Demian's Family Album

Teachers
by Demian

After parents and peers, those we call teacher have the most influence in our lives. Here are some of those I count among the most important people I had the good fortune to meet. Here is my appreciation for their talent, passion and devotion.

Ruth Weidenheimer was the art teacher for the junior high crowd in Newton, Massachusetts. She was direct, down-to-earth, and totally supportive of those who had artistic talent. She ran the only class in which I felt comfortable and at home.
Her support was deep and passionate. You could tell because of the care and attention she paid to those involved in artistic endeavors.
She once came to my home to tell my parents that I was doing well in my artistic pursuits. She emphatically made it clear that they should support me by not telling me what to do, and to leave me alone.
It was extremely unusual for a teacher to visit parents. And it was a vital house call for me because I was being crushed by my parents’ wishes. I thank her, to this day, for her intervention and selfless support.

Robert DeJulio was another junior high teacher of passion. The class was oddly called “English, Social Studies and Guidance.” These were not the three things I remember the most.
The first was his investigation of the poem “If” by Rudyard Kipling, because it explored the nature of what it took to be a man, a human being. These days, all I can remember of the poem is “If you can keep your head when all about you others are loosing theirs, then you’re a better man than I, Gunga Din.” Which of course is a slightly faulty recollection.
The second thing I remember about him was his bring to class a recording of the musical “My Fair Lady.” I doubt that this was part of the curricula, however, he recognized the power of this cultural phenomena, and wanted to share it. His enthusiasm was infectious.
The third memory I have of him was his humor. We had a class smarty-pants, let’s call him Gary. In every test and every pop quiz, Gary always got an “A++.” ALWAYS. This was irritating, because Gary was snobbish about it, and also because it prompted envy.
One day, freshly graded tests were returned. I looked at my grade, marked in red at the top of the page. Lets just say that, in spite of hard work, the grade was, um, modest. I then looked over to Gary, assuming he would be smiling his usual self-confident smile — with a touch of a sneer — aimed at the rest of us.
Instead, Gary had broken out in a cold sweet. His face then turned red, which was followed by a look of total confused. He raised his hand and slowly approached Mr. D’s desk.
Gary stammered, “How could this be?” There was a large red “F,” written as a big block letter.
Mr. D solemnly looked at the test paper, and then sweetly said, “Oh, I guess I left off one mark from the letter grade.” He then drew a line on the right-hand side of the “F,” which turn it into an “A.”
I beamed Gary a self-confident smile, with just a touch of a sneer.

William B. Spink was the director for the high school play I was in, “You Can’t Take It with You.”

William Spink
William B. Spink
During rehearsal 1961

Casting high school kids as parents was a stretch, in those days of 1961. However, Mary Corey played my wife, “Penny Sycamore” very believably. And the young man William Krinsky, who played the grandpa, “Martin Vanderhof,” was a phenomenon.
During one performance, the romantic lead — standing down stage next to the footlights — was sweating so much, one half of his mustache fell off. I was sitting on the floor next to him and laughed along with the audience. After the laughter died down, he decided to remove the other half of the mustache, and the audience roared again. I did too.
Later, the Mr. Spink severely rebuked me for breaking character. I should not have laughed with the audience. I could have laughed within the bounds of my character, however that was not what I had done.
Mr. Spink not only directed the play, he freely taught everyone the techniques and craft of the theater. I have never met a director or theater teacher since who was as skilled, or as knowledgeable as he was.
Because of his generous instruction, I found myself well prepared for performing in plays, films, and speaking engagements of all kinds.

Yvonne Rainer offered workshops in 1969 that were part dance, part “performance art” rehearsal and part mental exercise puzzles based in metaphorical concepts. My friend Fred Lehrman had been attending her workshops, and suggested I check them out.

Yvonne Rainer at the Billie Rose Theater
My friend Fred Lehrman in back.
He was a classical guitarist and introduced me to
Chang Man Ch’ing’s classes, my first taste of T’ai Chi.

Her general motif was “the mind is a muscle” and she created show pieces that grew from the workshop improvisations. For instance, during one session, she asked us to work on the concept of visible and invisible.

Yvonne Rainer and company backstage at the
Billie Rose Theater, February 6, 1969

My debt to her comes from when she asked me to stand straight. At that time, I had a constant book-reading sort of slouch. She pushed my back, and poked me here and there. She then asked, “How does that feel.”
“It hurts,” I responded.
“Now you are standing straight.”
It did hurt to stand straight. I had grown comfortable with bad posture. By this adjustment, and the workshops, she gave me a “body awareness” I had not realized before. It eventually changed my posture and the way I felt about my self.

T.T. Liang looked silly. I was first introduced to Master T.T. Liang at a 1970 Boston class made up of middle-aged and elder woman, not the usual group of boys pursuing the martial arts. Here was this little man in a sweater five sizes too big. When he extended his arms, the sleeves covered his fingers, for a very humorous effect.

T.T. Liang, 1971

I had first been exposed to T’ai Chi from Chiang Man-ch’ing in 1969. Both he and Liang gave the eerie impression that all the perspective lines in the room converged on them.
At one point, I persuaded Liang to come to Amherst, Massachusetts where I was finishing my doctorate, and teach classes of students that I rounded up for him. He did that until getting tired of the commute.
In 1971, I made a 28-minute 16mm film of Liang demonstrating the solo exercise, an exercise with a partner (Alice Crooks), and the sword dance. It also had a short interview of him.
Tips from T.T. Liang:

He connected the T’ai Chi movements to dance — segmenting each movement to a beat — because, in his youth, he was a nightclub dancer in Shanghai.
He stated that the football players that came to him to learn T’ai Chi would never understand it. They were too hard and aggressive.
His constant watchword was “Learn to loose.”
My time with him allowed me to learn the solo dance and further understand my body in space.
I learned that he died on August 19, 2002. I guess the hype around T’ai Chi is true, that it does promote health and longevity. He was 102.

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