Coming of age when I did, and having had the art of that age be like the water in which I, the fish, swam, I felt like I had to say something meaningful about the death of the fabulously influential Robert Rauschenberg, who died last week.
So here’s the story.
When I was growing up, there was a doctor who lived up the street who had a Rauschenberg painting. The story is that the doctor cared for Rauschenberg when he was a young man, and Rauschenberg gave him the painting.
The doctor’s wife always hated the painting. When the two divorced, the wife got the painting and sold it for a lot of money.
I don’t know if this is true, but that’s the story I heard.