Adieu, Leroy

LeRoy Neiman passed away yesterday at age 91.  It should be no surprise to any return reader that [as with wine, food, spirits, etc.] I love art but I know almost nothing about it.  I loved a lot of Neiman's work and I am truly sorry he will not be painting any longer.

My first bottle of Bordeaux and my acquaintence with the only gallery art dealer and the only U.S. Open golf champion I have ever met are all due to LeRoy Neiman. 

On my very first trip to New Orleans, in 1984, I found myself with a day to kill.  It should also be no surprise to the return reader that ML, left to his own devices in a new town, especially New Orleans, might come to no good ends. After a marvelous, long, lunch [with appropriate libation] at Mr. B's on Royal Street, I strolled out into a warm early summer afternoon in an artistic and adventurous frame of mind.  As I wandered down Royal, I came upon a gallery that displayed several of Mr. Neiman's works.  I had never been in an art gallery before.  I went in, under the influence of my marvelous, long, lunch [with appropriate libation].  There was nobody else in the gallery at that hour.  As I was gazing at one of the Neiman paintings, a very pleasant female voice asked me if I were a Neiman collector.

I turned to find myself looking into a strikingly pretty face.  With a question pending, I ask, what would any young man in my position have done?  At some point I recovered my ability to speak and replied that I was a collector "in a small way" [I did have one Neiman poster at that point, purchased for $25.00 from a joint in Pittsburgh] and that my "main interest" was his original sketches.  True.  I had just not ever thought of it before.  Since there was nobody else in the gallery, I was then treated to about an hour tour of their collection of [very expensive] Neiman work.  I admit that, other than remembering that it would take the better part of my year's salary to buy anything, I am a little foggy on the details of the art we looked over.  I do remember clearly that her hair was just to the base of her neck and that it was a dark chestnut color. She gave me her card and then we parted company.  At which time I was more than ready for my first, long, marvelous, New Orleans dinner at Antoine's.  With appropriate libation, of course.  I had my first Bordeaux that evening.  A Clos De l'Oratoire.  Appropos, and still one of my favorites.

A blink of an eye and it was 1987, four years into a fledgling law career.  My firm was having an open house at which the golf champion was a guest.  I was in need of a nice [but inexpensive] piece of art for my office wall and I decided to recycle the Pittsburgh joint's Neiman poster for the purpose. The fancy wooden frame cost a lot more than the poster, even though my brother and I built it ourselves at a shop.

During the reception in question, I wandered down the hallway and heard voices coming from my office at which time I saw my senior partner and the champion peering at my Neiman poster. All $25.00 of it.  I was introduced.  As a life-long golfer and the son of a golf professional, I was pretty much taken aback to make the famous man's acquaintance.  He was very cordial and told me he loved Neiman's work too.  Had a collection of first generation lithos and signed originals in fact.  He inquired if I were also a collector.  I hesitated a moment and said that due to the early stages of my career, I had to limit myself to a large Neiman or two and some of his original sketches.  The champ was impressed and asked for the name of my art broker.  At this point, I saw my senior partner looking at me with what could only be described as a cagey look.  Senior law partners are good at such things. I think he suspected that I was fictionalizing in order to sustain the conversation.   Imagine, then, his surprise when I provided the name and phone number of a striking young woman dealer at a very chic gallery on Royal Street in New Orleans.  The champ, momentarily impressed, took my card with the information and was herded off to meet other people at the party.
I had a call from her some time later thanking me for sending "a very good new client" her way. 

As I sat in my office this morning, a quarter century later, I saw LeRoy Neiman's obituary then I looked at my framed Neiman poster.  The same one.  I thought of all that it, and I, had seen. I gave Mr. Neiman and his art a toast.  After all, it was the very least that I could do.