Hatem placed his first painting on his easel. I sipped from a hot cup of coffee. His piercing eyes watched as my eyes rested on a large rectangular canvas depicting abstract lines and vibrant colors amidst rough textures and complex forms. Lines that squiggled and curved, ended abruptly in arrows. Other lines stopped with yet more lines intercepting them. Splashes of color pitting against color jumped off the canvass and into the room as Hatem explained the meanings of his artwork. "Sick....sick....." Old expired credit cards glued to the canvass and incorporated into the hues and textures of his artwork made up several of his paintings as he explained his distaste for banks. "Sick....sick...." Floating spheres with no shadows questioned Einstein's theory on everything. And each time between explanations and premises as he swapped one painting for another and then another came his puzzling chant, "Sick....sick...."
"Why do you keep saying 'sick, sick?" I finally asked. I could see that he had been waiting for me to ask that question. "Because", he said, "It is all in the mind." "Huh?" I piped. "Because nothing matters but our mind. If we don't mind, then it doesn't matter. People are starving. People don't have a home. Intelligent people have ended up living in the park with only their sleeping bag. The Chinese don't assimilate; they come to America and they are still in China. The Russians, who had nothing but Chernobyl, come to the USA and their minds are blown up. The Jews, who hold the highest positions in this country teach their children the importance of education. The Banks who control the money in this country aren't regulated anymore because the government is corrupt."
Who was this man? What was it that caused me to want to find out more about how he thought? How he saw life? Painting after painting, I sat there trying to discern his explanation of his art.
"What makes art art?" I questioned.
"I paint what I know." It was an incongruous answer.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"Take Andy Warhol. He was not a true artist. He didn't paint what he knew. He was a graphic artist. He took photographs of Campbell tomato soup cans and of Marilyn Monroe and put color on them. That's not art. That's graphic design. Take someone like Miró or Picasso or Salvador Dalí.....those were great artists!" I sat there listening. "Someone commissioned Picasso to do a great piece of art. Picasso asked them, 'what is your budget? So they told Picasso the amount of a small fortune. Picasso accepted but first he asked for the money, so they gave it to him. Picasso then took a piece of paper, drew a picture on it, and then gave it to them. 'There is your great piece of art', Picasso said"
It was an introduction to a world and a mind over which I will never forget.
Monday, March 19, 2012
Thursday, March 8, 2012
6. Mother was living in San Bruno, California, at that time
Mother was living in San Bruno, California, at that time. She was in her late 70's. I
would visit her occasionally but for the most part I left her alone. It had always been that way, and I had always thought she wanted it that way. She was a very independent woman and had passed along to us the meaning of independence as we grew up. But I would always make it a point to visit her at least once a month and on the major holidays like her birthday or Easter or Thanksgiving. As for the Christmas holidays, she always spent that with her grandchildren in Madison, Wisconsin.
Mother was resilient. She had survived the Great Depression, World War II, a broken toe, a broken arm, a shattered knee cap, and the premature death of my Father in 1974. As a family she had followed my father and had boldly taken us all to Spain where we had spent four and a half years and then to Bangkok, Thailand where I had grown up from 1960 through 1969. We had all returned to the United States in 1969 where I experienced culture shock in a foreign land to an extent I will never forget. After the death of father, mother also lived through a multi-arterial bypass, breast cancer, and heart surgery.
My older brother, Billy, whom I really didn't know very well, was living in Taluca Lake, California, when Gabe walked out of my life, and my younger sister, Mary, whom I considered my best friend, lived in Chico. My sister, Judy, whom I had always admired and wanted to emulate growing up, had moved to Madison, Wisconsin years before soon after her wedding. All were married, and, although Billy and Mary resided in California, neither of them visited mother often. In fact, Billy had at one point decidedly stopped communicating with her. Why he stopped, we didn't know, and years later mother would send an email to all my siblings including my brother asking why her only son had stopped speaking to her. Sadly, she passed away before she would never get an answer. So, I had taken it upon myself to at least call her once a week to make sure she was doing okay.
Mother was resilient. She had survived the Great Depression, World War II, a broken toe, a broken arm, a shattered knee cap, and the premature death of my Father in 1974. As a family she had followed my father and had boldly taken us all to Spain where we had spent four and a half years and then to Bangkok, Thailand where I had grown up from 1960 through 1969. We had all returned to the United States in 1969 where I experienced culture shock in a foreign land to an extent I will never forget. After the death of father, mother also lived through a multi-arterial bypass, breast cancer, and heart surgery.
