In Which Paul Bellardo Does Julia Child

Paul Bellardo is eighty something which is certainly, absolutely, the new forty, at least in Paul's case.

Paul comes to work nearly every day at about nine in the morning and stays until one.  Since I've been hanging around the studio, he's been sculpting big pieces that start with big cylinders that are thrown by his assistant (and one heck of a fine potter, too), Gene.

Gene has arms as big as my thighs.  I have biker's legs (but no ass: hence occasional use of suspenders, a family trait) which is to say that Gene has big, strong arms, which are needed for throwing 25 or 30 pounds of clay into big cylinders that rest on top of one another to create a structure for Paul to sculpt upon.

But I digress.  (Gene's arms are a little distracting, sometimes).

Handsome Bellardo teaching in New Orleans Army Airbase, 1945.
Photo used without permission from Paul's website.

Paul used to run a studio and a shop in the West Village in New York.  He taught GIs about pottery during the Second World War, when he served as a teacher, and, it seems, when he cut quite a fine figure in an army uniform.  He still cuts a fine figure, in fact.   Paul is one hell of an artist, throws a mean-ass pot, and completely loves what he does.

Paul, I discovered, also does shtick.

The other day, Paul was glazing pots.  He was at the glaze-table, stirring up some glaze that he'd soon apply to one of his sculpted  heads, the sculptures, the pieces he's been making for some time, like the ones in the gallery window from the big show a few weeks ago.

January 18, Palm Springs Galleria.  

I watched Paul work at the glaze table for a while, and while appreciating his focus, I gave him this opening:

"You remind me of Julia Child," I said.

Paul's eyes were all sparkling (which is the way Bellardo eyes always look, anyhow).

"Yes.  I'm Julia!" he sang out, in a crackling-good imitation of the Bostonian matron.

"I am going to cut off the head of this chicken, here; and then I'm going to stuff sausage up its woo-hoo-hoo!"

And Gene wonder's why I do little dance steps, from time to time, when moving about the studio.  Its the Bellardo-aura.