she found online, tweaking them and using them as example paintings for her own prospective students/customers.

“What about copyright issues?” I asked her one day after popping into her studio where I saw her whipping up another painting for her new business.

“Oh, everyone does this,” she said blithely, as if appropriating another artist’s image was perfectly OK. As if to prove her point, she showed me four or five highly similar images online, created by different artists. It was hard to tell which was the original, which were derivative.

I returned to my studio feeling uncomfortable with her approach but knowing that it was really none of my business. Better to focus my attention on my own art. And taking a cue from her playbook, I tried to come up with a positive interpretation of what she was doing. Maybe her business, by having people copy art, would make the painting process accessible enough to encourage more people to do it for real.

And so I had left the matter rest gently, until she came by the other day with a postcard invitation for her grand opening. And one of the images on the card was, unmistakably, a reproduction of a painting created by one of the artists in our building, someone whose distinctive work is also hung in local galleries.

I could feel my inner prosecutor awakening from a long slumber, ready to argue, fists pumping in the air and spittle flying from her lips, in front of an imaginary judge that this woman, who stole an image from an established artist with whom she shared a cordial relationship for years, deserved nothing less than handing over all of her assets to the aggrieved party, public censure and being forced to close her business.

Yes, my inner prosecutor got a little worked up.

I shared my outrage with some others in my building and they pointed out that it was still none of my business. They said the only person who had a right to confront the Copycat was the artist whose work had been copied.

Even after the artist called the Copycat and asked her to remove that painting from her “portfolio”, which she agreed to do after explaining that she had made the painting out of admiration for the artist’s style, my inner prosecutor was still having a hard time dismissing this case. Considering she is a Southern Belle, the Copycat had a lot of chutzpah to, at times, refer to people in the building as family, say how hard it was going to be for her to leave all of us, and then "borrow" someone else’s art as she sashayed her mini-skirted butt out the door. And, ironically, as someone noted, the Copycat knocked off one of the few artists in the building who had the financial means and connections to pursue the matter legally if she had chosen that route.

What on earth had she been thinking?

Most likely she had not been.

I’ve been trying to shift into a softer position while identifying the source of my outrage. It is not simply that her lack of integrity offended me; she also symbolized some of what I detest in our culture, a culture that produces and rewards people who, like spiders, can spin a good story with flashing white smiles, flattering words and promises of fun or money.

Irony

On Sunday, following the Yom Kippur retreat, I ate a quick brunch at Elat Chayyim and quickly said my goodbyes so I could get back to Brookline in time to attend a brit milah, ritual circumcision, of a friend's newborn boy. Back in August I had participated in a moving ceremony at the couple's home to prepare them for the arrival of their child.

The ritual circumciser, in this case, was a woman, or mohelet. Her duties included not only performing the cut but also leading the assembled well wishers in blessings and in saying a few words, words which I recognized immediately from my younger nephew's bris nearly five years ago.

The following is not the precise language used, but the boilerplate brit blessing goes something like, "May he enter into Torah, into marriage (l'chuppah - the wedding canopy), and into good deeds....." At my nephew's ceremony, the first I had ever attended, I felt that I was witness to a very powerful tribal ritual, one that evoked marvel and revulsion. It was a bit of a miracle that my younger brother had, despite a previously rocky relationship with Judaism, chosen to continue the ancient Jewish practice of the brit with his first born son. But I was taken aback by the fact that expectations of marriage were being publicly heaped on a helpless eight day old baby and that everyone thought that this was perfectly acceptable.

What if the child chooses not to marry, is homosexual (the implication in the ancient words is that the boy will marry a female), or otherwise finds that his path to fulfillment lies outside mainstream Jewish practice? For some children these blessings can turn into curses, expectations that cannot be or are not met, sending them running into the open arm(chair)s of therapists.

Our mohelet was simply doing her job, repeating the words and prayers that have been uttered for millennia, but I wonder if she was aware that this tiny boy's parents had not yet stood under the chuppah themselves?

Ironic, Illegal, Icy

I am sitting at my desk, which I've situated beneath the 42"-square skylight that attracted me to this apartment, contemplating the irony of my housing choice.

One reason I am renting is to take a breather from the responsibilities - real and imagined - of owning a property, especially after having fixed up and maintained a three family dwelling for more years than I expected. I decided to rent in order to relax, in order to not feel the weight of decisions that come about with ownership, in order to not feel my internal pressure to create a perfectly decorated space, in order to not be in charge of contractors.

I rented this place after taking a very quick look at it to ascertain: Did I like the layout? Does it get enough light? Was it in good condition? Did I like the location? Did I get a good feeling about the landlord? Was the rent appropriate?

Why Yes to all! That's why I am here.

What I failed to notice (in addition to not seeing the paint colors!) was that neither the bedroom, the bathroom nor the kitchen have a heat source. Of course, on a hot day in the middle of August, verifying the existence and whereabouts of radiators was not my top priority when checking out this place. It wouldn't occur to most people that this man - a real estate lawyer, developer and landlord - would even show a place that lacked a heated bedroom. Having rented out apartments before, I know that the lack of radiators in such key places is, shall we say, a bit illegal. I also know that getting heat into converted third floors can be a challenge.

I happen to like this apartment and the owner, so I am not going to raise a huge fuss. At least not yet. But, rather than experiencing a carefree rental I've been sending the owner e-mails with instructions for what his handyman needs to do to begin to resolve the situation. I've asked that he insulate the hot water pipes that run, through my stairwell, to this apartment so that I am not paying for heat to disappear before it's made the arduous climb from the basement to the two radiators that do exist up here (in the living room and in the entry hall). And I've asked that an electrician install a heat lamp in the bathroom. Freezing on the toilet in the morning is an adventure when camping, but inexcusable at home. The landlord has indicated that he'll send someone over to take care of these things. Electrician #1 did not contact me so now I am waiting for someone else.

For now, that should satisfy, although it still leaves me in a position of dealing with contractors, a position I hoped to avoid by renting. And I'd like to take some more time to develop a strategy for addressing the lack of heat in my bedroom. I'm not interested in raising hell over it, but I might be willing to not notify the authorities in exchange for, say, a rent reduction that would cover the cost of keeping an electric space heater. Yes, in this case I would not refuse hush money. At the moment I am leaning towards being pragmatic rather than self-righteously pointing fingers. I will see how I feel (assuming I haven't gone numb) when the outdoor temps get really icy.

Something to contemplate.