My older brother, Billy, whom I really didn't know very well, was living in Taluca Lake, California, when Gabe walked out of my life, and my younger sister, Mary, whom I considered my best friend, lived in Chico. My sister, Judy, whom I had always admired and wanted to emulate growing up, had moved to Madison, Wisconsin years before soon after her wedding. All were married, and, although Billy and Mary resided in California, neither of them visited mother often. In fact, Billy had at one point decidedly stopped communicating with her. Why he stopped, we didn't know, and years later mother would send an email to all my siblings including my brother asking why her only son had stopped speaking to her. Sadly, she passed away before she would never get an answer. So, I had taken it upon myself to at least call her once a week to make sure she was doing okay.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
5. My first impression of Hatem was one of wonderment
My first impression of Hatem was one of wonderment. Who was this fellow? The amazing stories that came out of his mouth seemed nothing more than sensational and, although red flags were popping up all over the place, intrigue and curiosity got the better of me. In every story, I knew, there is always an element of truth. I wanted to know the mind of this man.
I agreed to visit Hatem at his Outer Sunset studio on Twenty-third Avenue two weeks from the day he showed up at the restaurant. I really wasn't in any hurry. The stories he had offered about parts of his life had been curiously thought provoking yet questionable at best. And, to be honest, at that time, something underneath and inside my psyche seem to say that I shouldn't go to the meeting. It was a small voice – a red flag, but I knew I was going to go. Nothing else and nobody around me were telling me not to go, and, after all, I had known this man for over ten years. What could be the harm?
Hatem continued to call me daily prior to our meeting with his interesting stories that were both funny yet dubious. I laughed at most of them. I couldn't understand where or how he could have achieved three black belts. His thick black hair just didn't seem to relay an age ten years older than me. How could he have been a soldier in Egypt's six-day war? Did he really take down a band of thieves in the Mission? Who were the Black Scorpions? Was he truly the Egyptian four-star military general he said he was? What exactly was his role as a dignitary with or spy for with the Egyptian Consulate? Was he really affiliated with the Egyptian mafia?
Two weeks passed by with more stories. I was in awe! A professed doctor of psychology with a Ph.D., Hatem's compassion for the homeless and for the lessor privileged along with an ability to understand and explain the general mindset of different ethnic groups kept me listening. This was the side of him that seem true and real. It was what kept me intrigued. No one had ever presented a perspective on life to me the way he was doing. He had answers for almost everything, and for the things he didn't have an answer for, his answers were, "we will see" or "we are monitoring that".
The day finally arrived. It was clear and sunny out with a crisp breeze blowing. I climbed into my car and drove across the park headed toward his studio. I was early, so I parked a block away for the remainder of the time and checked my makeup. I didn't want to appear too anxious. At precisely 10:00 AM, I drove up to a house, parked my car, and walked across the street. I was nervous yet excited. Before I could reach the sidewalk, Hatem strolled out of the door and met me in the middle of the street. "I like that" he said with his crooked grin. "You are on time." "Of course" I answered with a smile. "Why wouldn't I be? Didn't we agree to 10:00?"
Hatem led me into the house and down a couple stairs and into the garage where I saw numerous canvasses turned away and propped up against the sides the walls. Storage containers were placed around strategically and tubes of paint lay scattered about. At one end of the area was a makeshift table that comprised of a large door-like plank that sat atop a small refrigerator at one end and a small plastic chest of drawers at the other end. The refrigerator was decorated with a felt-tip line drawing of a headless nude. Although the entire garage was painted in gray, the concrete floor held the remnants of spray paint patterns. The walls, too, saw splatters of pigment. There were two old easy chairs on one side of the garage and in the center of the floor in front of the two chairs stood a large looming wooden easel that seemed to overpower the entire area.
"Please sit down". Hatem said breaking my thoughts. I took the chair next to me, and Hatem began. "would you like some coffee first?"
I agreed to visit Hatem at his Outer Sunset studio on Twenty-third Avenue two weeks from the day he showed up at the restaurant. I really wasn't in any hurry. The stories he had offered about parts of his life had been curiously thought provoking yet questionable at best. And, to be honest, at that time, something underneath and inside my psyche seem to say that I shouldn't go to the meeting. It was a small voice – a red flag, but I knew I was going to go. Nothing else and nobody around me were telling me not to go, and, after all, I had known this man for over ten years. What could be the harm?
Hatem continued to call me daily prior to our meeting with his interesting stories that were both funny yet dubious. I laughed at most of them. I couldn't understand where or how he could have achieved three black belts. His thick black hair just didn't seem to relay an age ten years older than me. How could he have been a soldier in Egypt's six-day war? Did he really take down a band of thieves in the Mission? Who were the Black Scorpions? Was he truly the Egyptian four-star military general he said he was? What exactly was his role as a dignitary with or spy for with the Egyptian Consulate? Was he really affiliated with the Egyptian mafia?
