About a year and half after discovering that I had a deep love for sculpting and that my hands appeared to have an intuitive level of skill that greatly surprised me, I finally admitted that my lack of knowledge of human anatomy and my inability to draw were preventing me from doing a number of things I wanted to do.  So I decided to enroll in a drawing class at the Art Students League on West 57^th Street in New York.   

The League, pictured above, was founded in 1875 and for those who have not experienced it, it is a remarkable place.  Unlike many art schools where students are focused on getting degrees so they can earn more money or get a better job, this institution is unique and also is a kind of second home where people of all ages who have discovered that art is a lifetime commitment and not just an occupation, come together to enjoy the company of other artists, to work with gifted teachers and to increase their competencies in one or more of the many discipline that are practiced there from drawing to painting in a wide variety of media, to etching, woodblock, print making and sculpting.

As I write this I still need only close my eyes for a moment to be back in that special place infused with the smell of paint and stone dust, and the feel and sounds of art. That place in which each studio is rife with the hopes and desires, the pains and efforts, the obstacles and breakthroughs of generations of artists who have spent time there opening new parts their brains, developing better hand-eye coordination and learning new techniques that will support them in taking next steps in performing what for me is still the miracle of bringing images and forms to life. 

Although for months after beginning to learn to draw in both Gustav Rehberger’s remarkable class as well as in the daily afternoon, open drawing sessions for members of the League, I resisted going down into the basement of the League where the sculpture studio was.   But one day I finally wandered down there, met Jose DeCreeft, and my life changed.  

Jose was in his early 90’s at the time, but it was clear there was nothing old about his spirit nor his commit to his art.  At the time I was still holding on to the belief that I wanted to take my sculpting as far as I could on my own before beginning to work with a teacher.  I had decided I wanted to discover what I knew and could do on my own before having anyone impact my work.  

And, in truth, I was glad I had made that decision because on that day I stepped into that sculpting studio, I knew enough to be sure that this passion I had discovered could not be dissuaded or damaged, but only enhanced by working with the right teacher.  This I believe is an essential path to follow for all anyone serious about doing their own creative work.  We must know what we know and what we do not, so that our relationship with a teacher will allows us to become more of who we are and not a mimic or copy another.  This I believe is what Oscar Wilde advised us all to do.  

So on the day I first stepped into that studio and watched Jose as he worked individually and in a group with his students; as I listened to the clear and yet profound insights and tips he shared, I knew I was ready for my next step.  

As I have reported elsewhere, Jose DeCreeft was not only still teaching and sharing his unique wisdom in his early 90’s, but he was also still actively sculpting.

This now that brings you up to date on how I found myself on that day about six months later, pacing around and around a piece of white marble that was about 30 inches high and about 14 inches deep and wide that was positioned on one of the old and scarred wheel sculpture stands in my corner on the carving side of the studio.  

Although I had taken off my plastic face shield I was still holding a point chisel in my left gloved hand and my sculpting hammer in my right.  And as I walked around the piece I was very aware that my frustration and impatience had gotten the better of me. 

Jose, who had come into the studio about 45 minutes earlier was still, as was his custom when he first came in, on the clay side where students were doing their best to capture the likeness of a female model who was partially nude and partially draped and was courageously trying to holding a standing pose.  After sharing some general pointers with the whole group, he took time with each student, in some instances just observing and not saying a word, and in others pointing out things the student needed but was not always pleased to hear. 

When Jose finished and came into the carving side, I chose to keep my head down and my back turned to him, hoping on one hand that he’d think I was busy and leave me alone with my frustration and impatience and on the other that he’d come over and would help me solve my dilemma.  For I was stuck and clearly had lost what he called rapport with the stone.  

He did the latter.

 “So what’s going on,” he asked.  “You look angry.”

I did not respond at first, aware that once I started talking I would probably not be able to hide my frustration.  But he just stood there waiting for me to answer and so finally I did.  “This damn stone,” I said.  “I just can’t find my way into it.”

He just looked at me and then walked around me and stone and wheeled pedestal a few times.   Finally, on what would be his last circling he asked me another question.

“So my young friend, how long do you think it took this stone to get to you?”

I was tempted to give him a glib answer, but knowing that he suffered fool poorly I just told him what I knew.

“At least a quarter of a million years or more.”   This, I had learned from him was how long it took marble to form in the tensions and pressures beneath the earth’s surface.

For another long moment he didn’t speak and, then he leaned in a little more toward me. “So let me ask you another question.   If what you say is true, do you think it’s too much to ask that you spend some period of time, say six months or a year or even two years developing a relationship with this stone and then working with it to uncover and carve a piece that will be the best outcome this stone and you can produce?   Is that too much to ask?”

Jose didn’t even wait for my answer.  He knew he’d driven a stake through my impatience and frustration.  So he just turned and walked away leaving me feeling emotionally naked, as he often did, especially when I was being a fool.

Like many of the lessons, Jose shared with me, I knew immediately that it would be indelible.  And as he walked away, I also felt how frail and immature my impatience was, especially when he measured them against the fact that the stone I was standing in front of was literally older than species I was part of.  For I knew that Homo sapiens had first emerged on the plains of Africa around 200,000 years ago.  

And so today, these many years later, as I find myself in this greatly troubled time in history world, troubled, divided and perhaps, as some claim, beyond the tipping point and signaling the end of the run for those of us who call ourselves human beings, I find myself thinking about Jose and that lesson he shared with me.  

Where, I wonder, are the wisdom keepers like Jose who might bring real sanity to our time?   And of equal importance are there enough of us still willing to listen, to admit our emotional immaturity, impatience and confusion?  Is there even still time to use that wisdom to change our direction before it is too late? 

As I write these words I find myself wondering what might happen if enough of us paused each and every day to consider that so many of the other species we often treat with either disregard or disdain have themselves existed here for hundreds of thousands of years and, in some cases, much longer?  I wonder what would happen if we stopped to consider that the planet itself that we so often take for granted and abuse and plunder, ruthlessly and unconsciously, has existed for somewhere north of 4 billion years?  Four billion plus years!

What do you think would happen?  Can we prevent the impending catastrophe?