Tribute to Joe Maniscalco (1921 - 2007)

by Robert Maniscalco

My father was a great man. He was a true art spirit who lived through his work and pursued his art with a monk-like devotion. His work was, IS, powerful, expressive, masterful. It made it into over a thousand prominant collections around the world. He painted Congressmen, Supreme Court

Justices and cute little kids. He touched thousands with his genius.

What people may not realize is that he was a very inventive and playful artist. One time he poured a dollip of Gesso onto a board to prime it for a portrait. But he got distracted by a phone call and forgot about it. He came back a while later and it had dried up. He looked at it for a while and ended up turning the dried up dollip into an incredible sunset. His doodles were the stuff of greatness.

He was a painter's painter, admired on every level. Yes, he was a great man. But we all know great men are more than just great at their job. Of course my father didn't have a job. He used to boast that he never

worked a day in his life. His art was so much apart of him that he never even thought of it as work. He touched so many lives with his art and with his sheer presence as an art spirit.

Growing up I remember he was always getting dressed up in a tux to go to "functions." He was a real swinger back in his day. Really, he was always doing something to make the world a little richer, a little more human.

But he was a great family man too. I remember when we used to watch Star Trek together and listening to his theories about how they accomplished all those special effects. He had lots of theories. Whether it was painting scenery at Grosse Pointe Theatre, throwing a party at the Scarab Club or making a movie about painting a portrait, using time lapse photography, he was always a man of action, as great men tend to be. When the IRS was unfairly taxing creative people he was there, in the US tax court, making the case on behalf of artists all over the country. He lead a national protest where he and a group of artists tore up paintings in Kennedy Square. I was so proud of my dad. He actively lobbied Congress to make it possible for artists to receive a fair market tax deduction when they donated their work for the public good. He did this at great risk to his own career. But he did it because it was the right thing to do.

He taught us that doing the right thing was important in our own lives as well."You wear a white hat." That's how he used to put it – in lecture number 214. He was a lecturer. I've memorized his lecture on how to behave in public – that was number 185. He was always trying to describe and instill strong principals in his children. He referred to his "philosophy" of life, loosely based on the poem, Invictus, by William Ernest Henley -- the only lyrics he never forgot.

Out of the night that covers me,
  Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
  For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
  I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Beneath the bludgeonings of chance
  My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this space of wrath and tears
  Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
  Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
  How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
  I am the captain of my soul.

My dad had an indomitable spirit, a stoic integrity, and a keen sense of justice. And he was more than willing to enforce this code of ethics when push came to shove. He never shied away from adversity. He was always strong for the underdog. A product of the great depression and WWII he was a leading member of America's great generation. Perhaps he came by his irascible nature on the beaches of Normandy. Perhaps it was on the tough streets of New York City, where he grew up. Wherever he got it, this was the father I knew.

But if you took this implacable sense of justice and turned it sideways there was always an abiding love and compassion. He loved his children and brought us up to one day love our own children. We grew up in a very self-expressed, chaotic and loving home. The house was always a little messy, a little crazy. After all, there were more important things going on than cleaning, like music and art and learning and friendship and play and ideas; there was very little small talk. A typical moment would find my Dad trying to finish a painting passage before putting dinner on, while I ran around looking for a place to play my clarinet, my brother pounding away at the piano while my sister tried to get anyone to help her clean the house.

My dad used to make vast amounts of spaghetti sauce, which he froze in the cans for future meals. Somehow we never came down with a single case of Botulism. The pasta was always cooked El Dente.

I remember sitting on his lap as he painted. Sometimes he would let me skumble in the large masses. How easy he made it look. Indeed, he had a way of revealing the process in such a way that I never doubted my own ability. He still rests on my shoulder, his raspy voice gently guiding my every stroke. My teacher. My mentor. My father.

I remember we used to cuddle up together in the back of our Plymouth Barracuda hatchback (we called it a Back-a-ruda). We would lay very still as the rain drizzled and splatted over the glass. He was always very affectionate with me–with all his kids. He gleefully attended every concert or play in which I ever performed. He always carried my clarinet case after my concerts so I could be free to meet and greet.

He was always encouraging people, wherever he went, always looking to uncover their creative potential.

Of course everyone knows he was a notorious prankster. I remember when I was around 6 or 7 he flushed himself down the toilet. He really had me going, calling up to me from the basement.

When I was about 8, he had had a particularly good year and the living room was covered in Christmas presents. He got me a Stingray bike.

One of the good things about Alzheimers, and its hard to find the good in this horrible disease, is that it has allowed me to mourn his loss over time. He never lost his charm, even when he was confused. When visiting her grandfather, Molly, his oldest grandchild, reported that he would repeatedly ask what she did for a living. In response to her answer, "becoming a doctor," every time, like clockwork, he would blow her a kiss and say "I'm proud of you." He was indeed very proud of his four children, their spouses, nine grandchildren, one great grandchild and four step kids.

I feel like I have received the gift my father had for me, for which I am immensely grateful. I know everyone in this room feels the same way. He taught me an appreciation for beauty, the importance of self-expression and the magic of the golden rule. He lived a full and rewarding life. It's sad that he's gone now. But I can't help feeling a serenity about his passing.

You did what you were put on this earth to do, Papopski. Not many people can say that.

I know his legacy lives on through his work and through those who loved him. I want to acknowledge my stepmom, Barb, for stepping up to the plate in caring for my dad in his later years. You were a good wife and I know you loved each other very much, and that you had a great life together. I'm so happy he found his true love.

I'm comforted to know each of us were moved, touched and inspired by my father. He was truly a great man.