BYE,
DR. MANUPELLI
I met George Manupelli because I knew Betty and I knew Betty
because of George. I had noticed his last name on a mailbox and introduced
myself to the woman who lived there. I knew the name Manupelli because I knew
that an Ann Arbor Film Festival had been started and I was interested in film.
Also there was a pamphlet that had a page for every local cultural organization
and on one page was a description of the Ann Arbor Film Festival with a picture
of George and on the facing page was a picture of me and description of the
Gilbert and Sullivan Society. Don’t laugh. When I first met Betty I asked if
she was related to the filmmaker. Well yes, she was merely just his ex-wife.
The first time Betty took me to the schoolhouse it was to see George’s
movies. I fell asleep. I think it was during Bottleman. I probably was
not the first one to fall asleep during Bottleman but I have always
wondered if George noticed that my eyes closed. I hope not. Even so, I still
clearly see in my mind images from the film, they were that beautiful. George
was a meticulous photographer. All his art was meticulous. The prints he made,
the assemblages, even to the last pieces he did when blind. Even his funny
country-and-western song lyrics were carefully honed.
George was a notable talker. Not just with friends but anywhere he
went. In front of a group or just one or two others—George had no problem
telling stories or making observations or riffing on some concept. He was funny
and innovative and saw things in ways not many others would see them and he was
pleased to pass on the concepts. George was never at a loss for words. No one
ever said that.
Once George and several others were gathered in our living room
engaging in the usual morning coffee banter. For some reason, George began to
speak in a Scottish accent. It was funny and we laughed. He had another quip as
a Scot that was funnier. And another. And more. He referred to himself as Sandy
MacTavish. Sandy took over George’s speech. No matter what direction the
conversation took, George was compelled, literally compelled, to speak with
Sandy's accent. Strange and funny. Sandy wasn't at a loss for words either.
George told me this story several times. Shortly after he bought
the church and was making it into a place to live rather than to take
communion, he wanted a deck. Harold and Joe came to build it with him. During
construction, George noticed that if a nail was bent in construction of the
underside of the deck, Joe and Harold might just pound it flat into the wood
and start another one. “Joe, what are you doing? Pull it out, don’t bend it
over. That looks terrible” Meticulous George was annoyed and he pulled them out
himself. “George,” Joe would say, “it’s under the deck, it doesn’t matter, no one
is going to see it.” After the day’s work was done, the three of them went to
get dinner. George drove. For music, he had a cassette deck in the trunk,
probably playing bluegrass. As they drove along, the cassette batteries began
to die, the music slowed down, and for miles they drove on, with “ I want
you darlin--wwhaa—woh—woh—darlin we can go—whaa—woh—wuuuuuuhhhhh”
getting slower and lower and more deformed as they went. Joe complained,
several times. Finally Joe had to beg, “George, please stop and turn off the
tape, this is torture.” “It doesn’t matter Joe,” George said, “no one can see
it.”
I moved to San Francisco in the summer of 1980 with no plan but to
leave Ann Arbor. George came that fall set to become Dean of the College of the
San Francisco Art Institute. He plunged into the job, as was his way with
projects. Then he called me late in the fall, “Al, Al, I have a job for you. We
need a counselor at the Institute.” I
didn’t want it. “I already told them you were perfect for it, you had the right
experience. It pays $16,000 a year” No, I had no college counselor experience,
I could not live on 16 thou, I did not want to do it. The next day, I saw
George. “Al, I got you $18 thousand. I told them 16 no, 18 go.” George, please. Then he told me that I was
needed because the Student Life office was a mess. It was not really
counseling, George said, it was working with student government, arranging student
activities like parties, stuff I would enjoy. The guy who had done it before
was just some ex-student, George said, not a professional. “You know”, he said,
“a goofy kid with a propeller beanie.” And then he mimed with his finger a
goofy kid spinning a propeller on his beanie, and went prrrrr, prrrrrrr,
prrrrrrrrrr. So I had to say yes.
Two years without a dean had left a leadership vacuum and George
was looking forward to filling it. I thought it was the right place for George,
get him out of York University classrooms, get him where he could put those
George ideas to work. Most of the faculty liked him and he liked them. Some
were filmmakers who had shown at the Ann Arbor Film Festival. There were
painters and sculptors who had reputations outside the Art Institute and George
liked that. He had a position created for his office manager as Assistant to
the Dean so she could do the dean tasks that bored him. Melinda from the
Development Office became his co-conspirator and constant companion. He never
missed a student show and liked being the old professor with them also. George
was having a lot of fun. The college of the San Francisco Art Institute looked
like the perfect place for George. Of course this could only lead to friction.
