In tribute: Doris H. David, 1937-October 15, 2020

The President of the Philip Gladstone Fan Club—as she would refer to herself, only half-jokingly—has died. We were the kind of friends that have no secrets from each other, no stories that couldn’t be shared (I’ll never tell, Doris), and she was a vocal supporter of and cheerleader for my work (which is to say, for me) and a talented artist in her own right. Oh, we sometimes disagreed and even had our little fights, but that never mattered… when Doris loved you, you were ‘in’, and the friendship was a safe place to be yourself, a place where mistakes were mistakes but they didn’t define you, and they didn’t define the relationship. And I loved her for that, and for so many reasons.

She was there with me for all my setbacks and triumphs and everything in-between over the last nine years, and I tried my best to be there for her… she was a kind of genius at being a friend, and I’m not, but I tried. I sent her a piece of my art that she could display in her hospital room earlier this year (she delighted in the staff’s awkward reaction to the nudity in the piece, she was impish like that) and she told me that it had given her renewed determination to get home and get back to painting herself, and against the apparent odds she did get home again that time. But this time, despite the progress she’d recently made, it wasn’t to be. The day before she died, a book she’d been occupying her time with in the hospital arrived at my mailbox… she thought I’d love it as much as she did and we’d talk about it after I’d read it. We won’t be talking about it (and I haven’t yet read it, it’s painful to think about that right now), but I’ll treasure it, and I’ll treasure her flowery inscription to me in her unmistakable hand.

She had an awe-inspiring marriage and love story, and years ago she asked me to paint a portrait of herself and her late husband, Elliot—no direction, no restrictions, she just flooded me with stories and photographs and trusted what I’d come up with. Over the course of several years (Doris took to calling me “Mike” while it was in-progress, predicting it would end up taking me as long as it took Michelangelo to paint the Sistine Chapel) I developed a complex composition that was not so much a conventional portrait, but rather an attempt to contain a lifetime’s story within the frame of a single image, like a time capsule or a treasure chest. I was very proud of that one.

I’m proud of all the work in her collection, actually—when I finish a piece and it’s still fresh for me, I never have any idea whether it’s good or not, but Doris knew and she’d buy only the best. “Don’t Be Afraid” (her portrait), “Red, White and Blue: The Broken-Hearted Artist”, “Afterward”, probably the majority of my self-portraits from the years she was actively collecting, and dozens of other paintings, drawings, sculptures and giclées. My confidence can be pretty shaky at times, and she’d try hard to make me see what she saw in me.

I miss you already, “D”, and I always will 

"Red, White and Blue: The Broken-Hearted Artist", 2013; acrylic on canvas, 16" X 20" (Collection Doris David)

"Don't Be Afraid" (Portrait of Doris and Elliot David), 2014; acrylic on canvas, 20" X 16" (Collection Doris David)

"Afterward", 2012; charcoal and white chalk on paper (Collection Doris David)

"Winter Self-Portrait, 12.25.14", 2014; acrylic on canvas surfaced with vintage newspaper, 20 by 16 inches (Collection Doris David)

"Thirty Years On (Self-Portrait)", 2012 (Collection Doris David)

"Autumn Self-Portrait", 2013 (Collection Doris David)

Self-Portrait, 2012 (Collection Doris David)

For Fraser

My friend of many years, the painter Fraser McIver, died suddenly and unexpectedly a week ago today at 59. In shock, I spent some time reading through the hundreds of emails and texts we'd exchanged over the years, and in the most recent from a few months ago he'd invited me — again — to spend some time with him drawing and painting together at his studio, a magical, off-the-grid place he'd created in a converted caravan on the banks of the Crinan Canal in Argyll, Scotland. I answered, as I always did, "Someday", or words to that effect, and this time he warned — chillingly in retrospect — that time might not be on our side. I took that as a middle-age rumination, the kind of thing I'm prone to myself at 56, but maybe he knew, suspected, or just wasn't feeling well... I don't know.

When I heard the news, I reacted as I usually do to such things — by grabbing something and beginning to draw or paint, this time scribbling my own face on a fine sheet of Ingres paper, crumpling it up, ironing it flat, stitching it to watercolor paper with red thread, and working the resulting 'collage' aggressively with oil pastel. Fraser would have liked this one, I think, or at least he would have had something interesting and challenging to say about it, something that made me understand my own work in a different light and context, as he always did.

"Crumpled Self-Portrait (for Fraser)"
https://www.philipgladstonestudio.com/pg-studio-store/Sketches-and-Studies-c36205850

News of a Friend

(Originally published on Facebook on September 5, 2014)

The late critic Roger Ebert said, in order to explain his decision the be so public about his illness, surgeries and new appearance, that "We spend too much time hiding illness". I took that to heart, and I've tried to be as open about my own experience with cancer as I can make myself be - it's been therapeutic for me, and I know that it's helped several people face an illness that can feel so isolating.

But the death of Robin Williams - the death of anyone who lost the battle he waged affects me deeply - made me realize that I'm still less than open about the other challenges I've faced, challenges that carry a prognosis that is at least as potentially deadly - the illnesses of addiction and depression. It's been more than a decade since I've had a drink, about half as long as the period of sobriety that I understand Robin Williams fought for and enjoyed before he relapsed, and I know that I need to be vigilant every single day, and that there are no guarantees. Like Robin Williams, I too once attempted to end my life, several years before I began my art career and I was losing my battle with alcohol - if I had succeeded all the paintings on this page never would have been. I found a way, after much struggle, to manage, if not eliminate, my tendency toward depression - my work. (I hesitate to emphasize my depression out of respect for the many people I've known who face a far, far worse battle with depression... addiction is a much more important part of my story.) Sometimes I wonder if work hasn't become a substitute addiction, too - but I think that's okay, whatever might happen tomorrow I've beaten the odds, and I think as long as I keep doing what I'm doing I have a decent chance that my good fortune will continue.

Last year, I received news that a person with a personal connection to me, the son of a collector who has become a dear friend, had tragically lost his battle and succeeded in ending his own life. As always when I learn of such things, the news affected me profoundly, and this time even more so because it was particularly close to home. I painted this picture - "News of a Friend" - both in his memory and as my attempt to deal with my own emotions, questions - why him and not me? - and the memories it stirred up... it helped. And then I kept working.

"News of a Friend", 2013; acrylic on vintage newspaper mounted to canvas, 16 by 20 inches (Sold, private collection)