DAVID'S LONELY PLANET

Dinner parties in Paris can be dreary affairs full of bombast and xenophobia. All reasonable efforts are made to conceal these ugly traits but no one is ever fooled for long.

With that said, I would rather endure a month of Sundays with a table full of Frenchmen than an hour breaking bread with North Americans.

The politeness is enough to make you wish you were sitting next to a skinhead with bad teeth.

I don't know how my dear friend David Schoffman does it. He must have the patience of a snail.

At a typical French dinner party there is rarely any music playing in the background. If there is it is typically something either lugubrious like Shostakovich or jingoistic like Debussy. In the States hosts always feel obliged to soften the atmosphere with some barely audible jazz, typically something canonical and old. It's as if the musical clock stopped ticking after A Love Supreme. 

 Then there's the small matter of the food. Let's just face it: Americans have little respect for crustaceans, butter and beef and too much respect for the Food section of The New York Times. Their tin, tone deaf palate for wines only compounds the offense but that's an entirely different indictment.

But getting back to Schoffman, whenever the poor guy finds himself at a table with people he hardly knows his foot invariably lands in his mouth. He once told a Los Angeles collector of "a certain age" that her taste had atrophied with her surgically frozen face. One hostess was asked why she let her 19 year-old daughter dress like a prostitute only to learn that the young woman in question was unrelated to her, had come to the dinner as her brother's date and that in fact she was a prostitute.

Schoffman is extremely maladroit around people and I suspect that if he could live his life again he would have been happier as a thief.

Or if not a thief than a recluse with a tidy little trust fund.

THE TONGUE SET FREE

My brilliant friend David Schoffman can be so dumb sometimes.

Here's a man who spends most of his time either painting in his studio or buried in a book and yet when it comes to the practical side of life he thinks like a child.

Take pets for instance.

From my understanding of American culture most people give their dogs cute names like Buddy or Charlie or maybe even Ziggy. 

Not David.

He named his dog Jihad.

And if "here, Jihad" and "good boy Jihad" wasn't bad enough, imagine the day, not too long ago when the poor Boston Terrier tore loose from his collar and started dodging midday Los Angeles traffic. The way David tells the story, he ran after the dog frantically screaming through the hectic city streets "Jihad! Jihad! Jihad!"

Sure he eventually got his dog back but not before being pulled over and subjected to a thorough grilling by a battalion of alarmed and heavily armed LAPD Homeland Security specialists.

What a simpleton.

Or how about David's amorous misadventures?

For some odd reason this leathery-skinned bald-headed Semite attracts the fairest of the fair sex like fly paper dripping in molasses. He claims to be something of an athlete - a limber lover with an uncanny sensitivity for what every woman wants. And yet I have heard from reliable sources that much of his bluster is unfounded.

On one particular occasion, something of an "event" if you are to believe David, he found himself drunk and in flagrante with the runner-up of the Miss Aquitaine competition. 

While love is the universal language, words if properly purred, can be easily decoded by their context.

"Doucement, doucement, doucement," whispered Miss Reine de Beauté Manqué. "Doucement," she tenderly breathed into his ear. "Doucement mon amour, doucment ..." 

Rather than calming the avid artist, the unhurried chant filled my dear friend with a deep performative anxiety.  

As you would guess, the evening unraveled unfavorably and it was only much later, after referring to his Larousse, that he realized that it was not that he was too small, only a wee bit too quick.

WHAT IS THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN?

What are details to some are consequential to others. Small yet puissant components can trigger in the specialist insights inaccessible to the casual glancer who glides distractedly and cheerfully moves on.

My fine comrade David Schoffman is precisely the kind of annoying pedant who plants himself in front of works of art and ponders them interminably in a silent aura of elitist entitlement.

Wherever he goes he follows the scent of excellence and genius. He values the intimate experience of being with great works so much that he can barely tolerate the presence of well intentioned culture vultures fouling, what he sees as the sacred perfumes of timeless mastery.

At one point he seriously advocated for the restricted access of artistic monuments to specialists and scholars alone. "Why must I be forced to listen to squealing kids and cell phones while studying the compacted space of a Carracci altarpiece or the elegant calligraphy in a 9th century Tang manuscript"?

