Whenever I ran into Schoffman in those early years when armies of artists colonized the dingy, derelict fringes of Paris hoping to run into the ghost of Henry Miller, he always claimed his latest work to be an abysmal failure. When he spoke, he was barely audible, a gravelly mumble would spill from his lips like a dying diesel. To call him depressive would simplify the quirky sensitivity that determined his saturnine behavior. Artists like Schoffman believe that nothing short of the fate of Western Civilization is at stake when they enter the studio.

He disapproved of my work. “Malaspina,” he used to say, “You are pandering to the trivial tastes of the rabble with these bloated confections.” I wanted to tear out his liver. At the time, the name “Currado Malspina” was beginning to boil throughout Europe and the thought that my work was anything less than brilliant was an impossible fantasy only a madman dare entertain. Schoffman was anything but a madman, but at the time he certainly was a jackass.

The image above is an example of one of the pieces from the period in question.

And now a few words about the late Cuban artist, Micah Carpentier. Schoffman and I met him in Zurich where he was enjoying the benefits of an unearned fame. He had talents that appealed to his Swiss hosts; a love of middlebrow poetry, an aptitude for the local patois, knowledge of useless facts and the ability to persuade through flattery.
This was in the early eighties, shortly before he died and there was little left of the old Carpentier, standard-bearer of the Latin American avant-garde.

He is best known for his eccentric “The Song Of Degrees,” a series of lush, virtuosic drawings on tawdry paper bags. (Some of these works can be seen on a website maintained by his nephew, also named Micah Carpentier, at http://www.artmajeur.com/micahcarpentier/).

Wrongfully accused of being overly facile,libeled as hollow and impossibly vain, Carpentier destroyed warehouses of work with the appointed sureness of a monarch. He would violently defenestrate huge unfinished canvases and litter his studio with the crumpled pulp of rejected works on paper. In the spring of 1963, enraged and defeated, Carpentier had an epiphany.

The work he destroyed had a hideous form of majesty. In their disheveled state they retained an impossible dignity. Through injury his work was finally redeemed.

He developed a hunger for detritus. He fastened on decay like a zealot. To him, the brackish, the orphaned and the shabby were suddenly the splendid and the serious. Elated that he had finally learned to lure junk to perfection, he began work on his series of bags that to this day have a strange and enduring beauty.

A few words about “The Body Is His Book: One-Hundred Paintings.”

David Schoffman has an untamed genius for impractical ideas. For the past five years he has been working on a series of one-hundred small paintings that he plans to install as a tightly compacted group. The last time I spoke to him, (which was sometime in late summer) he had about 29 pictures he considered complete. In other words, at this rate, he will complete this project sometime between 2018 and 2020

Don’t get me wrong. The paintings are thrillingly beautiful. Every detail is coaxed into perfection by his scrupulously discerning brush. Schoffman’s imagery, his color and his line are dazzlingly complex. The work is nothing short of visionary. But seriously …. 2020?!

I met Schoffman in 1980 when he was living in Brussels. If I remember correctly, he had graduated from the Rhode Island School of Design a few years prior to our meeting and was living in Europe doing research on Hans Memling. We were introduced by the Flemish sculptor Vin Van Toefl. Van Toefl was working on a huge commission from the University of Nijmegen and was employing as assistants artists who could arc weld. You might say that it was in this context that David and I first bonded.

David got fired first. He was, in truth, a terrible craftsman and would accidentally spot-weld his ladder to any and everything in close proximity. I got fired for breaking a bottle over Van Toefel’s head. Schoffman and I soon found ourselves sharing a studio in a warehouse above a waffle factory.