Fifty Years of Framing

Part One

On this very day in 1969 I began what has resulted in a most satisfying and creative journey of fifty years (and counting).

I was 23 years old, and other than babysitting in high school, selling my own artwork at outdoor art and craft shows, as well as a brief stint as an unenthusiastic purveyor of Parklane jewelry at home parties, I had never been employed in a real job.  I was bored.

One day I found a classified ad in a Buffalo paper – it listed an address on Allen Street and stated “Must be artistic.”  Figuring I would be a shoo-in, I strolled into the little gallery at around 3 o’clock in the afternoon.  I was greeted by an overenthusiastic Weimaraner (I believe his name was "Get down, Axel!") and the quintessential grumpy old man.  I told the man I was there for the advertised job.

“You should have been here this morning at 9 o’clock!” he shouted, “I already hired someone.”  I was a bit taken aback by his outburst, but the place seemed interesting, so as long as I was there, I began looking around.

The ad had only mentioned the street address, not the name of the business, and I had not noticed the name when I had entered.  As I was nosing around I found business cards which read “Buffalo Picture Frame & Mirror.”

“This is Buffalo Picture Frame?” I blurted.  The man looked at me as if I had taken leave of my senses.

“My uncle works at Buffalo Picture Frame,” I continued lamely.

He started, and then in a voice dripping with suspicion, growled, “Who’s your uncle?”

“Bob McPherson,” I replied.  Uncle Bob had worked there for many years.

“Bob didn’t tell me his niece was looking for a job!” he exclaimed.  He took a few seconds to reconsider the situation and then  then asked me for my phone number in case his new hire did not pan out.

And that is how I met the inimitable Jason S. Natowitz – Army sharpshooter, pharmaceutical salesman, accredited inventor of department store Santa photographs, and the founding father  of the Allentown Art Festival.  He was a man of many talents.

Kramer the Framer, original Artist Proof by Charles Bragg.  This is the first frame I ever bought from Jason (it had been an "oops" frame) and I still love it.  And aside from his bushy moustache, Kramer has always reminded me of Jason (Jason's moustache was always neatly clipped).  The rest of the details of the image are spot on for Buffalo Picture Frame in those days.

Jason phoned me the next morning and instructed me to report for work the following Monday.  Turns out the woman he had hired had never even gotten off of her bus when she saw the old boarded-up building on William Street.  Not exactly the trendy Allentown address where either of us had expected to be working.

I started at minimum wage, $1.55 per hour, and I envisioned being able to spend this small fortune on expanding my horse collection.  My first week’s pay did indeed go to the acquisition of a beautiful Italian alabaster horse head that I had spied in the window of a cluttered little antique store across the street from Jason’s gallery.

From then on my wages went for household expenses and new horses were few and far between.  I barely noticed, however, because as the horses were shelved, the love of picture framing took over my life.

The first mystery I was initiated into was how the picture is installed into the frame.  I was put to work at the fitting table.  There I learned to clean the glass, use the ancient Red Devil diamond point driver to fasten the framing package into the frame, and apply paper and screw eyes and wire to the back. 

It still works and I use it when no other tool will do the trick.

Soon I was cutting the backing boards, and then dry mounting was added to my duties, and finally the Holy Grail – mat cutting on the Keaton Kutter and the Springfield oval cutter.  I was also taught how to cut glass by hand and eventually how to cover mats and liners with beautiful silks, linens, and velvets.

Jason had bought the business in the fifties and in those days framers did not deign to share trade secrets so he was pretty much on his own, making things up as he went along.  When he encountered a problem, he engineered a solution – he was a creative genius and even with the non-archival materials available to us back then, a great designer and picture framer.  Granted, some of the techniques he devised would cause a modern framer to faint dead away – but he tried his best.

Jason S. Natowitz and Darryl's predecessor, Jay, early 70's.

I still use many of Jason’s techniques today.  Fifteen years ago I attended a fabric workshop presented by our industry’s top fabric guy, and I was astounded to be shown Jason’s exact process, step by step.  The only difference was modern fabric glue instead of generic white glue, and rag matboard instead of wood pulp board.

