After many years of reflection, I find myself looking back at the world of art—a world that I have come to know intimately, that I live in and that has been a study in the human form, a laboratory where art reveals the best and worst of us. Finally, we must think about the consequences of our actions, in this life or in the next.
Recently, a dear friend passed away. Like many artists, Hilde Lynn Helphenstein was a soul among us who felt more, felt more, took more heart from the world but chose and thrived within. I often wonder where we would be without people like her, those rare, sensitive souls who remind us that under pressure to cool our emotions and cultivate apathy, we still have something to protect. Art does that. It does it in a million ways. True art not only allows us to remember; it encourages us to overcome the obsession with states and material things that this country tirelessly promotes.
Most of the world knew Hilde as “Jerry Gogosian,” the art world satirist. But in his thoughts, and his humorous messages, lays a deep message. She was one of the few women who broke through and held up the mirror, even when it seemed uncomfortable. He followed his joy, as Joseph Campbell so eloquently urged us to do. What I loved most was his courage—the kind of courage it takes to be truly authentic. Authenticity is rare not only in the art world but in the world as a whole, and that should surprise no one: both contain powerful social mechanisms and structures designed to enforce conformity.
I was proud of him, and I told him so. He was creating work that had emotion and beauty, and captured everything I loved about him. In April, we talked about doing a show together. He wanted to get a better handle on his voice, to interpret and redefine his vision on canvases. Those conversations are something I will take with me.
Those who don’t know me are familiar with my writing habits, we’ll say long. One friend told another, “Georges sent me a 14-inch text last night,” to which I quickly corrected, accurately, that it was actually 15 years old. Hilde loved those texts. We laughed at how weird we both were: me for writing them, him for reading all the words. I hope they make some days bearable. When I reread our conversations now, I feel grateful that I didn’t hold back. Rumi wrote that much love is lost in what is said but not meant, and what is said but not said. Between me and Hilde no love was ever lost.
I entered the art world with a vision: an artist-centered, soulful gallery that served as an anchor in an otherwise noisy sea—a place where people with even the slightest courage could find something they would truly miss if it disappeared. The art of life’s journey. Because what I’ve found, and what everyone in the art world eventually proves, is that the greatest art is almost always made by those who are most sensitive to the daily grind of life.
In a world that rewards our worst, it’s often the healthiest—those who truly see the beauty and purpose of life—that have the hardest time. They are, in fact, wise. They are there to remind us that the lives we are pressured to live in order to succeed are not really the ones we should be living.
Hilde felt very fat. He couldn’t put his personality aside, even when it helped him to do so. We live in a world brutalized by people who elevate them by doing just that.
I find myself returning to the old question: is it better to lose ourselves and gain the world, or to hold on to what is best for us as the world grows harsher and less interested in return… trusting, perhaps, in the promises so many religions make about what lies ahead?
Like many artists, Hilde struggled with substance abuse, as so many in the art world endure. However, he never let it harden him. He heard everything. His art required thought, soul, honesty and heart, and he gave it all, always.
Hilde’s life took courage, and I told her so, often. Nothing truly important to have—love, trust, compassion, empathy—can be fully experienced without you. In one of our last conversations, I told her not to stress or get discouraged, not to feel alone or diminished. I told him that there will come a time when he will reach a pure place, where there are no dense trees, where there is love, self-acceptance, true friendship and unconditional compassion. I promised him that when he found it, he would run towards it. That I will meet him there.
I know you are here now. Honestly, you’ve got me beat. And how nice to think that when I finally get there, he’ll be waiting.
