Vince Butler just passed at 83. In the photo, he looks as he did when he taught
me high school art, typically busy with something else, probably
hanging art.
That’s Vince, ready in a
twinkling to volley a withering retort to a wisecracking student or
light up with a thousand-watt smile for another who’d made an astute
observation. You tucked away any nod of
approval he granted as a stone honor.
Vince had a lavish love for art and music and the serene dignity
of a warrior. His class was refuge from high
school’s posturings. In Vince’s
class, real equality ruled. His mantle of
authenticity was unquestioned. The only topics or concerns unheard in
Vince’s class were those tainted with ugliness or phoniness.
An A for artwork was meaningless if you were
on the wrong side of Vince’s shit detector. But if you earned a place in
his realm, he invited you to dispense with “Mr Butler.” I piddled
myself being bestowed with that honor as a sophomore.
15 years ago, I chanced on a NY Daily News article about Pavarotti’s
final Met performance, which held two paragraphs about a
certain retired NJ art teacher in the audience, showering his
personally crafted confetti upon the stage.
When I called Vince,
he readily accepted my invitation
to sister Kate’s exhibition at a NJ estate. She was also his
student; a favorite. The drive out was innocuous chat, processing elapsed years and advanced age. He walked the show
slowly, studying each piece with appreciative remarks about conveyed feeling
and individual character.
Strolling the estate’s grounds
afterward, his face broadened into a smile, taking in a perfect summer
day. Burdens and years fell away; he might’ve said something, I can’t
recall. I recall the ease of smiling back.