Two weeks passed by with more stories. I was in awe! A professed doctor of psychology with a Ph.D., Hatem's compassion for the homeless and for the lessor privileged along with an ability to understand and explain the general mindset of different ethnic groups kept me listening. This was the side of him that seem true and real. It was what kept me intrigued. No one had ever presented a perspective on life to me the way he was doing. He had answers for almost everything, and for the things he didn't have an answer for, his answers were, "we will see" or "we are monitoring that".
The day finally arrived. It was clear and sunny out with a crisp breeze blowing. I climbed into my car and drove across the park headed toward his studio. I was early, so I parked a block away for the remainder of the time and checked my makeup. I didn't want to appear too anxious. At precisely 10:00 AM, I drove up to a house, parked my car, and walked across the street. I was nervous yet excited. Before I could reach the sidewalk, Hatem strolled out of the door and met me in the middle of the street. "I like that" he said with his crooked grin. "You are on time." "Of course" I answered with a smile. "Why wouldn't I be? Didn't we agree to 10:00?"
Hatem led me into the house and down a couple stairs and into the garage where I saw numerous canvasses turned away and propped up against the sides the walls. Storage containers were placed around strategically and tubes of paint lay scattered about. At one end of the area was a makeshift table that comprised of a large door-like plank that sat atop a small refrigerator at one end and a small plastic chest of drawers at the other end. The refrigerator was decorated with a felt-tip line drawing of a headless nude. Although the entire garage was painted in gray, the concrete floor held the remnants of spray paint patterns. The walls, too, saw splatters of pigment. There were two old easy chairs on one side of the garage and in the center of the floor in front of the two chairs stood a large looming wooden easel that seemed to overpower the entire area.
"Please sit down". Hatem said breaking my thoughts. I took the chair next to me, and Hatem began. "would you like some coffee first?"
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
4. Hatem was an artist
Hatem was an artist, a painter of abstract thoughts and conceptual forms that related to the issues of current events. "I draw what I know" was often his declaration. He also drew the human form in a unique and personal composition specific only to his style, which resembled none other in the known artistic world. I hadn't yet seen his work, and on that day in the restaurant I secretly longed to see just how allegedly different and profound his paintings were as he described them and his ideas.
As we talked that day, I became keenly aware of how surprisingly comfortable I felt with this man. I had met him as a dancer at The Grapeleaf, long before Gabe and I were married in 1986, and I felt I knew him somewhat having had a customer/dancer relationship. It was good to be with someone of a like mind and feel that comfortable. Gabe had been gone for over a year, and although I had several male friends, there was something about this man that made me feel alive and exhilarated. We were both artists, and he was interested; interested in me -- my life, my past, my future. We talked about my dance, about the restaurant and what it had been like married to Gabe and helping to run it (a story for another time).
My mother had helped me to buy the restaurant lease and so for now I was the owner of that lease. I told him of my future plans for the restaurant, of how I was looking for a buyer, and of how I would split the buyout with half going to Gabe and half going to me after all bills and expenses were paid, including the price of the lease, which my mother had footed, paid back to her. I told him that I had plans to take a military billet overseas as a Storekeeper after the sale of the lease, and that I was looking forward to spending the rest of my Navy Reserve career in an active billet in Germany. I was in my 19th year of military reserve duty and wanted to go active in order to qualify for retirement pay at active duty rates. I told him I had my future planned, but it rested on the sale of the lease.
Hatem listened with interest. He asked about the lease and I showed it to him. After reading it, he handed it back to me and, with his electrifying piercing brown eyes, looked at me and asked me to come to his studio to see his artwork. I eagerly said yes, and we made a date.
As we talked that day, I became keenly aware of how surprisingly comfortable I felt with this man. I had met him as a dancer at The Grapeleaf, long before Gabe and I were married in 1986, and I felt I knew him somewhat having had a customer/dancer relationship. It was good to be with someone of a like mind and feel that comfortable. Gabe had been gone for over a year, and although I had several male friends, there was something about this man that made me feel alive and exhilarated. We were both artists, and he was interested; interested in me -- my life, my past, my future. We talked about my dance, about the restaurant and what it had been like married to Gabe and helping to run it (a story for another time).