Despite the dank windowless firetrap we were working in, the gang of us got along remarkably well.  Ceil, the previous owner-turned-bookkeeper guided us when she could in the front and provided delicious cakes for birthdays and holidays.  Helga was the other fitter, Lance (aka “Sinus”) was our often-absent Manager, and my Uncle Bob worked upstairs restoring paintings alongside the talented but color-blind Bruno who gold-leafed and finished length moulding.

There were several guys who worked in the back room, cutting and joining frames.  They came and went but after Lance departed, Darryl became the Manager, and we had fun almost every day, especially when Jason was not fussing over our shoulders and stinking up the place with his disgusting cigars.  Fortunately, he spent most of his time on Allen Street and only came to the workshop to pick up and drop off orders.

I worked there until the end of 1971 because, thanks to the glass guy, I was recruited away to work at Bond’s in Williamsville.  But that is another story.

. . . to be continued . . .

The Desistance of Memory

The two of them have been  customers at my shop for many years now.  Lately, though, the husband has been bringing in a lot of memorabilia to frame for his wife - published articles about her life experiences, certificates of commendation, old photographs.  I had not seen her in a long time.  Several months ago when I called to tell him his last order was finished, she answered the phone, and she seemed confused - she did not recognize the name of my shop at all - but she handed him the phone and he came in straight away to retrieve his framing.

They came in together yesterday afternoon.  He is recently retired from a lengthy military career, she was in education.  They have been married for over forty years.  Onto my counter he placed a couple of newsletters which had articles about her teaching mission in a remote Alaskan Eskimo settlement in the early seventies.  She strolled over to the workbench, looked at the articles and said, "Why - that's me!  Where did you find those?"  She is a tall, slender and beautiful woman with curly white hair, bright blue eyes, and an easy  smile.  He is the quiet, gentle, salt-of-the-earth type (like my dad). She commented that she had forgotten all about those articles.

We had a pleasant chat about the quirks of memory and I told them that I always keep a scrap of paper in my back pocket with "my list" on it.  I told her if I complete a task that I have forgotten to write down - I write it down anyway and cross it off, just for the satisfaction of crossing something off the list.  She laughed.

We wished each other a happy Easter and he handed me his business card so I did not have to hunt for his phone number to call when the order was ready.  As they were leaving he slipped a second card into my hand.  I did not look at it until after they had driven away;  when I did read it, my heart sank.

It is only natural that the public tends to associate picture framing with art.  Sure, we frame oil paintings, watercolors, ink drawings, pencil drawings, pastels, needle art,  photographs and posters. We also frame diplomas and sports jerseys, medals and score cards.  But the most important job of our profession is to present and preserve memories.  It is my hope that these and other framing projects will help this lovely woman hang onto her memories a bit longer. 

My Little Goldfish

(My remembrance from the memorial service for my stepmom, at St. James United Methodist Church, Niagara Falls, New York, Sunday, January 27, 2012)

My dad always gave me the best presents.  When I was five years old he made me a fabulous rocking horse and when I was going off to college he gave me my very own portable typewriter.  Little did I know the best present was to come in 1972 when he married Carol, and after being an only child all my life, I suddenly had a whole new family.

   

In addition to this new mother, I had two brothers, and they had wives and children; now their children have children – so I have brothers and sisters and nephews and nieces and grand nephews.  Carol also arrived with a dear quirky aunt and a delightful animal-loving sister and I ended up with two new cousins as well – not to mention various dogs, including one very special step-poodle and an awful lot of cats.

Carol and I began to become acquainted with each other right here at St. James – for many years we attended the then-annual Mother and Daughter Banquet.  We always had a grand time – eating and laughing and singing - and did I mention eating?  Our favorite experience was the entertainment portion of one unforgettable evening – a chorus of retired men, clad in spiffy red blazers, who belted out “Rise up O Men of God” as their first number.  Carol and I laughed about that for years!

We grew closer in our relationship after my dad died in 1999.  I visited her weekly and she fed me, (or we went out for Chinese), we went shopping and we enjoyed a lot of movies.  We sat in the sunlight and chuckled at the antics of the birds and the squirrels.   Every Thanksgiving we watched the Dog Show on television. 

