Long before the name David Schoffman became common currency among the hep downtown intelligentsia, before owning a Schoffman was the necessary credential for cosmopolites aspiring toward high-gloss urbanity, before 'understanding' Schoffman was a prerequisite for admission to the boutique graduate programs east of the Mississsppi there was the painter David Schoffman who labored quietly in his studio producing solidly hermetic abstract paintings snugly situated within the delectus of late-20th century formalism.
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| Riding a Pig he Tilts Toward the Sun, oil on wood, David Schoffman 1986 |
Those fortunate few who purchased these rugged, muscular oils bought them not for a song but for a jingle. David was waiting tables and living hand-to-mouth and the works he sold were priced to move.
Now, of course, the pendulum swings to a more favorable tempo - at least for Schoffman. While the paint is still oily and wet his pictures are rushed out the door by his private army of impish assistants. Pre-printed packing labels addressed to every compass-point are conspicuously piled in stacks leaving his visitors no doubt as to the folly of any dithering indecision.
He's a huckster now, brokering his reputation with an adroit instinct for calculated risk. He periodically shifts styles, withholds works, claims scarcities and orchestrates scandals typically involving much younger women.
Miraculously the cards still fall in his favor despite the indolent and perfunctory nature of his newest work. He can do no wrong in this changed world where quality and value have severed their connection like bickering siblings.
I miss the old David.
Though I can do without the Noam Chomsky haircut.
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