Having taken stock of over four decades of professional artistic activity, my good friend David Schoffman is feeling the melancholy tremors of mortality.
No longer considered, in the words of critic Spark Boon, the "best of the bohemian bêtes-noires," he has settled, of late, in his vacation home on Fire Island, reading true-crime novels and making small, naked self-portraits.
It's a sad decline but wholly appropriate. David never really had what it took to truly stir the public's imagination. His work was too serious, too hermetic, too intellectual, too metaphysical, too simple, too complex, and too early.
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