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Leave a comment Posted on Marc Chagall, Meibohm Fine Arts, Rabbi with Torah

Resurrecting a Family Heirloom (Part 2)

Recap from Part 1

I discovered that a long‑cherished family art piece—an old, faded print my mother displayed for decades—is actually a reproduction of Marc Chagall’s “Rabbi with Torah,” a connection deeply tied to her family’s Jewish and Ukrainian heritage. This revelation sparks a quest to restore or replace the artwork, culminating in an unexpected twist when an eagerly purchased replacement is abruptly refunded.

Part 2

I immediately emailed the eBay seller as to why I received a refund after my purchase was confirmed just minutes earlier.  He replied, “I pressed the wrong button. The correct is I’m refunding you.”

You mean this work had already been sold?

“Just to be clear—I am not getting this painting?  It meant so much to me.”

Seller: “I do have quite a few Chagall works so let me show you if you’re interested.”

Wow.  I was beside myself with a mixture of confusion, anger and despair.

Was this an honest mistake by the seller, or a calculated ploy to sell other items he had?

I was so distraught over this news I couldn’t think straight.  My wife encouraged me to just reframe the original and display it. 

But I couldn’t help myself.  I was determined to keep hunting.

By 11:30 a.m., I found one on Etsy.  However, the photo of the item looked digitized and fake. I asked the seller if he would upload actual photos and he did.  Unlike the one I had originally purchased on eBay, this one had visible folds and other imperfections, plus was more expensive than the other.   I hesitated to buy it.

All day Sunday and into Monday I kept checking for any more available copies.  I found an excellent reproduction from an eBay seller who had a physical art store.  As I was on the page, a notification popped up on my screen that this item was in another potential buyer’s shopping cart. 

I panicked.  I had to act fast.  I didn’t want to lose another chance.  I frantically pressed the BUY IT NOW button. 

On Monday, Feb. 2 at 11:49 a.m. I got confirmation of my purchase.  Yes!  But after what happened to me on Saturday, I stifled my enthusiasm.  I had to make sure that the sale was for real this time.

At 7:30 a.m. on Tuesday, I received an email directly from Mark, who works for Meibohm Fine Arts in East Aurora, New York.  Celebrating their 125th anniversary, the granddaughter of the founder runs the family business.  He thanked me for the purchase.  Whew!

He shared with me that “most of the New/Old Stock items in our archive have not seen the light of day in over 75+ years, a rarity indeed, and that this vintage mid-century lithograph has never been framed.”

Mark would mail the litho via UPS later that day, with an expected delivery on the following Monday.  However, this was occurring during the intense cold storm that pummeled much of the country with snow and ice so I had to keep watch over the progress of its movement to notice if there were any delays.

Anxiety came over me as the week wore on without any progress on the UPS tracking website.  I checked it on Wed., Thur., Fri., and Sat., but the needle hadn’t moved from the “dropped off” status.  Steps still to come: “on the way,” “out for delivery” and “delivered.”  

Mark kept checking on it as well, even on his days off.  I wouldn’t be able to contact UPS until Monday so I had to sweat it out that the item was not lost.

In the middle of Sunday, I received a notification from UPS that the lithograph was arriving on Monday after all.  However, the status had not changed.  Which one was correct?

On Monday morning, movement finally occurred on the UPS tracking tool.

9:56 a.m. “on the way”

10:53 am. “out for delivery”

With an expected delivery by 9:00 p.m., that gave me 10 more hours to wait; throughout the day, Mark and I exchanged emails.  Now that’s remarkable customer service!

Sure enough, at 6:11 p.m., “ding-dong.” 

I opened the door to see the UPS man holding on to a long-tubed package.  Finally—relief.  As I signed for it, I gave the driver a 30-second recap of the whole story.

I had my wife videotape me as I opened the tube and gently pulled out the rolled-up lithograph.  Marc did a meticulous job of wrapping it with arrows marked on the tiny pieces of tape guiding me on the correct direction to pull the tape.

When I removed the print out of its protective bubble wrap and unfolded it, I was quite impressed by the pristine condition of something that was manufactured several decades ago.  In the at the bottom in the white margin surrounding the poster was information about it, including the following:

Marc Chagall (1887-    ). 

In other words, when these lithographs were produced by the New York Graphic Society in the 1950’s and 1960’s, Chagall was still alive (he died in 1985).

And there it was, side-by-side with my Mom’s version.  Quite a difference.  If I had any doubt about buying a newer one, it vanished:  this beautiful lithograph was the proper decision. 

With this enhanced reproduction, the details of the work can more clearly be seen.

In the foreground is the rabbi wearing traditional dress appropriate for praying.  He holds a Torah scroll, the most important text in the Jewish religion.  A snow-covered scene of a Russian village emerges in the background (condensed from the Stedelijk Museum’s website).