 

After she moved into Sterling House and later Clair Bridge she continued to enjoy her life – looking forward, of course, to family visits but taking part in all activities that were offered.  The level of care she received at both places was truly a Godsend.  The amazing staff always made sure she was well-fed, warm, safe, entertained and happy.  Some days, however, when I visited she would seem kind of lonesome, longing for a visit from “her boys.” But then she would laugh, pat her hand on my knee and say, “But I’ve got you, babe!”

Towards the last few years of her life, Carol developed an increasingly distressing loss of her short-term memory.  We all went through a bad patch during the stage when she was aware of this loss and became perplexed and occasionally vexed; but once she forgot this forgetting, she was, as the Buddhists call it, “living in the now.”   And this is where her wonderful personality came into play – everything and everyone she encountered was a fresh delight.  I took to thinking of her as My Little Goldfish – she just swam around and around in her little domain and she enjoyed every single minute of her life.  Let us hope that all of us may be equally blessed.

November 2012, age 97, working on a painting.

                                           

My Friend Hazel

Hazel Pontius Collmer was the first “elder” in my life, other than my grandparents. I encountered her in the late 1970’s, when she was making the best of her twilight years at Beechwood Retirement Home, having out-lived two husbands. The driver who ran errands for the residents used to bring her paintings in for framing when I worked at a nearby frame shop. She included detailed notes on the type of framing she desired and we all adored her dreamy little watercolors.

One evening I had gone over to Beechwood to see my paternal grandmother, who lived in the wing with the dementia patients. Grandma was a lovable little dear but she really did not remember who I was and this made for unsettling and abbreviated visits, motivated more, I must admit, from familial obligation than anything else. I remembered that Mrs. Collmer lived there as well so one evening I decided to try and find her.

Thankfully this was in the days before all of the “privacy concerns” so I asked for and received her location. I knocked on her door and introduced myself as her framer. She chuckled and responded that she had always assumed her framer was a man but she looked me up and down and must have decided I was OK because she invited me into her small apartment. She was watching MacNeil/Lehrer (quite a refreshing change from the game shows blaring away in the rest of the building) and she shushed me until the segment she had been viewing was finished. It was a story about the first woman to be appointed the head of an Ivy League university.

Mrs. Collmer shut off the television, turned to me and asked, “Now, what would you have worn for an interview like that? How would you have done your hair?” She thought that the woman had not looked businesslike enough for such a distinguished position. Mrs. Collmer always dressed impeccably: she had a wardrobe of beautiful dresses, matching shoes and handbags, her hair was always perfectly coiffed; she always seemed to look like she was heading out the door to attend a concert at the philharmonic or perhaps conduct a board meeting.

By the time I met her, she was ninety-something and I was thirty-something and we soon became fast friends. I would go visit my grandmother for five or ten minutes and then spend several hours with this delightful woman who soon insisted that I call her Hazel. She had moved into the retirement community after the death of Mr. Collmer, her second husband who had been her first love. This was the best story!

When she was in high school she was friends with and eventually the beloved of Mr. Collmer, who was a year ahead of her. He went away to college after he graduated, and they corresponded regularly. He told her stories of his new roommate, a Mr. Pontius, and he told Hazel, “I am bringing him home with me for Thanksgiving, he is a grand fellow - you will just love him!”

Of course, much to Mr. Collmer’s dismay, Hazel did indeed fall in love with Mr. Pontius (and he fell in love with her). They were married for over fifty years until his passing, whereupon Hazel serendipitously reconnected with Mr. Collmer whose wife of many years had also passed on. So the childhood sweethearts were reunited (in their seventies) and married for over a decade.

Hazel’s room was decorated with the best pieces from her art collection and her favorite furnishings. When she had moved into Beechwood in her eighties she knew she needed something other than her musical pastimes to keep her occupied, so she took some watercolor classes from James Kuo at Rosary Hill. Dr. Kuo was delighted with her bright spirit. A medical condition caused her hands to be quite shaky so he convinced her to paint clouds and skies and seascapes and foliage - not try to aim for straight lines - go with the flow, as it were. Soon I had framed so many of her paintings that I convinced her to have a one-woman show at the Rosa Coplon Home that lent its wall space to local artists for month-long shows.

Hazel Pontius Collmer and me.

