The New York Times
February 8, 1995, p. A14.
In Los Angeles Gallery, Tears for Grumpy Guru
[Photo] Curley Morrow was so popular at the Zero One
Gallery, where he was a janitor, that artists held a
retrospective last October featuring works inspired by him.
The show's opening drew a crowd.
By Kit R. Roane
Los Angeles, Feb. 7 -- It was the sort of wake Curley
Morrow would have loved. His friends were there, Hank
Williams was wailing and there was plenty of beer and
cigarettes to go around.
Mr. Morrow, who died of bone cancer last month at the age
of 70, was by all accounts an ill-tempered janitor who did
little work in the Zero One Gallery, one of the most
prominent showcases in Los Angeles for new artists. But for
the vast majority of the 50 or so mourners who turned out
to see him off, Mr. Morrow was much more, counted as a
friend, confidant and critic by a whole beleaguered
generation of hipsters and hopeful artists in a city not
known for brotherly love.
"He was a de facto guru, a reprobate sage from the lower
phylum of society," explained Robert Williams a prominent
neo-Surrealist. "He didn't charm people like a Svengali,
but he brought out a warm spot in them. He was more Forrest
Gump than even Forrest Gump, and because of that mere fact
he became a mainstay in the underground art world."
His fans, a parade of artists, fashion designers and
benefactors, gathered early Saturday night at the trendy
Melrose Avenue gallery to file past a cardboard box on a
white column and pay their last respects to the man who had
touched so many but had said so little. It did not matter
that Mr. Morrow, who had watched some of art's most
notorious cutting-edge talents -- Karen Finley, Christof
Kohlhofer, Mike Kelley, Ray Pettibon and others -- ply
their trade, had never picked up a paintbrush himself.
"He was kind of like an icon," said Mike Rosenfeld, a
psychedelic artist who participated in a Curley
retrospective several months before Mr. Morrow's death. "He
was just so incongruous to what you would expect at an art
gallery. But you could show him a painting and trust his
judgment. He wasn't blinded by all that rhetoric that goes
along with art. He could see the work."
Some recalled the time Mr. Morrow turned down an offer by
David Lee Roth, the rock star, to buy him dentures, or how
the artist Aileen Getty used to bring him hand cream.
Others talked of his love of the Old West and his dogeared
collection of Western novels -- titles like "Pistol Pete"
and "Hanging Judge" peeking out of neat rows in his tiny
room at the back of the gallery.
"He created his heaven from Louis L'Amour books and Hank
Williams tapes," said Tommy T., who once worked in the
gallery and who wrote a short eulogy in honor of Mr.
Morrow: "He lived his life simple honest and brave. Lord,
we give you Curley; try not to irritate him."
A few people, like Pat Garvin, a onetime bar owner who had
known Mr. Morrow for more than two decades, lamented that
all of him could now fit in a box about the size and weight
of a large flashlight battery.
"He was a grump and meaner than hell, but he loved all
these weirdos," she said, showing pictures of Mr. Morrow.
Noticing a few of his acquaintances picking him up off the
pedestal, she added: "Maybe we should put him away for a
while. He needs to rest. We can bring him back out later."
People also recounted Mr. Morrow's better tales, culled
from a lifetime of drifting and odd jobs that finally ended
in his 10-year stint as watchman and janitor at the Zero
One Gallery, a job that paid $10 to $30 and several beers
a day.
Born Arba Junior Morrow in Lancaster, Ohio, he left school
at age 5 to become a paperboy, then went on to move
furniture, fight in World War II and operate a pool hall
and a newsstand, among other things, friends said. In their
accounts, he proposed marriage unsuccessfully to three
women, once killed a ferocious grizzly bear in the
mountains, sold Howard Hughes his newspaper every morning
and had a brief stint as a model for postcards.
They also spoke of Mr. Morrow's being interviewed on the
tabloid television program "A Current Affair" after he
claimed to have seen the ghost of Rita Hayworth during an
exhibition at the gallery that included some of her
clothing.
Many of the works first presented in the Curley
retrospective were displayed again during Mr. Morrow's
wake. There were "Curley Series No. 1" trading cards. There
were renditions of Curley sleeping and, most often, of
Curley smoking and drinking. By the door to his room was
perhaps the finest tribute, a jar of "Curley Preserves"
prepared by lowbrow artist Anthony Ausgang, filled with
stale beer, old cigarettes and a set of dentures held
together with tape.
Nearby, a crowd gathered around a television showing a
videotape of interviews with the tight-lipped icon. Other
mourners passed out commemorative cards with his likeness
on one side and biographical basics on the other. More beer
kept arriving, some donated by the liquor store on the
corner where Mr. Morrow had run a large tab, one always
paid by his friends.
"He would have just loved this," said Ms. Garvin, brushing
tears from her eyes. "I mean, he would have been grouchy
about it, but I think he would have been really touched.
The thing that bothers me so much was that we hadn't
finished with him yet."