I'll tell you why David: Because you're not the only pebble on the beach! Art indeed has a civilizing effect on the ignorant and the unlathered and if an accountant cares to see a rolodex in a Rothko, who are you to quibble?

Do you supply liner notes every time some schumck wants to buy one of your precious painterly enigmas??

The Body Is His Book #64, Oil on linen, David Schoffman 2015

PLAYING POKER WITH POLITICS

To call my dear friend David Schoffman ignominiously mercenary would be to expend way too much syllabic energy in expressing the patently obvious. With the pluck of the doomed, David's je-m'en-foutisme in the face of what others might call "ethical challenges" is rather impressive.

A recent trip to North Korea will serve as a case in point.

At the behest of the U.S. Department of Treasury, David, together with about a dozen other representatives of the arts community visited that notorious hot bed of dangerous eccentricity in an effort to establish some sort of fig leaf of cultural rapprochement. Aside from getting a blistering sunburn David learned that for some strange reason the CIA likes to recruit men with comb-overs and acne scars.

 

Anyway, while in Pyongyang David discovered that the North Korean military elite had developed a taste, not only for Soviet lapel pins, 30 year old single malt scotch and the complete film history of Julie Adams but also for 20th Century American modernist painting.

 Say the names Arthur Dove, Faun Roberts or Charles Demuth to anyone within the relative orbit of influence and you can watch a pair of cynical eyes grow moist with real emotion. David saw in this unlikely attachment a rare opportunity.

During a festive moment of inebriated intimacy he offered his hosts that if given two hours and the appropriate materials, he could reproduce an impeccable, museum quality facsimile good enough to pass for the real McCoy.

In the Soju charmed atmosphere of bilateral cooperation and unbridled greed, anything, I guess, is possible. It seems that David walked away from the trip fatter by about a million won.

Schoffman is known as a lowdown, self serving, prevaricating fabulist but if even half the story is true, (which is usually his average), it's one of his strangest adventures yet.

I wonder if his computer has been hacked.

FINDING HIS GOOD SIDE

A lapsed Buddhist, my good friend David Schoffman could never really master the reticent art of detachment.

I once rather naively proposed that together David and I could relinquish the respective authorship of our best works and cast them like foundlings upon a grateful and unsuspecting public . What, I mused, would be the consequences if we had decided to leave ambition out of the equation and allow our ideas to float autonomously without motive or yearning. 

Free from desire both of treasure and renown, could we possibly stumble upon some newer and purer form of motivation?

"I'd sooner wax a camel's balls than make my art in a vacuum of obscurity," he belched, "do I look Amish to you!?"

Lack of ego has never been one of his problems.

Begrudgingly I've come to realize that David is quite right. If one were to compare the profile of your typical artist with that of the Buddha one would find a severe and irreconcilable lack of compatibility.  

An artist must be a striver, a hip-checker, a narcissist, and an egomaniac. He must be nimble in his animus, fluid in his hatreds and fascistic in his intolerance of all opposing ideas. He should be an ideologue ready to pounce on his adversaries using eloquence and wit like mortal weapons. He should be an aesthetic sadist, a perverse mirror image of conventional civility and an intellectual bully quick to intimidate and verbally assault.
He should be talented, of course but also raw, de-skilled, primitive and rough. He needs to be uncompromising and didactic with an impatient air of inspired entitlement. He must be an asshole, a scumbag and above all, fatally insecure.

Fortunately, David Schoffman is all those things and worse.

SLOPPY SECONDS

When my ageless friend David Schoffman turned fifty his putative American friends surprised him with a party.

Why they committed this unforgivable assault was easily enough explained.  It's what we French call pour étudier un adversaire or in English, "opposition research."

It was Schoffman's first real marking of his accidental date of birth since his besotted bar-mitzvah and the trauma of that cheek-pinching, schnopps-filled day was still as raw as a tuber. 

