My review of Art Basel week 2018 and recommendations on how to navigate the art fairs have been published in Gansevoort Magazine in New York.
Read it online here.
Read it online here.
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"Hoy se ha caido otro roble en la selva del amargo exilio" is how I always thought that my father's eulogy would begin once he died.
"Today another oak falls in the jungle of bitter exile," began the eulogy for the man whose bloodlines my children and I carry on.Florencio Campello Alonso died today at age 90 in Miami, the heart of the bitter Cuban Diaspora. Like many Cubans of his generation, he was the son of European immigrants to Cuba. His Galician parents left the scraggy mountains of northern Spain's ancient Celtic kingdom and in the first decade of the 1900s migrated to the new nation of Cuba upon its liberation from Spain.Galicians have always been uneasy subjects of the Spanish crown, stubbornly hanging on to their ancient Celtic traditions, to their own language and to their bagpipes, so it is no historical surprise that they left their mountain homelands en-masse and headed to the new tropical paradise of Cuba, free from the heavy hand of the Spanish monarchy.
And thus it was never a surprise to me that my father was both a fighter against heavy-handed rulers, a lover of freedom, and one who was never afraid to re-start a life for the better, even if it involved discarding the old.
My father could have been one of the privileged few who currently rule atop the food chain of Cuba's Workers' Paradise. But instead of accepting the benefits of oppression, this most valiant of men chose the harsh path of right over wrong.
And he paid for it dearly (he spent years in Concentration Camps), but when he died, his soul was clean.
In his youth, my dad worked the brutal hours of the son of an immigrant who was slowly building a small financial empire in eastern Cuba. My father was pulled from school as soon as he learned to read and write, and like his two other brothers and eight sisters, he was expected to work and contribute to building a familial empire.
And he did, as my mother relates the stories of my father's childhood in the fields of eastern Cuba, a blond creole in a land of jingoist natives... he trying to out-Cuban the "real Cubans"... how he organized a labor union of the exploited Haitians who worked almost as slaves at the Los Canos Sugar Mill, how he joined a group of bearded rebels in the mountains of the Sierra Maestra in the fight against a tyrant, how he ran for the leadership of the Sugar Workers' Union and beat the Communists to the post, and how he spent years in a Castro Concentration Camp, jailed for the crime of refusing to join the Party, because he believed in Democracy and not Communism.
And because of that stubbornness, in the 1960s he was offered the bitter pill of exile, and this brave man decided to choose family... and left his birth place, and thus became another immigrant within two familial generations and brought his wife and child to another new land.
And it is to him that I owe the greatest gift that a father can give a son: the opportunity to grow in freedom in the greatest nation in the history of this planet.
It is because of my father's courage that I was raised in this country and not in a land bloodied by brutality and oppression.
It is because of my father's teachings that I was raised with the conviction that freedom is not free and never to be taken for granted; after all, he fought for freedom and then Castro, the man who inspired the fight, ended up being a worse dictator, eventually destroying all notions of freedom for all of his people.
It is because of my father that I was taught that every citizen owes his nation some form of service, and that's the main reason that I signed (at age 17) to serve in the US Navy.
It is because of my father that I despise anyone who hides behind the mask of victimism to excuse failures and shortcomings.
When our family arrived in New York in the 1960s, my father began to work in a factory three days after he landed at the airport; my mother (who came from a privileged Cuban family and had never worked a day in her life) found a job as a seamstress five days later. That pattern was repeated for decades as they worked their way in a new nation.
"We thought we'd be back within a few years," was the answer given to me when I once asked the question about leaving their birthplace. When that didn't materialize, they became fierce Americans in the "United States of Americans" sense... these were the "America None Better!" set of immigrants, and in my Dad's case, you better be ready to fight if you dissed the USA.
"Americans"!
Always a fighter he was... and always for the right reasons.
Cubans are archaic immigrants... we love this great nation because we recognize its singular and unique greatness; perhaps it is because our forebears had the same chance at greatness and blew it.