My mother had helped me to buy the restaurant lease and so for now I was the owner of that lease. I told him of my future plans for the restaurant, of how I was looking for a buyer, and of how I would split the buyout with half going to Gabe and half going to me after all bills and expenses were paid, including the price of the lease, which my mother had footed, paid back to her. I told him that I had plans to take a military billet overseas as a Storekeeper after the sale of the lease, and that I was looking forward to spending the rest of my Navy Reserve career in an active billet in Germany. I was in my 19th year of military reserve duty and wanted to go active in order to qualify for retirement pay at active duty rates. I told him I had my future planned, but it rested on the sale of the lease.
Hatem listened with interest. He asked about the lease and I showed it to him. After reading it, he handed it back to me and, with his electrifying piercing brown eyes, looked at me and asked me to come to his studio to see his artwork. I eagerly said yes, and we made a date.
3. Hatem had always been a customer
Hatem had always been a customer of Gabe's restaurant during the time we were married and even before. He was a tall, slender, engaging, and somewhat mysterious man with a heavy Egyptian accent. His thick black wavy hair was combed back and his huge feet were covered in white Rebocks that seemed to glare like snow caps on a summer's day -- an odd characteristic that seemed to match his enigmatic personality, and I found it curious that I would notice both seemingly unrelated features and in sharp contract to each other at the same time. I found myself being drawn like a magnet into an excitingly strange and unknown universe as he inquired about Gabe and the future of the restaurant, with an interest that heretofore had not been rendered by anyone else in my circle of family or friends.
Monday, March 5, 2012
2. 1995 - I was now on my own (cont.)
It was 1995. Gabe and I had been married for nine years. We had
started Culinary Clyde's packaged prepared Middle Eastern food products
and were in over 100 health food store. We had cultivated live music
night at the restaurant for ten years. We had been the official food
vendors for almost every belly dance festival in the San Francisco Bay
Area. Now, he was gone. I wasn't able to give him a child that he
could bring home to his mother, and his mother had since passed away. I
felt thrown away, like a piece of trash, unable to produce what he
wanted most.
For a year, with the help and support of mother, I kept Culinary Clyde's on the market shelves. I tried running the restaurant by myself, but it was difficult. I had taken the last two months before Gabe left and learned how to cook the menu recipes, but running the restaurant was about more than cooking. I struggled day after day, week after week, month after month to keep the restaurant doors open. I had no financial help from Gabe, and so all the expenses in running a restaurant were left to me.
One day, while I was doing some chores in the restaurant, a familiar face showed up at my door and asked to be seated. I looked into the eyes of this familiar face and felt a connection to my past, and I let him in. Little did I know then just how much my life would be changed by inviting him into the restaurant that day. It was early 1996.
For a year, with the help and support of mother, I kept Culinary Clyde's on the market shelves. I tried running the restaurant by myself, but it was difficult. I had taken the last two months before Gabe left and learned how to cook the menu recipes, but running the restaurant was about more than cooking. I struggled day after day, week after week, month after month to keep the restaurant doors open. I had no financial help from Gabe, and so all the expenses in running a restaurant were left to me.
One day, while I was doing some chores in the restaurant, a familiar face showed up at my door and asked to be seated. I looked into the eyes of this familiar face and felt a connection to my past, and I let him in. Little did I know then just how much my life would be changed by inviting him into the restaurant that day. It was early 1996.
1. December 1995 - I was now on my own
I was now on my own. Gabe, my then husband, had up and left me on Christmas Eve day bound for Florida. How would I ever make it by myself? I remember waking up and feeling like I had sunk into a big black hole. Where was everyone? Who could I call? I walked around the restaurant and felt the responsibility of running it without Gabe crash and fall all over me. How was I going to do it? I thought about my mom. She was in Madison, Wisconsin visiting my sister's kids. I checked the time; it didn't matter. I picked up the phone and dialed the number. My sister's voice came on the phone. "Hello". "Judy, it's Sue. Is mom there?' I wanted to hear the familiar comforting voice of my mother. "Ma, it's for you", I heard her say. "It's Sue." I fell apart and began sobbing. What was I going to do? How was I going to continue? My mother was comforting but firm saying that I would be alright. "Do you want me to come home?" I wanted her to come home, but it wouldn't be right. It was Christmas. The cost of the tickets would be exorbitant. That wouldn't make sense. What the heck made sense? "No. I'll be OK." I sobbed. "Are you sure? I'll come home if you want, Sue." "Tell her she'll get over it!" I heard my sister's voice in the back ground. "Are you sure you don't want me to come home? I will if you need me." It was my mother talking over my sister's voice. "No, I'll be OK. I just needed to hear your voice. I'll see you in a few days." I hung up the phone.
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