A Most Unusual Man

In June, 1983, Harry Lieberman died — 106 years young. He was an artist for the last 25 years of his life, but it was Harry Lieberman, the man, who had a most profound effect on me.

When I first met Lieberman at an exhibition of his art at a La Cienega gallery in 1977, he was already past the century mark. I liked his primitive paintings, which depicted parable oriented scenes from the Bible, and the Talmud, and his boyhood recollections of Jewish folklore. But I was completely captivated by the remarkable Harry Lieberman.

On viewing his works, I had been intrigued by the thought of a centenarian artist with eyesight good enough and hands steady enough to paint the vibrant and richly colored patterns full of narrative details that dominated his art. Meeting him in person, I was even more enchanted.

Until then I had never met anyone who was a hundred years old — let alone ambulatory and 'productive.' Lieberman was erect in bearing and lucid in speaking and learnedly of the Talmudic tableaux chronicled in his hangings on exhibition.

Throughout our initial rambling discourse on various subjects he displayed the wisdom of one who had lived for over a century and learned well the lessons of life. I felt uplifted, excited and motivated. Expecting an 'old' man with all the attendant physical and mental infirmities of the aged, I had encountered a vibrant, enthusiastic 'young' man with his hair drawn back in a ponytail, a beret jauntily perched on his head, and a well-oiled functioning mind.

I was certainly not then and am not now a maven in art, but I began my art collecting on that very afternoon with the purchase of four of his paintings. I later learned that I was not alone.

His works are part of the permanent collection at the Houston and Seattle Museums of Art, at the La Jolla Art Museum, the Hirshhorn Museum in Washington, DC, the Boymans-van Beuningen Museum in Rotterdam, Holland, and several others scattered around the world.

Among a partial list of the more well-known individual collectors are Chaim Potok, Rabbi William M. Kramer, Naomi Hirshhorn, Pierre Salinger, Julian Sieroty, Julie Andrews, Jerry Lewis and Larry Rivers, a well-known artist in his own right.

Lieberman began painting when he was 80 years old. Like the legendary Rabbi Akiba, his life was divided into three diverse parts.

His first 29 years were spent in a shtetl in Poland and under the tutelage of his uncle, the village Rabbi, he grew up in the Hasidic sect founded by the great Rabbi Baal-Shem. Arriving in the United States in 1906, he lived on the Lower East Side of New York. Later, he and his wife started a confectionery business which was quite successful and from which he retired in 1950.

Referring to the next 6 years, of retirement, he characterized them as "the worst years of my life. I didn't know when to get up or when to go to bed."

In 1956, after his chess partner at the local senior citizens club fell ill, he was persuaded to join other seniors in a painting class. So began another life for Lieberman, as an artist, and he never stopped painting and sculpting until shortly before his death.

After my first meeting with Lieberman, I grasped every opportunity to see him again. Later that year he accepted an invitation to join my family at the lighting of the first Hanukkah candle at my parents' apartment. I recall telephoning his daughter, Rose, to tell her I would meet her in front because it would be impossible to find nearby street parking and I didn't want Harry to have to walk too far. Her reply was, "Bernie, don't worry, Pop just came back from a mile walk after working for 6 hours on his paintings. He can walk a few more blocks."

He came, lighted the candles, had a schnapps, ate bagels, lox and cream cheese with gusto, and spoke to us on the value of developing talents and interests to pursue after retirement and the need to feel useful and productive in the later years of one's life.

That was a recurring theme of his, and he captivated many members of Congress in 1979 when he appeared before the Select Committee on Aging of the U.S. House of Representatives in Washington, DC, to promote more job opportunities for the elderly. He was 103 at the time and made a striking figure with his trim white beard, long white hair tied back with elastic, and his plea for government support in assisting the elderly to be more productive in their daily lives.

At 101, I expected an 'old man'. Instead he was alert, vibrant, enthusiastic, with his hair in a ponytail and wearing a beret...

Lieberman was not one to rest on his laurels. In addition to the familiar boyhood recollections of Jewish folklore and literature, he enjoyed painting flowers and trees and frequently essayed sculpting with different types of material. On his 100th birthday Lieberman executed a long term contract to illustrate his Jewish Folk Art Calendars, each month separately resplendent with its own topical picture and all accompanied by his inimitable homiletic commentary. The 1978 First Edition is by now a collector's item.

As late as 1980 he was artist-in-residence at Fairfax High School and was a big hit with the youngsters who found in him a kindred spirit.

He also did yarmulkes, and I have one to prove it. I saw him wear at a service we both attended a yarmulke with his painted scenes from the Jewish holidays depicted in each fold. When I admired it, he impulsively whipped it off, and we exchanged — my mundane one for his work of art which I will always treasure.

In the years I knew Lieberman, he never expressed a single morbid thought. He appeared totally unconcerned about the imminence of death. Only current endeavors occupied his attention and energies, and he seldom spent time recalling the past or worrying what the future held in store. Perhaps his pressing pace and prolific output arose from a subliminal attempt to make up for his late start in painting — or were his only concession to Father Time.

At one of my meetings with Lieberman and in the course of conversation he said: "Speak louder, the ears, they are 103 years old."

On another occasion he stated: "People say time is money. I consider it more, even, than money. If you are losing money, you could still maybe make it back. Time you don't get back so easy."

One of his paintings (which I own) is entitled: "Tomorrow May Not Be Yours." The reference here is to a Rabbi who approaches a man for a charitable contribution and the man replies that he will sleep on it and let him know tomorrow. The Rabbi says: "Now you are alive. Do your good deed today, for tomorrow may not be yours."

My recollection of the last time I saw him is vivid testimony to the vital man he was. I was invited to join him and his only daughter for dinner at their apartment. During the course of the evening his daughter Rose and I conversed about numerous matters, few of which held any interest for him. After dinner I inquired about what he had been doing lately.

He jumped out of his chair with an alacrity that belied his 104 years, rushed out to the patio, and brought back three sketch books. He opened the books, one by one, page by page, crammed with sketches for future paintings. His storehouse of ideas for the future was bountiful and, had he thought about it, would probably have provided him with a decade of fulfillment. He told me enthusiastically that every night, in bed, he thinks and plans the details of the painting he would work on in the morning. I listened to him with wonder, marveling at a man who had found his fountain of youth.

Harry Lieberman is dead, but he will always live on in my memory. He was the inspiration for my art collecting which has since brought me a great deal of pleasure and satisfaction. His story is a salutary example of the rewards of commitment to living and utilization of one's own resources, regardless of age.

For me, he was living proof that one need never grow old.