There were two galleries at the Institute. One was the Diego
Rivera Gallery, which was the smaller one, had a Rivera mural on one wall, and
was for student shows. The larger one was the McBean Gallery and it presented
shows by artists who often had no connection with the Art Institute but had
some recognition outside it. The gallery director apparently intended to make
the Art Institute a player in the larger art world. She had been instrumental
in hiring George, having gone to New Hampshire to interview him. My feeling was
that she saw him as a mere classroom art teacher with no administrative
experience who had once started a film festival. Plus he was said to drink a
lot. This man would not threaten her position of influence. She did not get to
know George very well in that interview.
An early sign that things were
not going to be smooth was when she requested to George that students not come
to openings in her gallery. Too
scruffy looking, trailing dust and paint from the studios, and besides they ate
all the wine and cheese. George objected. George arranged for an exchange art
show with Mills College, the Mills students to show at the Art Institute and
SFAI students to show at Mills. The gallery director objected. George had
planned an art show that she was not involved with. At the end of the year, she arranged for
Laurie Anderson, who had no connection to the Art Institute, to be recipient of
an honorary doctorate. George saw this as impinging on his role as dean. Battle
lines were drawn and George intended to have the last word, as was his way.
George had some clear arguments on his side. One was that since
students’ tuition furnished a major part of SFAI’s income, it was only right
that the focus of the place should be on the education program they paid for.
If the McBean Gallery used budget funds to cover costs of their openings,
George saw it as fooling around with student money for non-college projects.
“They’re playing house with the school,” was how he said it. George didn't neglect
performing his dean role, but he couldn't keep away from registering his
objections when he saw what he took as harm to the college “They break our
hearts, we break their backs”, he said.
Stress piled up. George got overly combative. And he had
stress in his personal life. "Too many girlfriends," I told him. And
he did drink too much. An issue arose, I don't remember what, but which George wanted
resolved. He insisted that this issue be presented to the faculty for a vote.
The faculty meeting was arranged. Before the vote, George announced that if he
lost the vote he would quit as dean. He lost. He quit and returned to York. "San
Francisco is not my town", he said.
From then on I only saw George when he visited. He came
once to go to the opening of a show Makepeace Tsao had set up in a small
gallery outside of Sacramento. I picked him up at the airport and drove him
there. He had consumed most of a pint of
Absolut vodka on the plane and finished it in the car. When we got to the
gallery he got out of the car and immediately fell in the parking lot. I helped
him up, he entered the gallery, and was charming and personable to everyone
with no sign of Absolut vodka. He told me once that he had never had a hangover
and that could lead anyone to drink more than good for them. George came to San
Francisco from time to time over the years to visit friends and family. The
last time I saw him I met him at Joe and Betty's and he and I went to the
Universal Café to have a talk, like in the old days. His ankles were so bad he
could hardly walk the couple of blocks. I know he was in pain. After that we
had phone conversations, just from time to time over the years.
George is still a presence. Even now, as I write this, I
catch myself thinking 'I have to show this to George'. I think of him every
time I sign my name. Once he saw me signing something and said "No, Al.
Don't make it so round and short. You need verticals. Make the letters more
vertical." Because of George I met so many people I was fond of or
interested in or impressed by or loved. I think of Eugenio Tellez, David and
Jacquie, and Pat, of course, and Doug and Buster and Alvin Lucier and Steve
Paxton, and Melinda and so many from the Art Institute. I may know Ingrid and
Aune because I know Betty, but George still was the father no matter how
distant. At the Institute I used to refer to George as "the father of my
daughters".
The final time I spoke to George was a couple of months
before he died. I had been warned that he might not have a grasp of things, but
I didn't find that. He did speak of visiting us in California which seemed
unlikely, but otherwise quite straight. His voice was very hoarse, however, and
he spoke slowly, and there were long pauses. I said I heard that his daughters
had visited. "Oh yes, they were great, just great." Very hoarse.
Pause. I mentioned the Art Institute. A
laugh, then he croaked, "We sure turned that place upside down."
Another pause. Then he said "I'm going to die, Al." I was shocked to
hear him say it. I responded after a moment with something so stupid and
meaningless that I can't repeat it. Another long pause. A few brief comments
pretty much on nothing. Then he said, "I have to say good-bye, I am too
tired to talk anymore." We said good-bye and hung up. At a loss for words.
Allan Schreiber
October 2014