And my Dad loved this nation even more than he once loved Cuba... perhaps it is the genetic disposition of the serial immigrant. After all, his father had left his own ancient Celtic lands and kin for a new land... which he learned to love dearly.
My father always wanted to make sure that I knew that I was an "Americano" and not another forced-on label.
"Labels," he'd say, "are just a way to separate people."
By labels he meant "Hispanic" or "Latino" or anything with a "-" between two ethnic words.
I also remember as a kid in New York, when he bought a huge Hi-Fi record player-color-TV console... that thing was huge. He bought it "lay-away" and he'd pay $10 a week to the store and him and I would walk all the way from our house on Sackman Street to the store on Pitkin Avenue to make the payments every Saturday - he never missed a single payment, and that taught me a lesson.
It was soon playing my Dad's favorite music, which oddly enough was Mexican music (Cuban music was a close second)... and he knew all the words to every charro song.
Guadalajara en un llano, Mejico en una laguna...That Jorge Negrete song... being shouted often on weekends at the top of his lungs from our apartment in a mostly Italian neighborhood in East New York in Brooklyn must have raised some eyebrows.
Guadalajara en un llano, Mejico en una laguna...Me he de comer esa tunaMe he de comer esa tuna.... aunque me espine la mano.
My dad and I watched Neil Armstrong land on the moon on that TV set... we also watched loads of Mets games... and in 1969 and 1972 went to Shea Stadium to see the Mets win in '69 and lose in '72. He really loved baseball and he really loved those Mets!
When I joined the Navy at age 17, my first duty station was USS SARATOGA, which at the time was stationed in Mayport in Florida, so my Dad decided to migrate south to Florida and moved to Miami... just to be close to me.
He and my mother spent the next 40 years in the same apartment while I was stationed all over the world.
When I visited him today in Miami, he looked good and freshly shaven... this is a good thing, as my father was a freak about hygiene... and that's a common "creole" trait.
The Hospice nurse almost teared up when I told her that my parents have been married for 60 years.
I looked at this old "gallego"... his skin as white as paper, his eyes as blue as the sky, and his head (once full of blond hair) as bald and shiny as the old Cuban sing song ("Mira la Luna, mira al Sol... mira la calva de ese.....") and I saw the generations of Neanderthals, Denisovans and Gallego Homo Sapiens that led to my bloodlines... the generations of fighters, of strugglers, and of tough guys who didn't take no for an answer and who made a better place for others.
And I felt at peace and grateful.
And as my father died tonight, after an extubation, all that I can think to say to him is "Thank you for your courage... from me, and from my children... and soon from their children. You opened a whole new world for them."
I love you Dad... Un Abrazo Fuerte! Thank you for your gifts to me and my children and it is no coincidence that you died on El Dia de Los Reyes.
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Those of you who know me... know that I am not a what would be described as an overly religious person; that's not a disclaimer, but a fact.
I went to a Catholic elementary school (Our Lady of Loretto in Brooklyn), but my family was also not religious at all.
For 2015, we wanted to get Anderson an outdoor basketball hoop. As there are dozens of them around our neighborhood, we asked our neighbors if anyone wanted to pass one on, and one of our generous neighbors did.
"We actually inherited the hoop from another neighbor," they said, "And our kids have moved on."
As the hoop was going to be a Christmas present from Santa, and in order to sneak it into our yard at the last possible minute, last night, around 8PM, I trekked to their house, about a quarter of a mile away, preparing to drag the hoop over to our house.
I vastly under estimated the weight of the hoop (pole, base and backboard), which has small wheels at the front of its base to allow for relocation movement, but clearly not designed to be dragged by one man for that long of a distance.
About five minutes into the ordeal, and already soaked in sweat and breathing heavily, as I passed one of the light poles on the street heading to our street, I was startled by my own shadow.
My shadow, stooped over and carrying the heavy basketball hoop, with the backboard on my shoulders and the pole dragging behind me, startled me because it looked exactly like a man carrying a cross.
