I recently ran into Schoffman in Rome. I was there participating in a symposium with the improbable title “Guido Reni and Contemporary Figurative Painting.” I was consoling myself with a Campari and soda at Aretino’s on Via Vittore Emanuelle when who walks in but David Schoffman arm in arm with the most strikingly beautiful woman I had ever seen. “Malaspina,” he roared in a typically Ugly American fashion, “What the hell are you doing here?” When he introduced me to his gorgeous companion as “my wife, Nadya,” I realized how private and reclusive Schoffman really is. He is fond of quoting Maimonides’ aphoristic prescription for serious endeavor – “Don’t waste time being sociable” – but I had no idea to what extreme he was prepared to take it. My ignorance of the basic fact that my good friend was married both astonished and embarrassed me. All these years, and all I really knew about him was his work.
When I returned to Paris I was determined to learn as much as I could about this puzzlingly interesting painter. It became an obsession. I interviewed anyone I could who had even the remotest contact with him. Press clippings and exhibition announcements described the public Schoffman. It was Schoffman the man that piqued my curiosity and like many serious people, there isn’t much of a paper trail. To say that outside his work he has led a life without incident would be a gross over-simplification. It is really the fact that outside of his paintings and his writings, all else pales into insignificance.
I did, however, learn one tidbit of personal data that if shared would not, (I hope), compromise his guarded nature. It seems that Schoffman collects fluffy slippers that are in the shapes of caricatured animals. He has hundreds, if not thousands of pairs. His collection is so comprehensive that he is often consulted by professionals in the field.
It’s an unfortunate hobby for such a distinguished mind, but then again … who am I to judge.
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