The art and philosophy of the great Polish genius Stanislav Szukalski is slowly becoming known to a wider audience, thanks to the pioneering efforts of Glen Bray and Lena Zwalve, who befriended the hermetic and forgotten artist and have managed to keep his work and legend very much alive. His bronzes and other sculptures are certainly comparable to Rodins, but dynamically different. His draftsmanship and pencil work make your jaw drop. The complex and mythic symbols which are often woven into his art can, at first, confuse the viewer who has no key at their disposal to decipher the message in the work. The artist’s obsessions with the alleged common origin of man, the different “types” and strains of “humans” roaming this planet and other ethnic theories assure us as students of Szukalski that we are dealing with a highly focused, compulsive world-view. Still, his work stands on its own for the sheer power of Szukalski’s emotional anatomy.

The man’s persona is at least as fascinating as his art, fitting, as it does, so perfectly into the “eccentric artist” mode. But Szukalski was serious. He could never be stopped by anything short of death. Everyone who met him, as I did, just once, has a “Szukalski story” to tell so I may as well put mine down here for posterity. I was attending an opening for a show called “Bad Influences” at the Otis Parsons School of Art gallery. It was a group show of, often, brightly painted, cartoony art. Some fun stuff, I thought. Meandering through the artsy crowd I spotted my friends Glenn Bray and Lena Zwalve. Between them, arm in arm with each was a slight, wizened old man with a shock of white hair. I knew who it was. I’d heard about him. Szukalski. My mind raced . . . wow, incredible—a direct link with the Bohemian scene of Chicago in the twenties. He knew Ben Hecht. Sadakichi Hartmann. The publisher Pascal Covici. I was introduced and shook hands with him. His twinkling blue eyes glinted mischievously. He couldn’t pass up another chance to make an impression on a receptive mind. He held firmly onto my hand and began exclaiming, “FARTISTS! FARTISTS!,” gesturing to the work on the walls with a dismissive wave, “They are all FARTists!” He then drew me closer, still clutching my hand, and said, “You must take the ART AND YOU MUST SUCK IT OUT OF YOUR THUMB.” He then made the gesture of sucking his own thumb. He was, I feel, telling me that he felt much of the art was too “easy” and derivative. He felt that truly great ART must come from the blood, from a point of truth and experience. It was a typical Szukalski moment. He was making a scene, but also making a point. He couldn’t help himself. I think of his words often. — CS