"I wonder what any neighbor who sees this from their house would think," I thought. In the dark of the night, with just some peripheral light from the light poles, it would be easy to confuse me with some zealous penitent carrying a cross.
I struggled on, my shoulders really aching now, and my sweat pouring from my brow, and my baseball cap being crushed into my eyes by the backboard, so that I had to stop and take my glasses off, and re-adjust the red Nats cap..
As I stopped and lost the momentum, and I was on a slight uphill, it became really hard to get the hoop going again.
"What I need now is a Simon to help me," I thought. The "Simon" being Simon of Cyrene, of course... the man who according to the Bible helped The Christ to carry the cross.
Almost immediately a tall, gangly, dark-haired young man stepped out of the shadows, his hair full of tight black curls.
"Sir," he said, "Can I help you carry that?"
"Thank you!" I almost shouted as he put his shoulder to the backboard and together we trudged along; the task a lot easier now.
"I really appreciate it," I told him as we carried the hoop side by side. "This is for my son," I explained. "Do you live around here?"
He told me that he was a visitor, and was visiting his girlfriend, who lived in our neighborhood.
We carried the hoop to our cul-de-sac, placed it in the right spot, and shook hands.
"Thank you a million times," I said to him. "My name is Lenny, Merry Christmas."
"My name is Simon," he responded as he walked away into the shadows..."Merry Christmas."
I walked back into my house, soaked in sweat and breathing heavily, and then, and only then, it dawned on me.
Rosenfeld says he first started to see forgeries of work by artists such as Lawrence, Bearden and Horace Pippin “20 to 30 years ago”, when their works first started to appear on the secondary market.See Art Newspaper expose here.
Anderson hypnotized by one of Tim Tate's sculptures |
Anderson and Tate |
My new sculpture by Max de Mulder and a new wall sculpture |
Thank you for submitting an application for the 2019 S&R Washington Award. We received over 600 applications from artists around the world, which made the decision process very difficult.We regret to inform you that you have not been selected as one of the 2019 winners of the Washington Award. We hope that this does not discourage you from reapplying in the future. Please note, because of the number of applicants this year, we are unable to give feedback regarding individual applications.On behalf of everyone at S&R Foundation, we want to thank you for your time and effort in submitting an application. We wish you continued success in your future artistic endeavors.All the best,S&R Foundation team
Henderson Ronald hendersonronald73@gmail.comMon 12/10/2018, 3:59 PMHello, This message is to make inquiry on the question below: Do you accept credit card for payment(my U.S.A Master and Visa card to be precise)? Kindly let me know your comments on these, before i send the items i am interested in purchasing from you. Though i already know of a freight forwarder that will pick my packages from you, since they ship lesser than any other courier and they are so effective in shipping my goods to me here in Victoria , Australia is estimated to be (2-3 days) I have used there service in the past and it was splendid Henderson
Booth C321 at Context Art Fair - the beginning |
Konopinski and Wilson installing Erwin Timmers' latest piece |
---- Please Respond Above This Line -----And there was no scam here... it was the real thing - so this work was sold to a very nice lady from Boca Raton who first saw it at the fair, and emailed and image to her daughter, who then found it on Artsy's page on the Context Art Miami fair and contacted us to reserve it for her mother!
Hi, I’m interested in purchasing this work immediately. I saw it at Art Basel this afternoon and fell in love with it.
Please contact me at 561-XXX-XXXX as soon as possible so I may purchase it.
Thank you So much!
About this collector:XXXXXXX has been an Artsy member since December 2018.
This artwork is on view at CONTEXT Art Miami 2018 through Dec 9.
F. Lennox Campello
Daphne II, 2018
Charcoal and Conte on Paper
Contact For PriceThis is an inquiry sent through Artsy regarding interest in the work “Daphne II” (2018) by F. Lennox Campello. Please respond to this inquiry by replying directly to this email.
Amy Lin |