Читать книгу The Dwelling Place of Wonder - Harry L. Serio - Страница 14

One of the family associates, a Serio “wanna-be,” once made the remark that when brains were being handed out to the Serio clan, Emilio was first in line and got the lion’s share. I’m sure his brothers and sisters would dispute that. What they couldn’t argue, however, was that he was endowed with artistic gifts that he had the intelligence to develop.

When Edward Gibbon presented his voluminous work, The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, the Duke of Gloucester was said to have remarked, “Another damned thick, heavy book! Scribble, scribble, scribble! Eh, Mr. Gibbon?”

In his preschool years, Emilio did a lot of scribbling—sidewalks, walls, notebooks, library books, toilet paper, paper napkins, restaurant tablecloths. When he ran out of writing surfaces he would draw on the back of his hands. His friends suggested that he might have a great career as a tattoo artist. But his teachers thought otherwise; they gave him paper and encouraged his artistic inclinations.

Emilio graduated in 1948 as valedictorian from Newark’s Arts High School, the same school that produced the great Sarah Vaughan. He spent another year at the Newark School of Fine and Industrial Arts, which qualified him for a position as a window decorator. He decided that he didn’t want to work with dummies, but the army thought otherwise, and he was drafted, trained as a medic, and put to work in Vassincourt, France. To put an artist in France is like letting a kid loose in a candy store. Emilio visited every art gallery, museum, cathedral he could get to—even the bookstalls and postcard sellers on the banks of the Seine.

Fortunately, his officers recognized his artistic abilities and put him to doing work more in keeping with his training. He was assigned to painting mess halls, decorating windows, making signs, and painting portraits. He stopped short of doing ice sculptures for the officers’ mess, but may have decorated a cake or two.

The military provided Emilio access to Europe and he took advantage of it. He managed to visit our relatives in Italy and establish contacts there that were to prove very advantageous in years to come. In Italy, he studied the masters, copied their techniques, and took many photographs. He would then return to the United States where he would work as a commercial artist until he could replenish his financial resources to enable him to return to the studio that he maintained in Florence.

After his stint with the army, Emilio continued his education in the arts, studying at the Art Students League and the National Academy School of Fine Arts. He won the coveted William Aylward Award for illustration, and in the process gained the attention of Willard Cummings, who offered him a scholarship at the Skowhegan School.

Under the guidance of Cummings, who became Emilio’s friend and mentor, Emilio refashioned his artistic skills from those of a commercial and graphic artist to those of a sensitive realist painter. He developed a friendship with Ben Shahn, with whom he shared some points of style, and continued his relationship with Ben’s widow, Bernarda, after Ben passed away.

The Skowhegan School and his relationship with Willard Cummings were decisive milestones in Emilio’s career. His work became generally known and was acquired for important private collections such as those of Vincent Price, Joseph H. Hirschhorn, Nathaniel Saltonstall, and John Eastman Jr., as well as Cummings himself. It was through Will Cummings that Emilio became friends with Bette Davis and was mentioned in her will. (Well, actually it was his paintings that were a part of her collection, which she may have bequeathed to her friend, Robin.)

As impressive as this might be, it didn’t quite pay the rent. It was still a struggle. I visited Emilio in his East 80th Street apartment in Manhattan, a short walk from the Metropolitan Museum of Art, my preferred hang-out during my teen years. His flat was like a set for a sitcom. As we sat in his living room overlooking the brownstone across the street where television comedian Soupy Sales was in residence, assorted characters would drop in and just as suddenly disappear. A couple came in and joined us. It was apparent that they were engaged in an identity crisis and were having trouble making the transition from beatniks to hippies. We talked about the conflicting subcultures in Manhattan and the need for maintaining one’s artistic integrity while trying to survive.