Professor Robert D’Arista died on Monday, October 12. I don’t know the cause. I haven’t seen the man since I took his drawing class last year, except for once, about a month ago. We were walking in opposite directions in the School for the Arts. Happy to see him, I said, “Hi!” He returned my greeting with some uncertainty and much less exuberance. I don’t think he remembered me.
That was the last time I saw him.
Robert D’Arista, or “Mista” D’Arista, as I liked to call him, was not the picture of physical health. He was overweight and his clothes, ill-fitting. He was a heavy smoker, which may have been the cause of his almost inaudible voice–quiet, but not weak. His black hair was oily and messy, as were his bushy mustache and eyebrows. One of his eyes seemed permanently squinted, as though he were always aiming.
To me, he looked just like an art professor should look. To me, he looked perfect.
As we drew, he would circle the room. When he saw something he liked, he would instruct the student to tear the picture out and put it in a pile. You could generally tell how well you were doing by how unruly your sketchpads were. This practice bothered the compulsive part of me which didn’t like tearing things out. More often than not, he’d tell us to do it while we were still drawing. A typical exchange:
D’Arista: “All right, that looks good. Put it in the pile.”
Me: “But I’m not finished yet.”
D’Arista: “What are you, a Communist? Stop drawing before you ruin it.”
He was, of course, joking, but he didn’t smile. I don’t think I can remember him ever smiling. His expressions and gestures were slight, but like his voice, not without a certain power.
During the model’s breaks, he would discuss the selected drawings one by one, aiming that eye, speaking slowly and softly. The class gathered around close and was silent in order to hear him. It was an effort, but most didn’t mind. Professor D’Arista knew his stuff, and we knew he knew. His teaching was based more on encouragement than criticism. Generally when he held up a drawing, it was to point out what he saw as good in it.
After he had finished praising a piece, he’d simply drop it on the floor and go on to the next one. And so on, through the pile. Often, without noticing, he let his cigarette ashes fall on the drawings or stepped on them. It seemed outrageous to me given how most people regard art, but that’s what I loved about it. I know he respected our work, but he did so without imposing on it the stifling seriousness that afflicts so much of the art world. He gave us pride and humility, through nothing more than his unconscious honesty.
These may be my own projections. I don’t know. Whatever the case, I liked him. He helped me along my way as an artist. He gave, I took, and it was my privilege, not his. That’s why I’m not bothered that he didn’t remember me. And that’s why, Mista D’Arista, I doubt I’ll soon forget you.
(First printed in Boston University’s Daily Free Press, October 15, 1987)
January 4, 2003 – Today, more than fifteen years after I wrote the above, I got the following e-mail:
Hi Dan,
I am Luisa, Mista D’Arista’s niece. We found your letter while in Italy celebrating Christmas with the rest of the D’Aristas, his brother Vincent and sister Angie and my sister and brothers. What a great letter! I am sure he recognized and liked you very much. Felice Anno Nuovo from all of us.
Con affetto,
Luisa
Is that cool or what? I’m all choked up! The internet is such an incredible tool. There’s more than spam, porn, and spam for porn. Thanks to whoever invented it, and grazie and a big Leo-Buscaglia-style hug to Luisa.
January 15, 2003 – What the hell? Another D’Arista letter! Check it out…
Dear Mr. Kaufman,
I met Bob D’Arista in 1949. At that time, he was an art student commuting to school in Newt York. I was an art student at a different school in New York. We met on the train one day and he was sketching on a pad. I was very impressed. We met many times thereafter and became good friends. I finally asked him for one of his sketches. He surprised me when he visited me at my home and brought a very large oil painting which I still treasure.
Your article about him touched me deeply and I wish I had maintained contact with him during his life.
I would like to get more information about Bob D’Arista and his works. If you know where his son, Peter, can be reached, I would love to contact him.
Very truly yours,
Miriam
“Bob” eh? That’s pretty funny. He didn’t seem like much of a Bob when I knew him. But he was once a skirt-chasing punk, just like me! Aw! “Bob”… I love it! And of course I wouldn’t have been able to help Miriam find the family if Luisa hadn’t written me (just 11 days earlier).