In the upper left of the painting, there is a pig and a lamppost; in the upper right, there is a horsedrawn sled with an occupant or two.  Behind that are a few straw-roof houses that complete the depiction of a shtetl.

The work symbolizes that Judaism survives even in a bleak world.  And unlike Mom’s poster, Chagall’s signature is clearly visible in the bottom right corner.

Dad sitting in his recliner he got for Father’s Day and Mom showing off roses she got for their wedding anniversary with the Chagall painting on the wall (left); the new lithograph framed and hung in our dining room (right).

It took two weeks and now it is on display in our dining room.  The rabbi is looking to his left where the opening is to our living room, welcoming visitors who walk through the portal.

My mother would have been impressed to see the full beauty of the work that captured her eye so many decades ago, now protected for generations with museum-quality UV-resistant glass and frame, a fitting, living tribute to her and my maternal grandparents who I never knew.

It makes one think of the serendipity of this adventure.

If not for having watched that “CBS Sunday Morning” show, none of this would have happened.

If not for that eBay seller canceling my purchase, I would not have ended up with a high-quality lithograph from a high-class business as Meibohm Fine Arts.

I wish I could share with Mom everything I’ve learned—but maybe, just maybe, she already knows.

Leave a comment Posted on CBS Sunday Morning, Marc Chagall, Rabbi with Torah

Resurrecting a Family Heirloom (Part 1)

As I went through my Sunday morning routine of making coffee and turning on the “CBS Sunday Morning” show, I watched a segment about people who rescued Jews during Nazi Germany.  Varian Fry was one of those people, an American journalist working for the Emergency Rescue Committee that helped refugees escape from France during 1940–1941, including some artists such as Marc Chagall.  On the screen flashed a montage of his art, and suddenly one caught my eye—a painting of a rabbi.  It seemed so familiar.

Four days later over lunch with my sister, as is our practice, we each took out little pieces of paper with topics to talk about since our last get together.  The first item on her list was the “CBS Sunday Morning” Chagall piece.

“Did you see that painting of a rabbi?” she asked me.  Suddenly, I knew instantly why that piece stuck with me.  “That’s like the painting Mom had hanging on the wall all those years.”  While not the same painting, it was similar in its subject matter.

When I returned home, I took a photo of Mom’s painting, researched the image, and, bingo, discovered that it was by Marc Chagall!  Titled “Rabbi with Torah” or “Rabbi met wetsrol,” the original is in the Stedelijk Museum in Amsterdam.

Two similar Marc Chagall paintings: “The Praying Jew” (left), “Rabbi with Torah” (right), my mother’s original print.

The painting Mom most admired, that she took with her from rental house to rental house, prominently displayed on a living room wall, turned out to be a famous work by a giant in the 20th century art world. I’m certain Mom never knew any of this; otherwise, she would have enjoyed regaling us with such joyous information.

Her eyes must have fixated on the Jewish-ness of the painting, a symbol of her heritage.  None of us three kids remember our house without it.

My guess is she spotted this framed poster in a furniture store which back in the day would have inexpensive art for sale. 

Another aspect of the painting which she didn’t realize was that the background depicted an aspect of her family history:  a scene from a shtetl, a small village common in Ukraine in the late 19th and early 20th centuries.

Like Chagall, her parents were born in Ukraine’s shtetls.  That connection would have meant so much to her.

Behind the rabbi figure, off in the distance, the ground is draped in snow, with a pig, a lamppost on the left, an adult and child on a sled pulled by a horse on the right, with a handful of small buildings on either side.  

Oddly, we never bothered to talk to Mom about this piece, its presence so constant like a light fixture, there all the time but not thought about.

When Mom passed away 20 years ago, it was one of a few items that I took.  Since the frame is dingy and the print faded and chipped (it never had glass), I didn’t consider displaying it in our house; instead, I secured it in the hall closet, with hanging jackets keeping it from tipping over.

Now, however, I had an urge to display it, most likely in our dining room where we had an empty wall as well as a special original charcoal drawing that was given to my wife’s great grandmother, who then gave it to her.  What better place to hang my mother’s dearest picture, further establishing the dining room as a place for family history.

I brought the artwork to a professional framer who had done quality work for me in the past to see if there was any way to bring it back to life.  The first question he asked upon laying eyes on it was, “Did either of your parents smoke?”  The answer was “yes.”  That was the main reason for the erosion of color in the print.  Not having glass to protect it was a contributing factor.  Using a Q-tip dipped with a solution of distilled water and Dawn dishwashing soap, he carefully touched a small portion of the poster.  While it lightened the work a bit, it wouldn’t be sufficient for it to look presentable. 

I made up my mind that if I hung my mother’s original, I had to get a new frame for it.  Of course, there was another option—locate a better print.

With the excitement of this family treasure consuming me, I quickly set out to find a higher quality version online.

