The Connection

I didn't know the deceased—I had never even heard of the deceased—a Cuban born painter of bold shapes who came to fame quite late in life, who has now passed away at 106, Carmen Herrera. I did know her husband though.

I almost didn't finish reading the six-column obit for Ms. Herrera by Robert McFadden. But as I read the first column in today's NYT I learned that she didn't really make any money from her paintings until very late in life when she was "discovered." She relied on the income of her husband, Jesse Lowenthal, an English teacher at Stuyvesant High School, who for 45 years tried to get something across to his students, one of whom was me. ( A photo of Mr. Lowenthal is in a frame in the upper left corner of the above photo.)

Mr. Lowenthal passed away in 2000, and I had him as an English teacher, perhaps in 10th grade—I really don't remember and the report cards are not handy—sometime between 1963 and 1966. I remember he came into the family shop on 18th Street and Third Avenue now and then. I occasionally delivered flowers to his apartment on East 19th Street, never knowing he was married, let alone that his wife was an artist. It is mentioned in the obit that her studio was on East 19th Street, "near Union Square." Well, sort of near Union Square, five blocks away. Close enough.

Mr. Lowenthal—always Mr. Lowenthal to me, never Jesse— was a bit of a tall man whose hair crept back over his shirt collar. He had a bit of a Bohemian look, dark plaid shirts with a tie—all the male teachers wore a tie then. When I saw him in the store, or delivered flowers, I don't think I reminded him he had been my English teacher for a semester. I was always shy about drawing attention to myself then.

Now that I'm reminded of him, I think it would have been nice to mention it to him and show him all the books I had by the desk in the back where I did my homework. Lots of reissued classic paperback novels, lots of John Steinbeck and Sinclair Lewis, and some new releases that I bought from the card store/stationery store a few doors down in the same building as the flower shop.

Now that his wife's paintings have became as famous as they are, (and expensive) it is doubtful I could add any of them to my overcrowded walls here at home.

The lesson here of course is, if you start reading an obit, make sure you finish reading the obit. You never know what you're going to learn.

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