Art is magic: a post in honor of Bertram Moskowitz

My father was an artist. He had a den where he did his work, which was always filled with sawdust and curls of wood, tubes of paint and canvases and all kinds of other messy stuff that naturally I found fascinating as a kid. He found lots of things fascinating, and therein lies why we got along so well. We were like two peas in a pod…a sort of dorky, artsy pod.

One day he took me (not on his own or my volition, I’m quite certain) to soccer tryouts. We showed up and watched a few of my sporty frie