a brush with life
A few years ago, I was in Oakland, visiting LittleSister while on my way out to Hawaii, and while killing time in her apartment, she reached for the remote of her DVR and said, "hey, I want to watch something with you. I think you'll like it."
She cued up a documentary from PBS called Herb and Dorothy, and it was about Herb and Dorothy Vogel, an elderly married couple living in New York. He was a postman, and she was a librarian. They met in the 60s, in a Greenwich Village that was hitting its bohemian stride. Scenesters in a burgeoning modern art movement that would yield Warhol and Basquiat, the Vogels tried their hand at painting but soon turned to collecting. It was an innocent thing that one did amongst friends, but soon they had started to amass a notable collection, and they kept at it. Their rules were that they would live on her salary, and use his income for buying art. They would only buy what they could afford, and what could be transported in a cab or on the subway. It had to fit in their apartment, and they were never going to sell any of it.
Over the decades, they had amassed a collection with thousands of pieces of art, and had become an odd set of fairy godparents to the New York art scene. They always lived in a small, rent-controlled apartment in Manhattan, and they eschewed extravagant vacations and fancy meals because every spare cent went into collecting. Then, in 1991, they chose to donate their collection to the National Gallery. As public servants, who were paid with taxpayer dollars, it only seemed fitting that they give their legacy back to the people. It was an endearing, if singularly focused, life, and LittleSister was right. I loved watching the film.
Last week, I read news that Herb Vogel passed away. That had brought back thoughts of them. There has been nothing in my life that has deserved the devotion that the Vogels' put into their collection, but it was still comforting to look at their life as one that was deliberately and richly lived. Too often, we get distracted by frivolous and illusory desires, or tempted to follow a set of life goals that are more based on marketing and manipulation than any sense of true happiness. So, even if we have yet to find our purpose, it is still worthwhile to think about living in a meaningful, purposeful way and to find examples of those who figured it out for themselves.
She cued up a documentary from PBS called Herb and Dorothy, and it was about Herb and Dorothy Vogel, an elderly married couple living in New York. He was a postman, and she was a librarian. They met in the 60s, in a Greenwich Village that was hitting its bohemian stride. Scenesters in a burgeoning modern art movement that would yield Warhol and Basquiat, the Vogels tried their hand at painting but soon turned to collecting. It was an innocent thing that one did amongst friends, but soon they had started to amass a notable collection, and they kept at it. Their rules were that they would live on her salary, and use his income for buying art. They would only buy what they could afford, and what could be transported in a cab or on the subway. It had to fit in their apartment, and they were never going to sell any of it.
Over the decades, they had amassed a collection with thousands of pieces of art, and had become an odd set of fairy godparents to the New York art scene. They always lived in a small, rent-controlled apartment in Manhattan, and they eschewed extravagant vacations and fancy meals because every spare cent went into collecting. Then, in 1991, they chose to donate their collection to the National Gallery. As public servants, who were paid with taxpayer dollars, it only seemed fitting that they give their legacy back to the people. It was an endearing, if singularly focused, life, and LittleSister was right. I loved watching the film.
Last week, I read news that Herb Vogel passed away. That had brought back thoughts of them. There has been nothing in my life that has deserved the devotion that the Vogels' put into their collection, but it was still comforting to look at their life as one that was deliberately and richly lived. Too often, we get distracted by frivolous and illusory desires, or tempted to follow a set of life goals that are more based on marketing and manipulation than any sense of true happiness. So, even if we have yet to find our purpose, it is still worthwhile to think about living in a meaningful, purposeful way and to find examples of those who figured it out for themselves.