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A TRIBUTE TO BARBARA ROSE
I always kind of suspected that I wasnt the baby they really wanted. Somehow I was the wrong one. And then when I was about 18 or 19 my mother told me that indeed they had switched babies in the hospital and I wasnt really her child, which unfortunately wasnt true. This was a fantasy that she was harboring.
He was a real New York street guy who often disappeared from the downtown art world to live the straight conventional life of teaching high school kids. When the semester would be over Marty would reappear like a perennial flower and rejoin his art friends. Marty, a moving target of energy, fast-talking, mumbo jumbo, words spilling out and landing in your face, aggressive and confrontational he was always challenging you to think fast and to respond to his sometimes outrageous remarks.
To be one of Barbaras people meant you could write an email asking about an exhibition or an artist and receive a response (likely within hours and likely also incredibly funny) that wove together anything from Velázquez to WWII to Tel Quel to a contemporary photography show. The people, places, and art that Barbara could bring into a cohesive understanding of art history, politics and life itself was truly astounding.