Schoffman and Boulbec in Beirut, 2006

He was married at the time to a saucy Lebanese wench named Samira Boulbec who took it as her life's work to subvert and distort everything Schoffman valued, particularly his privacy. It was her malevolent idea to allow Schoffman's peers access to his sacred and secreted studio and garnish the joint with festive bunting and heliuminated balloons.

Predictably, my dear unsuspecting friend was furious. The sight of so many of his devoted rivals in one room - his room - was a massive, destabilizing blow the magnitude of which even David could not accurately assess.

Within weeks a riotous miscellany of Schoffman knock-offs were popping up in studios, art schools and galleries throughout southern California. From Santa Barbara to San Diego small colorful panels ornamented with Liiliputian detail were exhibited and critiqued with little or no mention of their intellectual progenitor.

Such is the nature of promiscuity. Such are the consequences of ulterior kinship. 

"At any given time our culture allows for only five original ideas," Schoffman is fond of proclaiming, "and fortunately I have one of them."

Not anymore ...

Wildflower, acrylic on wood, Dahlia Danton, 2015

PAYING FOR ONE'S SINS

I've always considered David Schoffman to be mon meilleur copain - my very best friend - but the sentiment hasn't always been repaid in kind. To expect meticulously calibrated reciprocity in matters of amitié corrupts the clarity of tenderness with the arithmetic of peddlers and so I've learned to detach.

And yet it still unnerves me to think that within that cultural wilderness called southern California, a place where the intelligentsia concerns itself with things like rainfall, property taxes and leaked executive salaries, my good friend David is marinating like a cornichon in sweet brine.

His latest "inspiring colleague" is a fellow named Harry Cohn, an unpublished poet of book length parodies in iambic verse. They met at a self-help seminar ostensibly devoted to what the organizers described as "the odysseys of older men," a euphemism for diminished virility. Seeing the sunset of sex is a terrifying vision and as misery of that sort abjures the company of unsympathetic youth, the old codgers get together twice a month to cry on each others bifocals.

I suppose I can't blame David for preferring dear Harry to me. Those who follow my work realize in vivid color that I've still got plenty of foreskin in the game. It must be hard to watch but he only has himself to blame. What did he expect with his meatless diet and endless exercise?

It's already been established that after the age of 55, low cholesterol and low libido are linked like mountaineers. Forget oysters and kelp, cognac and marijuana are the proven aphrodisiacs. And take it from a Frenchman, nothing beats dark tobacco non-filtered cigarettes to keep the southern circulation flowing. 

But I can't expect to convince Schoffman of any of this. He eats more kale than a fatted calf. And if I'm destined to pay for my nutritional infractions I'd rather suffer without the help of a support group in a conference room.

I too have learned how to make new friends.

ASHES TO ASHES, DUST TO THE DUSTBIN OF HISTORY

Nothing beats near-death in getting a guy to face his facts.

While the specter of shame lurks like a hatchet, we the clever idiots, deny what's obvious and conceal the rest. By the time we're finally ready to dice our delicate fictions into harmless lies the damage has already been done.

Shakespeare called us "poor players" only he was wrong about the strutting. We crawl like beggers before the enormity of our charade.

We're all fakers but there is no greater faker than my good friend David Schoffman. He pretends to pretend, rendering his pretensions the majesty of farce. He calls himself an artist but his artistry lies only in his mocking self-regard. In truth he fools no one and by so doing everyone was equally deceived.

This all came crashing into clumps when he came face to face with his god (or was it his G-d? The story changes with each retelling).

A rare rectal infection had Schoffman picking the lock on the Gate of Pearls and for a while we all thought he was a goner. I was writing his obituary in my head when a nurse came (strutting) over to me with the news that his vitals had perked.

I greeted the information with a mixture of gratitude and disappointment.

David now justifies his Gnostic inactivity with the same revolting intolerance that characterized his earlier defenses of work. With his slickly polished prose he waxes like a grifter about the ecstasies of nature and the beneficence of sloth. 

The man is tiresome beyond measure and had he succumbed to the incubus I dare say we all would have been better off.

So now we wait and as we wait his paintings lay fallow, accumulating new value as they gather old dust. 