While price was a factor, my number one priority was finding a copy of “Rabbi with Torah” that looked as closely to the original painting.  Of the half a dozen copies available, a few were poor reproductions; one was in worse condition than mine.

I settled on an eBay seller.  The price and condition were fair plus it was already framed.

On Friday, Jan. 30, at 2:00 p.m. I bought it. I was so thrilled; I couldn’t stop thinking of how it would look on my dining room wall, and how I would surprise my sister and brother when they’d come over to see it.

The next morning, I received the following emails from eBay:

10:12 a.m. – “The seller marked your order as shipped!”

10:41 a.m. – “Your refund is on its way!”

Wait, what?!  What did this mean, “refund”?

[To be continued.]

1 Comment Posted on death of a family member, sibling love

Sibling Love

Throughout my 67 years of life, I have shared my entire existence with only two individuals: my brother, Greg, and my sister, Debra.  The three of us have indelible positive memories of growing up together, and that glue hasn’t dried up.   As each of us have left home and gotten married, starting our own families, we continued seeing each other to celebrate birthdays and holidays together as the original Crosbys, a bond unbroken, transcending any differences in politics or lifestyle.

We weathered losing our father at the age of 60 in 1973, when we were 24, 20, and 14.  When we lost our mother at age 82 in 2006, it was a wake-up call that our generation would be next in line to pass away.

We were fortunate to live almost two decades before another funeral.  Sadly, a few weeks ago, Greg’s wife, Jane, passed away.  They were married for 47 years.  Losing a spouse is a deeper loss than losing one’s parents because it is one’s life partner.  People live with their parents for on average of 20 years, but marriages can last more than double that length. 

When people find out how long a couple is married, it is applauded:  25, 30, 50 years.  Yet the longer a person is with their partner, the harder it is to live without that companion. My brother was blessed to have 47 years with his wife, nearly twice as many as our parents had.  The longer the marriage, the deeper the loss.

For my sister and I it is difficult watching our brother grieve, a life experience neither one of us has had.   I already have friends who have lost a sibling so we’re lucky that the three of us are still around.  But when the time comes for one of us to leave, it will be yet another unpleasant loss. 

I’ve often thought that when a person close to us passes away, in an odd way, their passing is a gift to us:  a reminder of how precious life is.  With each passing, there is increased urgency so make the most of the remainder of one’s years.  And it is the duty of the living to keep alive the memory of those who meant so much to us.

Leave a comment Posted on Jerry Seinfeld, Jim Gaffigan, Nate Bargatze, Netflix Joke Fest, Sebastian Maniscalco

Laughter is No Joke

It seems that every day the world gets worse.  It makes one yearn for the good old days of the Pandemic shutdown when for a short while countries weren’t invading other countries and there was a unified universal effort to invent a vaccine for Covid-19.

These days I find myself taking days off from reading the news, intentionally ignorant of elections, trials and protests.  A daily dose of negativity can easily trigger depression.

For a while now, I balance the “end of the world” headlines with more positive stories about people, about decency, about compassion.

There is another anecdote to all the daily direness:  laughter.

Last week, my wife, sister and I went to see comedians Jerry Seinfeld, Sebastian Maniscalco,

Jim Gaffigan, and Nate Bargatze at the Hollywood Bowl as part of Netflix’s Joke Fest.

Each comic did a 30-minute set.  I’m not exaggerating that I can’t recall the last time I have laughed so hard.  Yes, my jaw was sore after the two-hour concert.  The night was a master class in comedy.

I’m not sure why those four comedians in particular were performing together.  However, what made the humor so pleasing was the lack of jokes about politics and sex, two topics that make up the centerpiece of so many stand-up comics’ repertoire.  And, except for a few times, no obscenities were used—proof that one doesn’t have to be vulgar to be funny.

These four men didn’t tell jokes, per se; rather, they told stories about everyday occurrences in life that so many people have experienced.  For example, Gaffigan described how computer programs prompt us to continuously change our passwords, then ask for verification that we are not robots by asking us to pick out a stoplight from a series of photos.  He struggles with this because if there is an image of a pole that is cut off, does that count as a signal? 

Each comedian has his own way of speaking, his own facial expressions, and his own physical movements.  Sebastian described taking his young family to Universal Studios and his interactions with employees who really don’t want to be there.  “What’s the deal with the quality of the Los Angeles workforce?” But it’s his bulging eyes and outstretched arms as he bends his body that make it funny.

Adding to the enjoyment was the laughter of 18,000 fellow Angelenos from all walks of life in the audience.  Laughter unified us.

It is said that the aphorism “laughter is the best medicine” originates from the Old Testament. 

Writer Norman Cousins decades ago wrote about the healing of laughter when he was diagnosed with a disease and was given a one out of 500 chance of surviving.  He attributed his recovery in part to watching Marx Brothers movies and “Candid Camera” TV episodes.

Well, that night, I felt I was hooked up to an IV of joy for two hours.  I highly recommend it for everybody.