The Story of Two Tribeca Artists, and Their Unlikely Lasting Bond

Written by Damjanski


“Do you work in finance?” was the first sentence I ever heard my future dear friend say to me. It was November 2013, and I was moving out of a shared apartment on West Broadway, just one block away, into 18 North Moore Street. Everything I owned fit into a single box, which I carried with me when I encountered this charming older man in the hallway. I shook my head in response to his question, and his face broke into a small, cheeky smile. His next words were, “Welcome to the neighborhood.”

I later learned that Stanley and his wife, both painters, had moved into the building in 1969 and had witnessed the neighborhood transform dramatically over the decades. But it would take me two more years to uncover this part of his story.

A few days after our hallway encounter, I found a handwritten note and an article left at my door, signed “Stan from 5F.” The torn-out article from The New York Times covered a topic on the Affordable Care Act. I read it, wrote a response, and slipped my letter under his door on the fifth floor. For the next two years, this became our way of communicating. I woke up to articles, poems, and books, and he woke up to my replies—written in my still-improving English. The last note I sent him was an invitation to dinner from my partner at the time and me. He accepted via another note, and that’s how our friendship truly began.

At dinner, he was delighted and surprised to learn that I was an artist, too. He had assumed that no creatives were moving to the area anymore—only people in corporate professions, as he put it. I found out that he is a painter and his wife was too. Unfortunately she passed years ago. I always wish I would have met her. He was very charming and encouraging, I remember vividly.

Over the years, our friendship deepened. He often came over for dinner, and we took long walks through the neighborhood. Listening to his stories about New York’s downtown art scene—stories I had only read about in books or seen in films—was fascinating. Seeing the city through his eyes, enriched by his anecdotes, transformed my own perception of it.

Stanley had been part of the Art Workers’ Coalition and was a founding member of 55 Mercer, an artist-run space that emerged from AWC discussions in 1969. One of my favorite stories was how he and his fellow artists rejected the term artist at the time, thinking it sounded too prestigious. Instead, they called themselves “art workers” and wore blue overalls.

As our bond grew, he became not just a close friend but a mentor. He introduced me to John Dewey’s writings—something I would have never read otherwise.. But beyond books, the most important thing he gave me was encouragement. No matter what idea I had, he pushed me to see it through. He wasn’t particularly fond of conceptual art, yet he’d say, “But I like yours,” in his own way of assuring me that I shouldn’t doubt myself.

I create Internet Sculptures, so our artistic practices couldn’t have been more different. But on a philosophical level, we could talk for hours about ideas.One topic that frequently came up in our conversations was what would happen to his and his wife’s paintings after he passed. He stored them in a room in the back of his apartment, but the uncertainty of their future weighed on him. Without children or close relatives to look after his work, he was worried. A quick online search for his name brought up very little—just a handful of mentions, including an article about 55 Mercer on the Smithsonian’s site, a reference to the Pollock-Krasner Grant he received in 2001, and a few of his published poems. 2018, he made the difficult decision to move into a retirement home.

I never visited him there—not because I didn’t want to, but because he didn’t want me to. We spoke frequently on the phone, and though he appreciated having a comfortable room and the ability to take walks, he often lamented that no one there was truly interested in art. He felt out of place among the other residents, surrounded only by old people he couldn’t relate to, which likely made him feel old himself. Even at 83, his mind was sharp, eager, and endlessly curious. He spent much of his time writing poems and sketching, and he remained deeply engaged in politics, never shy about voicing his concerns.

On April 17, 2020, I received the heartbreaking news that Stanley had passed away. It felt surreal. I mourned the loss of a dear friend but was profoundly grateful to have known him. At the time, my artistic circles were quite different, and I didn’t know many gallerists who worked with paintings. But over the years, I got to know more people and I had meaningful discussions about Stanley’s work.

In 2023, I met Rebekah, the owner of Picture Theory gallery, at a friend’s exhibition at her space. A few weeks later, we ran into each other at a restaurant, and while smoking outside, we started talking about Stanley. From the very beginning, she was intrigued. Not long after, we visited the works together. And now, this conversation has led to something truly wonderful—a solo exhibition of Stanley’s work at her gallery.

I can’t express how much joy this brings me. And I’m deeply grateful for Rebekah’s support and vision in making this happen. I picture Stanley now, his signature cheeky smile on his face. I hope he’d be happy about it, too.


The Idealism of Geometry, The Reality of Chaos is the first exhibition since Stanley’s death in 2020. In the exhibition are sixteen paintings that trace the artist’s evolving dialogue between structure and spontaneity. His early explorations of figurative abstraction in the 1960s give way to the precision of hard-edge abstraction in the 1970s and 1980s, reflecting a shift from gestural expression to geometric rigor. Notably, more than half of the works are on loan from private collections. On view at Picture Theory until March 29, 2025.



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