5/22/2023 0 Comments Metropolis by elizabeth gaffneyHe was too young and maybe not quite cool enough to be a Beatnik, to old by a shade to be a hippie. He had long hair and little round glasses and was a member of a coop gallery in SoHo, when SoHo was for art, not shopping. He was reading Marvel comics and talking about peace in Southeast Asia. Around this same time, my father was getting involved in a teachers’ union and picketing his own campus in a t-shirt stenciled with a red fist and the word ‘strike.’ He was smoking hashish and painting beautiful, terrifying pictures. My mother, a graphic designer and artist and gifted impresario of outings, orchestrated these events, while my father, an artist and college art professor, provided the materials: huge pads of rice paper and various large charcoal sticks and conte crayons that he pilfered from a vast store of supplies ordered for the benefit of his undergraduates. When I was a girl, we sometimes went out on rubbing expeditions.
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