END
February 8, 1995, p. A14.
In Los Angeles Gallery, Tears for Grumpy Guru
[Photo] Curley Morrow was so popular at the Zero One
Gallery, where he was a janitor, that artists held a
retrospective last October featuring works inspired by him.
The show's opening drew a crowd.
By Kit R. Roane
Los Angeles, Feb. 7 -- It was the sort of wake Curley
Morrow would have loved. His friends were there, Hank
Williams was wailing and there was plenty of beer and
cigarettes to go around.
Mr. Morrow, who died of bone cancer last month at the age
of 70, was by all accounts an ill-tempered janitor who did
little work in the Zero One Gallery, one of the most
prominent showcases in Los Angeles for new artists. But for
the vast majority of the 50 or so mourners who turned out
to see him off, Mr. Morrow was much more, counted as a
friend, confidant and critic by a whole beleaguered
generation of hipsters and hopeful artists in a city not
known for brotherly love.
"He was a de facto guru, a reprobate sage from the lower
phylum of society," explained Robert Williams a prominent
neo-Surrealist. "He didn't charm people like a Svengali,
but he brought out a warm spot in them. He was more Forrest
Gump than even Forrest Gump, and because of that mere fact
he became a mainstay in the underground art world."
His fans, a parade of artists, fashion designers and
benefactors, gathered early Saturday night at the trendy
Melrose Avenue gallery to file past a cardboard box on a
white column and pay their last respects to the man who had
touched so many but had said so little. It did not matter
that Mr. Morrow, who had watched some of art's most
notorious cutting-edge talents -- Karen Finley, Christof
Kohlhofer, Mike Kelley, Ray Pettibon and others -- ply
their trade, had never picked up a paintbrush himself.
"He was kind of like an icon," said Mike Rosenfeld, a
psychedelic artist who participated in a Curley
retrospective several months before Mr. Morrow's death. "He
was just so incongruous to what you would expect at an art
gallery. But you could show him a painting and trust his
judgment. He wasn't blinded by all that rhetoric that goes
along with art. He could see the work."
Some recalled the time Mr. Morrow turned down an offer by
David Lee Roth, the rock star, to buy him dentures, or how
the artist Aileen Getty used to bring him hand cream.
Others talked of his love of the Old West and his dogeared
collection of Western novels -- titles like "Pistol Pete"
and "Hanging Judge" peeking out of neat rows in his tiny
room at the back of the gallery.
"He created his heaven from Louis L'Amour books and Hank
Williams tapes," said Tommy T., who once worked in the
gallery and who wrote a short eulogy in honor of Mr.
Morrow: "He lived his life simple honest and brave. Lord,
we give you Curley; try not to irritate him."
A few people, like Pat Garvin, a onetime bar owner who had
known Mr. Morrow for more than two decades, lamented that
all of him could now fit in a box about the size and weight
of a large flashlight battery.
"He was a grump and meaner than hell, but he loved all
these weirdos," she said, showing pictures of Mr. Morrow.
Noticing a few of his acquaintances picking him up off the
pedestal, she added: "Maybe we should put him away for a
while. He needs to rest. We can bring him back out later."
People also recounted Mr. Morrow's better tales, culled
from a lifetime of drifting and odd jobs that finally ended
in his 10-year stint as watchman and janitor at the Zero
One Gallery, a job that paid $10 to $30 and several beers
a day.
Born Arba Junior Morrow in Lancaster, Ohio, he left school
at age 5 to become a paperboy, then went on to move
furniture, fight in World War II and operate a pool hall
and a newsstand, among other things, friends said. In their
accounts, he proposed marriage unsuccessfully to three
women, once killed a ferocious grizzly bear in the
mountains, sold Howard Hughes his newspaper every morning
and had a brief stint as a model for postcards.
They also spoke of Mr. Morrow's being interviewed on the
tabloid television program "A Current Affair" after he
claimed to have seen the ghost of Rita Hayworth during an
exhibition at the gallery that included some of her
clothing.
Many of the works first presented in the Curley
retrospective were displayed again during Mr. Morrow's
wake. There were "Curley Series No. 1" trading cards. There
were renditions of Curley sleeping and, most often, of
Curley smoking and drinking. By the door to his room was
perhaps the finest tribute, a jar of "Curley Preserves"
prepared by lowbrow artist Anthony Ausgang, filled with
stale beer, old cigarettes and a set of dentures held
together with tape.
Nearby, a crowd gathered around a television showing a
videotape of interviews with the tight-lipped icon. Other
mourners passed out commemorative cards with his likeness
on one side and biographical basics on the other. More beer
kept arriving, some donated by the liquor store on the
corner where Mr. Morrow had run a large tab, one always
paid by his friends.
"He would have just loved this," said Ms. Garvin, brushing
tears from her eyes. "I mean, he would have been grouchy
about it, but I think he would have been really touched.
The thing that bothers me so much was that we hadn't
finished with him yet."
END