 The residents and staff at Rosa Coplon could hardly believe that this artist was older than most of their residents! Hazel displayed her works there three years in a row and sold quite a number of pieces each time (I bought quite a few myself). At the last show she made a personal appearance at the opening, gave a brief talk, and ended up by demonstrating her daily exercise routine. My dad was holding a microphone for her and he really had to scramble to keep up with her contortions.  Someone asked her how it felt to be so old. Hazel replied, “I will let you know when I feel old.”

Hazel had been born in 1888; she was one of the first generation of women to pursue education beyond high school. Mr. Pontius worked in the upper echelons of management in the YMCA and they traveled all over the world on for both business and pleasure. She played the violin and sang in choral groups. She was straight-backed and tall (she had much better posture than I did!), and she strode through her kingdom with a slender silver-headed cane (which I now have in my possession). Every night before she went to bed she walked down every hallway of her entire building complex and checked to make sure all of the exterior doors were locked and secure.

I remember she told me she was always so excited each time a new resident moved in to Beechwood. She lived with the everlasting hope that someday she would find a kindred spirit - someone who could discuss great books and music and world affairs, and someone who could hear well enough to carry on the conversation. Someone to talk to, a friend her age, a peer – that is what she sought and I do not think she ever found such a person. That may be why she and I became so close – she was desperate! She did give me the perceptive advice not to marry my second husband (which I of course ignored) and today when I look at a plastic grocery bag or a plastic container of any kind, I think of her comment almost thirty years ago that someday such items would be abandoned as being wasteful of the planet’s resources.

In 1985 she fell, broke her hip and her daughter hastily arranged transportation to Buffalo so she could make preparations to move her mother back with her to North Carolina to be close to the rest of her family. Humor usually pops up in the darkest of circumstances and I remember laughing that even though Hazel was suffering from the sudden alteration to her circumstances in addition to the discomfort from her shattered hip, she still managed to be fashion-conscious enough to chide her 75-year-old daughter for carrying a purse that did not match her shoes. Her daughter responded, “I am sorry, Mother, but I was in a hurry to get here to be with you!”

After she moved out of Beechwood, I saw her one last time. I drove down to Asheville with all of her possessions shoehorned into my rusty old van. Although I had a delightful stay with her daughter in an enchanting old farmstead in the middle of a wild and beautiful woodland, visiting my dear Hazel in the inhospitable hospital setting was just not the same as our vibrant get-togethers from days gone by; she was suddenly small, powerless and forlorn - such a pale imitation of her former effervescent self. It was a heartrending visit.

Hazel passed away in 1986 at the age of 98.

 Seascape, Hazel Pontius Collmer

Zoo Story

When I worked at Bond’s back in the seventies, Cecilia Evans Taylor, aka “Peach,” was an enjoyable and fascinating customer. She bought her art supplies from our store and we also framed her many paintings. Most of these paintings were of animals: horses, giraffes, lions, elephants - so of course I adored her artwork.

I became more acquainted with Peach when she bought a Rapidograph pen. She was fond of drawing with this pen - the fine lines were quite suitable for her delicate style; but she was always mystified when it stopped working every couple of weeks. She would bring it back to the store where I would unclog it, clean it for her and refill it with ink.

Unlike the more country club attire worn by other ladies in her age group and social stratum, Peach dressed in blue jeans and chambray work shirts and she was frequently adorned with impressive Navajo silver and turquoise jewelry. I remember her red Mustang always seemed to be overflowing with big happy dogs, and I loved these and other unexpected facets of her persona. Seeing a lady her age (I was in my twenties and she was in her seventies) wearing blue jeans made me want to be just like her when I grew up - she was the perfect role model for me: creative and eccentric and a lover of animals.

One day she came into the store and showed me a letter she had just received, a lengthy missive in cramped handwriting on onionskin, folded into small rectangles and coming all the way from Africa! It was from her good friend author Joy Adamson - I remember being so impressed - this was the woman who had written “Born Free.”

In those days I used to spend almost every weekend exhibiting at various area art shows - I exhibited an array of miscellaneous artsy and craftsy creations - macramé jewelry, abstract knotted sculpture as well as little pen and ink drawings of flowers, mushrooms, lady bugs and, of course, all sorts of animals.

