By Edgar Weinstock
Neither my mother nor father had even been graduated from legitimate four year high schools. Yet they each helped me in different ways to begin my own never ending journey as an artist before I was five years old.
I will tell it now as I remember even though I did not know then that words meant anything. Nor did I understand words put properly together could form thoughts. At four years of age I had not any idea what an idea was. Time was lurching on and I was becoming more lost to civilization.
One winter afternoon, my mother was hurrying all over our apartment in Glen Rock, New Jersey. Her English had gotten much better since I was born. But none of our neighbors my age talked to me except once with the stones they threw as they explained to me it was my people who killed their Christ. I didn’t even have crayons let alone “people.”
Neither of my parents seemed to have much time for me. They worked hard and were often tired. I was often puzzled and could not figure out just what I was always doing wrong. My mother later said, “We are all just lucky we only got mad at you one at a time; never both at once.” By the time I was four, I knew at least enough to stay out of their way when either one was rushing around which was happening early one winter evening in 1945. Continue reading