Could it be that the sly old hedgehog is conjuring a third act?

SCHOFFMAN THE SHOW-OFF

My good friend David Schoffman hates to travel.

And yet, with all the professional demands that weigh upon him like bad debts he finds himself in the small soap world of hotels and airport lounges for much of his precious time. Between his lectures, exhibitions, book tours and frivolous academic research projects, David is away from his studio so much that he has delegated the production of his entire oeuvre to a 24 year-old assistant named Cindy.

In order not to completely consign his diverted attention to the slag of wasted time, when he's in a city or a town with even a modicum of cultural sophistication he finds whatever rewards are on offer and gratefully seeks them out.

For example, though he found the Ninja House in Iga Ueno terribly disappointing Imabari's famous 17th century castle with its picture postcard view of the Seto Inland Sea was well worth the indignity of signing books and posters in a strip mall bookshop in downtown Osaka.

Likewise, as on a recent trip to Urumqi to oversee the installation of his first public sculpture, the now infamous Hanny I'm Home, David found Zunghar's, the must-see avant-garde musical theater club owned by the Italian expatriate Nino Questo. It was there where he heard for the very first time that crazy and now viral take of the traditional Mandarin folk songs of Chu Chi.

Whenever he's away I can always count on receiving a postcard (David does not believe in email) where he will gently rub my sedentary face with his veiled boasts and muted embellishments.

"Dear Currado," a recent short missive began, "Monte Carlo never fails in depleting my will and sapping my soul. Just had dinner with Charles Patti and his wife (you know, the guy with the pink walls and the wierd art collection). Lovely couple but as boring as powdered milk. Wish you here though you're lucky you're not. Gros bisous, D."

Quel frimeur!!

POTHOLES OF CASH

In a spittle of sacrilegious rage  my mercurial American friend David Schoffman destroyed his beautifully appointed southern California studio.

Its rich northern light and 14 ft. ceilings provided the perfect theater for David's diabolical imagination. 

It was there, just a spliff's toss from the madcap carny riot of Venice Beach where Schoffman produced some of his most seminal works. Many of his notorious short films were made there. Three of his five weddings took place in his large printmaking space where on each occasion his four dazzling skylights glazed the ill-fated couple with cruel radiant and prescient indifference.

The place was a shrine to folly, a tabernacle of foolishness and a toxic repository of stoic miscalculation. The grandeur of the place mocked David's futile diurnal dalliances with greatness.

He's now reduced to a vanquished carapace of his former self. He's taken to sleeping all day and driving his 1969 Chevrolet Impala all night long down the gaudy, desolate boulevards of Los Angeles. To David these not-so-mean streets are a perfect metaphor echoing a once formidable ego now vacated and lampooned. 

He drives well below the speed limit listening to spy novel audiobooks on his tinny cassette player and whenever an interesting image cuts across his windshield he snaps a quick picture on his cell-phone. 

These morose confections are now the subject of an unlikely exhibition at Gallerie Nuitcroisière on rue Piat in Bellville. To us Parisians these scenes of wide dim streets wedged between cordons of filifera palms are as foreign as space travel. There is nothing even remotely like it in all of Europe and the fact that the show is taking place on the eve of what is shaping up to be one of our severest winters adds an extra element of aloof exoticism to the work.

Schoffman's studio has since been reduced to rubble.

The rumor is that this former shrine to Bohemia is slated to become a medical marijuana emporium complete with a hemp spa and a cannabis bakery.

David lives in a cozy one-bedroom apartment in Encino and has no plans to resume his painting any time soon.

He just put a new engine in the Impala and bought a brand new Canon D810 SLR and a DJI Phantom 2 Vision drone with a custom tripod for his camera.

Why not? His new works are insanely popular with collectors and he needs to crank out inventory.

He calls it "monetizing his melancholy."

ENCORE DU OPIUM

Cults of personality can be wonderful things when the object of adulation is oneself. The perversions that accrue are minor taxes considering the unexpected benefits. Upgrades on airlines, choice tables at fancy bistros, access to powerful politicians and of course the unaccountable magnetism one suddenly acquires with the fairer sex and the inevitable dancers around the lodestone.

