In memory of Richard Feigen
By Rabbi Shmully Hecht
“No one is buying the Old Masters anymore, Shmully,” he lamented, whilst leaning back in his oversized armchair almost falling out the window of the 69th street townhouse. “The market is practically dead.”
“Oh Richard, an old Master is precisely that, an Old Master, and the Old Master will come back, it always does,” I replied.
It was a few short years ago and I had gone down to the city to chat Richard up about history, art, Jewish life at Yale and as always, a heated debate on Israeli politics. Richard looked like a Wasp, dressed like a wasp, behaved like as a Wasp, but possessed a Jewish mind and soul deeply ingrained in every fiber of his existence. We had met in late 2001 after his film interview in which he spoke mostly about art history and the industry, having had little to say about Jews, Judaism, or Jewish identity. Like most mid-century comfortable Ivy league Jewish alumni, his Jewish identity was shaped mostly by a family legend of grandpa being discriminated against for being Jewish and denied purchase of a home during the great depression. That said, Richard occasionally joined us at Shabtai for Shabos dinner where he mesmerized the students over gefilte fish and chicken soup with his one-of-a-kind tales of the Art world and the inner workings of auctions, galleries and museums. On one occasion he got on the train with Jewish philanthropist Michael Steinhardt to join us for Shabbos. Michael kibitzed with Richard before dinner about the lack of Jewish women in the latter’s romantic history. He joked that it was a shanda Richard couldn’t recall one single relationship with a Jewish female in his illustrious past. Richard had been consulting Michael on his art investments at the time, hence allowing the cynical reprimand to slip by and moving the conversation right along. “Allow the client to speak, let the buyer express themselves…” Richard and I thought, as we winked at each other across the parlor. Michael Steinhardt is known to kibitz and critique on just about everything and anything on his mind. Plus, Shabtai was a well-known open forum to do so.
Richard and I argued for years about Israel. ‘The Jews are responsible for everything wrong with the Middle East. Now that we had a State, power and influence, all the backward criminal and terrorist behavior of the Arab world was our fault. If only Israel lived up to its role in the world and created a binational State of all its citizens there would be eternal peace from the Mediterranean to the Gulf.’
It was akin to conversations among naive 19th century German Jews who assumed the utopian efforts for Jewish nationalism was an error of epic proportions and assimilation was the only solution to the Jewish problem. Art dealers including the best and brightest possess dreamlike delusions, yet often confirm their pricing convictions at auctions where canvass trades at unprecedented multiples totally unexpected by anyone present. The improbable often materializes at Christie’s and Sotheby’s, hence Richard’s suprarational frame of reference was often at the center of our conversations. I too, as a traditional Jew and Rabbi believe in miracles but argued that the Palestinians want us in the Sea. Only strength would bring peace, not carving half our tiny country away to a population that sought our destruction. We argued intensely over email for years and built a deep loving and honest relationship. It was a ping pong table of opinions and viewpoints now stored on my hard drive for posterity. Some of the more flamboyant emails from Richard are even worthy of a reprint on stretched canvass to display in our ballroom at Anderson Mansion. We shall consider that.
On that last visit to his gallery after his moaning about the phones not ringing for months, I told Richard that there was one more piece of art he needed to introduce to the multi-story edifice. One that was indeed priceless and a true Master of Old. I removed a Yarmulka from my pocket and placed it on Richard’s head, something he probably only did when attending a funeral of an old Jewish client. He accompanied me over to the door of his office that led to the gallery.
“Repeat after me Richard,” I said. And he did.
We were to announce a blessing declaring G-d’s commandment to fix a mezuza to the door of our homes. Word for word he repeated in a broken yet heartfelt Hebrew.
Boruch Ata A-donai , Blessed are you Lord,
Elokeinu Melelch Haolom, Our G-d king of the universe,
Asher kidshanu bimitzvosov, who has has sanctified us with commandments,
vitzivanu, and instructed us
likvoa mezuzah, to affix the mezuzah.
I then removed the three-inch parchment scroll from my breast pocket. It was rolled up tightly and contained ancient verse from the scriptures that speak of loving G-d, following in his ways and the blessings we are promised for doing so, including long life for us and our children on the promised land of Israel. Richard stood there in awe as he shed a tear and opened his hand where I placed the sacred parchment. It was a Mini Master. He then affixed it to the door of his now, Jew-ish gallery, and smiled. We both felt the presence of a higher being and generations of ancestors entering the space. He placed his hand on the mezuzah and kissed it. He then hugged me goodbye and thanked me. I cordially made my way down the spiral staircase as he shouted out behind me, “Now go check out my collection at the Art Gallery on Chapel Street and let me know how my name looks on the wall.”
“The phones are going to ring off the wall,” I shouted back up the multi-story open staircase. “Its now a Jewish Gallery, be proud of it, Richard.” I made my way out onto 69th street never to return and never to see Richard again yet I think of him every time I peek at a good piece of art and all too often when kissing my mezuzah. I did visit the Yale art gallery and indeed his name looks as good as the parchment on his office door. Indeed, the Old Masters will always come back. They never really disappear.
Rabbi Shmully Hecht is cofounder and Rabbinical Advisor of Shabtai and can be reached at: shmully@279crown.org