At The Salmagundi Club

by Robert Sievert

She asked me why wasn't I a member of the Salmagundi Club?

My image of the Salmagundi Club was that of a building on fifth Avenue That was had something to do with watercolors. I thought it was founded by an Italian watercolorist, you know, Sal Magundi. My charming new acquaintance gave a Billie Burke giggle and said "Oh no, Everyone thinks that."

Actually the term SALMAGUNDI goes back to the American Tranendentialist, perhaps Emerson. The term means "a little some thing of everything." The club was started in the Nineteenth century when A group of Artists and bohemians began to meet every Friday. From there sprang an ongoing association that professed high minded projects.

Amongst the early members was Stanford White whose libidinous rampages have never ceased to be written about and detailed. A fabulous film "The Girl On The Red Velvet Swing" detailed his affair with beauty and artist model Evelyn Nesbitt. (circa 1950) starring Farely Granger and Joan Collins Do you think they met at the club?

At the urging of my new friend I applied . I had to send a $100. Application Fee. I had to be endorsed by three members. The club Fees were about $700.a year and you would get to be exhibited with their membership.

I waited and waited. I found out that I was accepted when my $100 check was cashed. Three weeks later I got a phone call asking me to come in for an interview" We like to meet our new members"

I was greatly enthused when I first visited the club. There was an exhibition of some privately owned Constables.(see artezine#4) The gallery was large and covered with gray carpet, floors and walls. The art was inspiring and I looked forward to seeing more art.

The building itself was quite old. A brownstone mansion with four floors nestled around a swooping stair that snaked up through the building. Each floor had a grand landing that opened into surrounding rooms.It definitely had a feeling of an older era when things were different. Dark woodwork and light walls that now wore a dinge of age. The paintings on the wall were quite good; previous members work that seemed to come out of the ashcan era. .

However the next show I saw there was unbelievably inept. It was a show of a special section of the club COGAP which had a special relationship with the Coast Guard. The paintings were mostly copies of photographs of the Coast Guard in action. So poor were these paintings my head spun. There were absolutely no signs of skill or imagination in this work.

The night of my appointment to meet the interviewing committee came and I carefully composed myself with relevant facts about my professional career. I arrived twenty minutes before my appointment. I sat in the main hall with other applicants waiting to be called into a salon.

There was an air of congeniality amongst the waiting prospective members. I had to wait over an hour. Finally I was called in .

I was greeted by three members: the interviewing committee; a gentleman who excused himself the minute I sat down. He had to return to the bar to refill his glass. Before he left he shook my hand and conveyed a sense of "we are all just regular guys around here". Also there was an older woman well over seventy and self described sculptor . She was tall thin and erect dressed in a long black lace dress and hat. She continually sort of drifted steadily to the right and would catch herself before she achieved a critical angle. The third member of the group was a round smiling lady who kept assuring me that everybody loved being a member of the club as she rifled through a stack of papers looking for my material.

With just the two ladies there, the smiling lady asked me about myself. They passed a sheet of slides of mine around to which they held to the light a gave a cursory glance. (I could have gotten away with child pornography) As I began to talk, not more than a few words; a vivacious young woman raced in and embraced everyone. About ten minutes were taken up as this person ran around the room hugging and kissing all but me. Finally she excused herself and instead of the attention returning to me smiling lady began to recount herself. She was not an artist. She had worked nearby for a jewelry firm and had many friends who were artists. She was very sympathetic to the arts but really loved being "in the club"

When the gentleman returned with his wine, the sculptor sprang up and had to go home. After she left the two remaining members of the interviewiing committee congratulated me on being a new member. And I didn't have to say anything.

Next I received an invitation to submit work to several shows. A show of small work, under 16" x 20" and another show "My favorite animal" a theme so lame why discuss it?

I decided to put in a plien-aire of small size and had it framed. On the appointed day I bought the painting to the reception desk and it was taken by a sweet older man, obviously an artist: He told me that I would be called if my painting was rejected.

The night of the opening I eagerly attended with my sister. I was profoundly disappointed that my painting didn't make it into the show. My name was not on the list of exhibitors and nowhere to be seen. After I stopped racing about I began to notice the art work with a sense of almost disbelief. This was not a professional art show, the paintings for the most part were without a clue. It was a double nightmare, at this step through the art world I was among rank amateurs and what's more they rejected me

While I was looking at the work they began to announce the awards for the show. Top prize went to the president of the club. His painting was lauded for several minutes to the applause the members.

The next day I called and asked about my painting. I was told that there was rejected work on the second floor landing.

Later that day I arrived at the club. I searched through the stack of work on the second floor. I couldn't find it. I returned to the the reception desk. I was told "If it's not there look on the third floor landing"

Of course this gave me an opportunity to look about the upper floors. Everything seemed in a state of neglect. Not much went on there. The most recent looking room seemed to be a cabinet stuffed with hundreds of paintings on the third floor. I doubted my painting was there but peeked inside.

Finally sitting on the stairs of the second floor my eyes fell on a heap of boxes and papers that probably contained the Christmas decorations recently put up. I slowly began to dig into this heap and there at the bottom was my painting. Like a parent claiming a lost child I looked lovingly on this painting, I put it under my arm and walked away.