Inside Garikow's Home/Art Studio

As I waited for Arnold outside, I was happy it was still daylight. His three story row home was the only remaining structure on the block. That demolished city block in Philadelphia seemed symbolic of Ivan's impoverished life in Russia. It was not a good area to be in. Arnold told me his father had been robbed and some of his best paintings were taken. I was glad when the door opened and I was invited in.

It was dark inside. Arnie and his dad spoke Russian as I was introduced to him. Both men laughed as Ivan slapped me on my back a few times. "He likes you," Arnie said. As I looked around the room it was cluttered with canvas' laying everywhere - oil painting upon oil painting without frames like a paupers flophouse. A few easel's positioned by the windows (his dad only painted by natural light). It was Ivan's home in America.

I was shown a few of Arnie's favorite paintings. I really didn't know much about fine art, but I could just tell that they were special. After an hour or so, the three of us walked to a tavern for something to eat. Observing father and son enjoying each other's presence was a genuine joy for me. My father and I never once enjoyed such a reunion. At the bar, Ivan ate soup and bread. Everyday - That's all he ever ate. Arnie said, "That's all he ever got in the Nazi concentration camp."

He was missing some teeth, but so was Arnie.

Ivan wanted to get back to the house before dark. He was afraid of the night. We walked back to his home, said goodbye and Arnie and I left his father alone once again. That was probably one of the last times Ivan saw his son.

The visit didn't really mean alot to me, but it meant the world to Ivan and his son. Little did I know that I had broken bread with a renowned and listed artist. Arnie knew the greatness of his father's talent...Now years later, I am learning what an honor I had that day...


...more to follow...