Writing is solitary work.
And that lovely waitress/writer combo sometimes leaves you very little time to get out of the garret and spend time with people who actually understand what you’re trying to do.
It’s also hard to find those people. Most writers are like me---holed up in their apartments. Writing.
Sure, you meet other writers along the way. But, like any profession, just because you do the same job, doesn’t mean you always click.
They could be the greatest writer in the world, but if they’re a jackass, you’re probably not going to be doing coffee anytime soon.
A few years ago, I became fascinated with a man named Elmyr de Hory. Elmyr was a painter. An artist. Well…sort of.
In the 1960s, Elmyr de Hory, a World War II Hungarian refugee and artist of little note, was suddenly thrust into the international spotlight when he was discovered to be the most prolific art forger of the Twentieth Century.
Several countries were trying to extradite him from the tiny
It helped that he was a charmer. A bit of a con-artist. A great story-teller. And also, an amazing duplicator of the works of Picasso, Modigliani, Matisse and many of the most important artists of the early Twentieth Century.
His legal “out” was always the claim that he never signed a painting with the artists’ name. Never. If they chose to believe it was a Picasso (according to the scrupulous detail and the carefully crafted forged authenticity papers designed by his unscrupulous business partners) well, that was their fault. If they’re buying art for profit---they should know better. Idiots. Posers. Nouveau riche.
Elmyr believed you should buy art because you loved it. Not to show-off your financial status on your walls.
And you should buy art from living, working artists---if you were REALLY serious about supporting the arts, that is.
Clifford Irving, who later became known for his own hoax regarding the Howard Hughes letters, had been living in
A few years ago, I found the book at a Salvation Army and was intrigued by the title. I became even more intrigued when I discovered that Orson Welles had shot a film partially about Elmyr---F for Fake. The film is a Wellesian tour thru the art of trickery; and, Welles himself, said shortly before his death, that it was the sort of film he wanted to continue making for the rest of his life.
There is no precedent for F for Fake.
Nor any followers.
F for Fake stands alone as a curiosity of film history. Part documentary. Part canvas. Part charlatan. And all Welles.
I’d just written and directed a play about Orson Welles, so it seemed natural to try to turn the story of Elmyr into a play. I happily jumped into that writing phase that all writers love---research.
Thru an online search, I discovered that a documentary had been made a few years earlier by a Norwegian film crew called Masterpiece or Forgery: The Story of Elmyr de Hory. I ordered it from Amazon and watched it intently. I took notes. I researched the filmmakers. And I got up the nerve to send an email to the producer of the film in
Within 24 hours, the director, a man named Knut Jorfald, emailed me back with a stunning bit of news: “It’s so great that you’re writing a play about good-old Elmyr. And you’re in
What?
As I’m assuming you dear readers are NOT a part of the select group of people who know who Elmyr is; then you certainly don’t know about Mark Forgy.
Well, Forgy was Elmyr’s companion at the time of Elmyr’s death. Elmyr died in his arms after an overdose of sleeping pills---the extradition had been approved and Elmyr couldn’t face the trial. Forgy was also the sole heir of Elmyr’s estate.
And apparently, this guy lived in
I looked him up in the phone book. Not only did he live in
I called Mr. Forgy and explained that Knut Jorfald had suggested I speak with him. He said he would be delighted to meet with me to talk about Elmyr.
A few days later, I walked over to his home in
Fakes of fakes.
Mark said that Elmyr would have laughed.
In his dining room, I saw the beautiful hand-carved Spanish dining room table I’d seen in the Orson Welles film. He showed me Elmyr’s family photos and gave me a tour of the house, upstairs and down---completely covered, wall-to-wall, with fakes. Renoirs. Picassos. Matisses. Legers. And even some original de Horys.
Elmyr had always been proudest of his own work.
For a writer, the discovery of someone so interested and knowledgeable about your subject matter is sheer bliss.
And then, to suddenly be surrounded by the belongings of your fascination is simply Nirvana.
It’s moments like this that keep writers going when they’re tired of not being able to go out with their friends on a Saturday night. When they’re sick of trying to re-write the same monologue over and over again. When they are simply disgusted at the thought of sitting down in front of the computer for even one more hour.
You meet someone who knows who Elmyr de Hory is---and your load immediately gets lighter.
These days, I’m laying off the historical pieces and putting my energy into original characters. Laying off the drama and writing more humor. Though sometimes, by this blog, you’d be hard-pressed to tell.
I know a lot of comics.
Outside of their own jokes---they don’t really write.
I know a lot of writers.
They’re not all that funny.
And then last year, I met my friend Dean.
Dean appeared suddenly as a friend of a friend who could fill a hole left in a staged reading I was presenting. One of my actor friends turned out to be busy that day and Dean’s name and contact info appeared in my Inbox. I contacted him and he said he would be happy to read.
A few days later, he nailed the cold read. After the reading, he and I and our mutual friend, Lauren, went out for a drink. Within one hour, I discovered that he, too, was a writer. We had the same tastes. Same influences. And occasionally, completed each other’s sentences---usually ending in a punchline.
And nothing turns a writer’s head more than someone who gets what they write.
“I know you don’t know anything about me,” he said as we all walked down the street, “but if you ever have anything where you need a director…I’d love to direct.”
I didn’t know anything about him. But I knew he had the instincts. I’d heard him read. Heard him hit all the notes just right. He got it. When you meet someone like that, you’d trust them with the world. Or even your script.
Over the past few months, he has inspired me with his own writing and performances, texted me during important moments of my life, and encouraged me to be daring and bold and submit my work when I no longer cared to. He’s made me laugh even when I didn’t want to---and in the way that I like to laugh the best. He understands my love and obsession for those marginal people---the lonely ones just teetering on the edge. Sometimes, I wonder if he thinks I’m one of those marginals myself.
One night, he tells me how he hugs the homeless.
“But then you get that homeless stink on you,” I worry.
“I’ve got my own stink on me!” he laughs.
He gets it. He’s one of those people I like to call “good eggs”.
Every few weeks, I get to hear a new piece he’s written. I watch him take risks as a writer and develop from those risks. I watch him finding his own voice; and, slowly but surely, fitting that voice into the narrow confines of a stage play. But without the confines…that’s where he will thrive. Once he gets access to, what Welles called, “the most expensive paint box in the world”…look out.
He has also, without knowing, helped me thru an emotionally difficult time. On a weekly basis, he’s listened to my moanings about family problems, career problems, work problems, writing problems, and, without knowing, has been one of the only people able to draw me out of my (somewhat) self-imposed cocoon of the past few months.
It must be nice being someone like that. Someone who has the ability to draw people out of their mental prisons and send them out into the world renewed.
One night, as we were talking about Orson Welles, I mentioned having written a play about Elmyr de Hory.
“Wow,” he immediately replied. “F for Fake. Elmyr. The art forger. I used to listen to a tape of that film with my friends when we were driving. I can’t believe you know about that.”
People like Mark Forgy and my friend Dean are the stuff that keep you going when you wonder if you will ever have anything original to say ever again. They stimulate life and work and help to make the chore of writing actually enjoyable.
And way less solitary than it needs to be.
Today, I submitted something for the first time in months---thanks to Dean's encouragement. I don't know if it will work for the folks I submitted to. I don't even know if it's any good. But thanks to him, I crawled out of my comfy writer's shell and tried to let my writing stand on its own two feet.
If you can find those people who know about the Elmyr de Hory of your life…consider yourself very lucky, indeed.
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