I witnessed this ugly phenomenon first hand when I ill-advisedly accompanied my good friend David Schoffman on a recent trip to Macau.

Everywhere we went we were trailed by infatuated fans, starstruck by this middle aged bald guy with a bad teeth.

We were constantly surrounded by exhilarated schoolgirls, thick-necked paparazzi, badgering journalists, lickspittling critics, tedious curators and of course, bootlicking collectors cozying way too close up the hairy anus of the revered and exalted "master."

Schoffman, of course, lapped it up like it was bread pudding.

He was there for an exhibition of his new, extremely large sinocentric paintings that were specifically designed for the recently inaugurated Macau Center for Contemporary Art (known simply as Mecca to the locals).

David's dumbed-down imagery, with its crude cartoon-like drawing of truncated torsos and wacky wicker furniture was a huge hit with the locals. To them it all seems so thoroughly American. It's almost as if a collective amnesia has deprived the Chinese of their glorious Tang past.

I guess in the end we all get what we deserve.

Macau gets some cool, contemporary caché, David gets a big fat paycheck and a bunch of free foot massages and I get to bone up on my Portuguese while doing a little bit of gambling on somebody else's dime.

But still ... what a ham!

THE BLACKLIST

The first time my good friend David Schoffman encountered a real live elf he was three sheets to the wind, was bloated like a bullfrog and had enough methaqualone coursing through his bloodstream to tame a raging, randy mastodon.

Now he sees elves practically everywhere.

Which would be bad enough but he insists on talking about it.

And not only that.

He actively goes around looking for elves. But the thing is, what he considers an elf is anything but. To David, anything svelte and in a costume constitutes an elf when it could very well be something entirely different.

It could be a ballerina, a transvestite, an art student, a carnival performer, a panhandler, a cheerleader, a busker or a Christian missionary with a dash of panache.

He spends so much time looking for these putative elves that the Regent of the University of California officially declared David "unfit" to teach within the entire UC system.

This decree seems to include the California State college system as well as all the smaller community colleges that dot the coastal landscape like scurvy.

Not only can't he get a job as dog catcher, they won't even hire him as an adjunct!

I suppose the only thing left for him to do is to get back into his elfin studio and start painting again.

I wonder if he mistakes the cockroaches for elves as well?

I SING THE BODY ECCENTRIC

Venice Beach, California 2014

When he's not painting, reading, writing, lecturing or lying on his back ruminating on the blessedness of his genius, my dear, solipsistic friend David Schoffman is working out at the gym.

Living as he does in Los Angeles where mailmen are typically buffer than Mark Wahlberg and primary school teachers miss on average 18 days of classroom work per year due to their intermittent commercial auditions, the pressure to be fit weighs heavily on every unfortunate fatso.

Exercise as theology, though not quite Jesuitical, comes with its own set of doctrinal moral codes. To be rotund in Redondo Beach, a coastal community south of LAX known for its derrières durs and its ubiquitous volleyball nets is about as dangerous as being a Jew in Jeddah or an anarchist in Alabama.

In places like Malibu and the Pacific Palisades, body fat index is a more vital statistic than one's credit rating. I've heard of people being denied apartments by landlords afraid of the stress excess girth might impose upon their buildings.

Even boutique épiceries like Wholesome Grits and Martin's have imposed spending limits on customers deemed too flabby to fit comfortably into their corporate brand. 

My dear friend David has adapted to this stringent cult of corpuscular curation by maintaining a strict regimen of callous calisthenics more punishing than the hazing rituals of Israeli marines and more spartan than the unspeakable pains imposed upon the Carthusian monks of Chartreuse.

The result is a body so toned and tanned yet so wrinkled with age that when shirtless David resembles something more like an old leather purse than an actual living person.

When questioned about his questionable parsing of time - how he devotes so many hours to his fetish of body-sculpting and self-preservation - David shrugs off any suggestion that this all comes at the expense of an active life of the mind. "I live in L.A." he says as if that's explanation enough, "where do you think those wordless Ikea instructional booklets come from?"