The Brooklyn Rail

Thornton Willis gave my wife, Beth, and me two invaluable gifts: friendship and a gentle, guiding hand into the world of contemporary art. With the purchase of our first painting by Thornton in 2006, Crisscross, sold to us by Miles Manning, Director of the Elizabeth Harris Gallery, I found myself looking deeper into and onto the surface of a painting than I ever had before. I think it was Beth who soon after suggested we try and “meet this man whose work keeps occupying your eyes.” Before too long we were at a Thornton Willis/James Little opening at Sideshow, Richard Timperio's beloved and eclectic Williamsburg Gallery, where we got to meet Thornton and the dynamic love of his life, Vered Lieb. Unable to decide which vibrant, angular, pushing and pulling Willis oilstick-on-paper to buy, Richard wisely suggested we buy both—and so we did. 

And as we hung out and talked with Thornton he began explaining to Beth and myself the properties of quantum physics that he had been considering when he was developing the shapes and forms of these works of his that we had previously, and were currently, buying and hanging on our walls. We talked golf (I would learn later from a fellow artist that the man nearly made the PGA Tour and had been featured on the cover of Art in America, but Thornton was way too humble to ever admit that); the South (he knew and partied with Joe Namath at Alabama!—that he was happy to share); country & western music (he suggested emphatically that I listen to Dwight Yoakam, and I have been, religiously, ever since); and the joys and challenges of fathering and raising daughters in NYC. Then he introduced Beth and me to his dear friend and teammate, James Little, and that would lead to another deep and enduring friendship.

Shortly thereafter Beth and I had a dinner party and invited Thornton and Vered; we were thrilled when they agreed to venture from downtown to the upper east side. If I were to say there was arguing over who would sit next to Thornton at dinner, I would be exaggerating only slightly. Here was a gentleman at ease in his identity, generous with his patience, and desirous to share with all his sincere love for painting and to meet us more than halfway. Then he and Vered reciprocated and invited us to a dinner party at their place on Mercer, where we met Lance Esplund and his wife, the painter Evy Twitchell, who have become friends we laugh with as much as anyone could make us laugh. Seated beside Thornton, I found it most illuminating watching Beth listening to Lance holding forth while discussing the merits of the “Prime Directive” in art with painters and husband and wife David Kapp and Cecily Kahn, who would become friends as well (a Maine connection for Beth) and James Kalm of the James Kalm Report (or Loren Monk, as his parents named him.) Beth was fascinated but intimated with the subject matter under discussion, not yet so well-versed in art jargon. Timidly she asked, “So really, what’s this ‘Prime Directive?’” To which Lance answered, “Oh, you know, in Star Trek, it’s the Vulcan principle of non-interference, this ethical guideline was established to prevent harm, cultural contamination, and the negative consequences of a more advanced society ‘playing God’ or acting as a colonial power.” DUH! Beth’s relief was palpable. And with that she and I were indoctrinated into their world.

The other day one of our daughters sent me a picture she found of Thornton wearing goofy “2009" glasses at a New Year’s celebration at our place. His kind smile had lit up another of our parties. And I remember later that year Thornton lighting up a healthy spliff to celebrate the Yankees winning the 2009 series—but first asking Beth if it was OK to do it, of course.

Once, when I was nearing 60, we stopped by his and Vered’s loft and were looking at some unfinished canvases when I mentioned to Thornton that I was developing arthritis in my hands and my thumbs. I was feeling miserable with self-pity because it had become so damn hard to hold a golf club. He listened quietly, then he spread his two hands palm down flat on a worktable. Hands that had held those brushes and golf clubs, one with half an index finger, both with swollen knuckles, were as worn and beaten and weathered and gnarled as you'd ever find. By then we owned and loved seven paintings of his, some as tall as seven feet high, the two oilsticks from Sideshow now gracing one of our daughter’s living room walls. And I remember Thornton saying, with no derision, no judgement, just a kind smile, “You just have to learn to manage. You will.”

Thank you, my friend.