Category Archives: Family Stories

After my grandmother’s funeral on Sunday, I stopped back at her apartment for one last look, and I was reminded of the following story:

Twenty years ago, the Museum of Modern Art in New York hosted a retrospective of the modern art icon Henri Matisse.  It was a blockbuster exhibition – completely sold out, with scalpers in front selling tickets for several times face value (“Yo, I got Matisse!  10:30am!  Matisse!  Get your Matisse!  Only 50 dollahs!)  I had heard rumors of fake tickets being sold, so I was wary.  The only other way to get tickets was to buy a membership to MOMA.  Not a problem, except the line to do so was about two hours long.  Outside.  In January.  In Manhattan.

I was bummed.  I do not accept defeat easily.  I lingered inside the entrance to the museum, contemplating my options, when I heard a woman say to her companion, “Well, maybe someone outside wants them.”  I quickly spun around and asked, “Are you trying to get rid of tickets?”  She replied, “We have two tickets we can’t use – if you want them, they’re yours.”  She refused to accept any money for them – she had gotten them for free and didn’t think it was fair to charge for them.  I thanked her profusely, and it was at that moment that I decided to do nice things for total strangers whenever I would have the opportunity (and I do so to this day).

I went outside and found a lovely woman who was also alone and trying to get a ticket.  I gave her my other ticket and we happily entered the museum together.  In a movie, this would have led to a romance, but we soon parted ways amidst the throngs of people.

The exhibition was extraordinary – the most comprehensive collection of Matisse’s work ever assembled.  400 works of art covering 64 years of output, with pieces from museums all over the world, including some that had never been in the U.S. before.  Rarely has an exhibition been assembled that so completely chronicled a master’s work.

As I exited the museum, I ventured into the gift shop and bought Henri Matisse: A Retrospective: a beautiful hardcover book covering the entire exhibition.  The next day, on my way to the airport, I stopped at my grandmother’s apartment and gave it to her as an early 80^th birthday present.  She loved it.

I found that book yesterday, packed away in a box in her living room.  As I flipped through it, I found that three pages had been ripped out… and Scotch taped back in.  I was slightly appalled.  Then I turned around.  Sure enough, the works on those three pages matched three paintings that she had painted in the years after I gave her the book, and they now hung on her walls.  Photos of her versions of those three paintings are below (click to enlarge).  If you look closely, you will see her signature on each one.  Considering that Matisse also created art until his early 80s, I think he would be proud.

I brought the Matisse book home to Los Angeles today, where its bright yellow spine glows amongst my art book collection in my living room.  It’s my own little shrine to the woman who inspired my lifelong love of art.

My grandmother, Gwendolyn Stock, passed away this morning at the age of 99 years and 9 months. She was the last of her generation: she outlived all of her 10 brothers and sisters by many years. She was married to my incredible grandfather Barney for over 60 years before he passed, and now they are finally together again, probably dancing up a storm.

Born in Montreal, Canada, she always considered herself one of the Queen’s subjects. I remember waking up at dawn in the summer of 1981 so we could watch Prince Charles and Lady Diana’s wedding on TV. She also dressed like royalty. She once proudly showed me her new fox coat – “Isn’t it gorgeous?” she asked. I started to give her a cruelty to animals speech, and she quickly overruled me, saying, “Marc, you don’t understand. It’s GORGEOUS.” End of discussion.

Gwen started to paint in her 60s – her home was filled with her copies of Impressionist masterworks. She insisted on attaching a note to the back of each painting saying that it was painted by her, just so no one would try to pass one off as the real thing. When I was about 7, she tried her hand at sculpting and sculpted a bust of me out of clay. When I told her that it didn’t really look like me, she simply replied, “It will.” Sure enough, by the time I turned 13, it did.

Even at age 95, she would walk into a restaurant in Bayonne, New Jersey, where my grandfather had his clothing store that my Uncle Mel still runs, and the restaurant would go silent. I would hear people whisper in awe, “That’s Gwen Stock!” No matter where we went, she would wave her cane as if she owned the place, called everyone “dear” or “darling”, and people did whatever she asked.

Opinionated, elegant, impulsive, funny, and very stubborn, she was a true character. I quote her regularly – one of my favorites is, “Don’t ever eat off plastic plates. It doesn’t taste the same.” I have a lifetime of memories of her, and I am lucky to have had her in my life for as many years as I did.

This is one of the last pictures I have of us together. She was 92 years old, and the driver had gotten lost on the way to my cousin Joanne’s wedding.  When she arrived, she was quite annoyed.  I asked her how she was doing, and she exclaimed, “They should have buried me a year ago!”

Grandma, we miss you, we love you, and we will NEVER forget you.

Today my grandfather would have been 110 years old.  He was truly a prince of guy, and I still miss him.

A few months ago, after a stressful day at work, I decided to catch a play in Downtown LA.  The show had been sold out, but a single seat suddenly appeared, so I bought it and went by myself.

As I took my seat, the woman next to me said that she’s glad someone bought it – her friend that she’s visiting was supposed to come, but got sick.  She was amazed that the box office took the ticket back, since they never do that in New York.  I noted her accent and asked if she lives there now.   She said that she lives in Pennsylvania, but she’s originally from Jersey City, New Jersey.  I said, “My mother’s from Jersey City!  Her name was Marian Stock.  Did you ever go to Barney Stock Shops?”

Silence.

After about 10 seconds, she said, “I worked at Barney Stock Shops when I was 15 years old.  You’re telling me that you’re Barney Stock’s grandson?”  I nodded affirmatively.  She started to tear up and said, “Your grandfather was the loveliest man.”

Needless to say, I was delighted to hear that – not that I’ve ever heard anything to the contrary.

“Dottie” worked at my grandfather’s store from 1961-64 and apparently became something of a hero when my great-uncle Phil had a heart attack while dressing windows, and she had the composure to find his pills and put one under his tongue, possibly saving his life.

She was born to an Italian Catholic family in Jersey City on August 25, 1945 – nine days after my mother.  After her first husband passed away, she married a Jewish gentleman named Harold.  Italian and Jewish – truly my kind of lady.

She couldn’t get over the fact that she was sitting next to Barney Stock’s grandson.  “What are the chances?” she said.  With 4 grandchildren and 300 million people in the US, I said about 1 in 75 million.  Call me literal.

She told me that she went into my grandfather’s store a couple of years ago and re-introduced herself to my Uncle Mel, who has run the business for many years.  He took a picture of her and put it in his annual newspaper ad of longtime customers and employees.

We talked for about half an hour after the show – stories about Jersey City, her 14 grandchildren, how my grandfather taught her everything, how kind my grandmother always was to her, etc.  I gave her a big hug and said that it was great to meet her.

She smiled and said, “It was b’shert.”