Peach was an enthusiastic supporter of the Buffalo Zoo (I believe she was on their board of directors) and giraffes were her passion - she created a bronze giraffe statue for their grounds, and I recall that at one point in time she even donated a real live giraffe! It came as no surprise when she undertook a mission as one of the organizers of an art show fund raiser called “The Zootique” to take place at the zoo and she talked me into participating.

The space allotted to me for my display was, alas, in a dank, dimly lit area deep in the bowels of one of the zoo buildings - I remember all of the artists’ set-ups were scattered willy-nilly throughout. The fund-raiser was scheduled for a late November weekend and it unfortunately proved to be a dismal affair: torrential rain and chilly temperatures for the entire event which resulted in hardly any visitors and even fewer sales. I felt badly for Peach because she had been so incredibly excited about the grand possibilities of this idea.

One memory from that show that I have always treasured, however, was when Peach ushered in a dapper but slightly frazzled looking older man to see my display. She was very animated in showing him all of my wares and she ended her spiel by enthusing, “Mar made all of this by herself!” The gentleman looked me straight in the eye and simply said, “Congratulations.” Then she hustled him away to see the next artist. It was only later that I discovered I had just met Seymour Knox II.

Now, every morning on the way to my shop I drive up Parkside past the Buffalo Zoo and the Cecilia Evans Taylor Giraffe House. When the weather is appropriate and the giraffes are outside enjoying the fresh air in their enclosures, I wave at them and I think of Peach.

The Lake Blessing (Part 2)

November 27, 2009

A waxing moon, on Friday November 17, 2009.  Fridays symbolize friendship, harmony, nature, pleasures, strangers and waters.  Sunset at Waverly Beach by the Old Dance Hall at Erie Beach.  The beach glass, some labeled with Magilla's name, returned to the waters of Lake Erie, small waves rolling in at my feet.  Blessed Be.

The Lake Blessing

Beach glass has always fascinated me – my grandma and I used to collect it when I was little – Grimsby Beach, Lowbanks, wherever we could find it.  I still have a precious few bits of this glass as well as pretty stones and bits of shells that she and I gathered on our trips to the shoreline.

Grandma couldn’t swim, and my Mom wouldn’t go near the water, so despite my Grandfather’s occasional dips and my Dad’s love of swimming, I never learned to swim.  My fascination with the lakes came from the treasures on the shoreline.  I still remember battling with my poor dear Grandma over which one of us had first seen the tiny perfect bonsai-shaped piece of driftwood (and I am ashamed to admit that I won the battle!).

For over 40 years I have lived a half mile from the lake and other than crossing over the river each day, I have been quite lax in giving the waters my due attention.  It seems, however, that the lake has been trying to gain my attention of late – first by sending an awe-inspiring man named Magilla into my shop with the many dramatic photos of his global community of friends - the agile and graceful surfers of the Great Lakes.  Magilla clearly loved the waters of the Great Lakes and spoke glowingly of his life as both a surfer and a photographer.  He also told me that he was dying of a terrible rare form of cancer and did not have much longer to walk the earth.

Then last week the lake nudged me for a second time when old friends presented me with a shoe box full of beach glass. They said they had been picking up pieces for me for years in their travels around the Great Lakes.

What a treasure trove! I have been playing with and sorting these wondrous pieces for days now.  The cache has been sorted into three piles – the first pile of course contains my favorites which I will greedily keep forever (and I must admit I continue adding to this pile every day). The second pile holds the beach glass that I am sharing with others - artists, friends, and customers.  One man (in his mid-forties) was so amazed by it – he had never even heard of beach glass!

The third pile contains about three dozen pieces which I am entering into my newly devised “Beach Glass Catch and Release” program.  These pieces are still too clear, too sharp on the edges - they need the action of the water and the stones to grind them down a bit more, soften the colors, round out the shapes.

I plan to find the perfect location of rock and wave, create a suitable ceremony, and re-gift the lake this small bit of treasure-that-will-be.  Perhaps by next Spring or Summer, Mother Nature will have finished her portion of the artistry and another Grandma or artist child will find them and be thrilled all over again.

This re-gifting ceremony will be dedicated to the memory of Magilla, the Great Lakes surfer, photographer and philosopher who left this world on November 10, 2009.