After years of contemplation, I find myself looking back at the world of art—a world I knew intimately, a world in which I still exist, a world that was a study of the human condition, a laboratory in which art reveals the best and worst in us. In the end, we have to calculate the consequences of our actions, in this life or in the afterlife.
A dear friend recently passed away. Like many artists, Hilda Linn Helfenstein was the soul among us who felt most, who was most sensitive, who took so much interest in the world she nevertheless chose and flourished in. I often wonder where we would be without people like her, those rare, sensitive souls who remind us that under pressure to temper our emotions and cultivate indifference, we still have something worth protecting. Art does that. She does it in a million ways. True art not only allows us to remember; It encourages us to transcend the regional and materialistic concerns that this world relentlessly promotes.
Most of the world knew Hilde as “Jerry Gogosian,” the art world satirist. But within her musings, and often funny letters, there was a profound message. She was one of the few women who stormed into the mirror and held it up, even when the reflection was uncomfortable. She followed her bliss, as Joseph Campbell so eloquently urged us to do. What I admired most was her courage, the exact kind of courage it takes to be truly honest. Originality is rare not only in the art world but in the wider world, and this should surprise no one: both contain powerful social and structural mechanisms designed to enforce conformity.
I was proud of her, and I told her so. She created work that had emotion and beauty, and embodied everything I loved about her. In April, we discussed doing a show together. She wanted to find better control over her voice, to interpret and reinterpret her vision on canvas. Those conversations are something I will carry with me.
Those who know me know my habit of writing very long texts. “George texted me a 14-incher last night,” one friend said to another, and I quickly corrected her, to be sure, that it was actually a 15-incher. Hilda loved those letters. We laughed at how weird we both were: me to write it, her to read every word. I hope they make some days a little more bearable. When I reread our conversations now, I’m grateful that I never backed down. Rumi wrote that most love is lost in what is said but not meant, and in what is meant but never said. Between Hilde and me, no love was ever lost.
I entered the art world with a specific vision: a gallery that was artist-centered, had a soul, and would serve as an anchor in a turbulent sea—a place where people with a little courage could find something they would truly miss if it disappeared. Art for life’s journey. Because what I discovered, and what everyone in the art world ultimately witnesses, is that the greatest art is always made by those most sensitive to the weight of everyday existence.
In a world that rewards the worst of us, it’s often the healthiest among us — those who truly see the beauty and purpose of life — who have the hardest times. In fact, they are the wise ones. They are there to remind us that the life we are forced to live in order to succeed is not necessarily the life we should live.
Hilda felt so much. She was unable to put her humanity aside, even when it would have benefited her. We live in a world made crueler by the people it raises to do just that.
I find myself returning to an age-old question: Is it better to lose ourselves and gain the world, or to hold on to the best in us even when the world becomes cruel and indifferent in return…trusting, perhaps, in the promises that many religions make about what awaits us next?
Like many artists, Hilda struggled with drug abuse, as do many artists in the art world. Yet she never let it crucify her. I felt it all. Her art requires thought, soul, honesty and heart, and she always gave it all.
The life Hilda lived required courage, I always told her that. Nothing truly worth having – love, trust, compassion, empathy – can be fully experienced without it. In one of our last conversations, I told her not to get nervous or disappointed, and not to feel alone or weak. I told her that there would come a time when she would reach a clearing, a place where trees don’t congregate, where love, self-acceptance, true friendship, and compassion exist unconditionally. I promised her that when she found him, she would run to him. That I will meet her there.
I know she’s there now. It’s true that she beat me to it. How nice to think that when I finally arrive, you’ll already be waiting for me.
