Visits with Theo Hios, A Reflection

 It is my conviction that the conflicts of science and metaphysics can best be resolved through art. Art is not the domain of the elite, although some try to make it so. It is in reality the life’s breath of mankind. It is mankind's building of a culture.

                                        George Constant

In my life I have had the good fortune and privilege of having known a handful or so of authentic human beings. What do I mean by “authentic human being?” It is more than a good person, of which there are many, but rather someone who has found themselves in a profound way, whose life is a reflection of, even synonymous with, who they are. I mean a person who has no need for arrogance or egotism or dissimulation, who is utterly present and in whose presence one feels warmth and solidity and calm. I mean a person whose mouth is not gushing an endless train of sentences but rather someone who listens and sees, someone whose company you seek out. One such authentic person was, as might be expected, a spiritual teacher. One was, as maybe not expected, an auto-mechanic. One was a world-renowned pacifist, one an academic and one an artist.

Theo Hios was the artist. I suppose I could say I have known Theo almost since my arrival in this world as he was my godfather. Theo was a New York City artist of some note, most of his career spent in the city, save for summers spent at his “beach” studio in Hampton Bays, Long Island, not to mention a significant stint as a marine in the Pacific Theater during World War II, even then sketching, photographing and teaching art to his fellow soldiers. This reflection, however, is not intended as an accounting of Theo's quite fascinating life, but rather just about the visits with Theo Hios.

During my college years in Manhattan it was easy to visit Theo and his wife Catherine, Cathy to us, but latter years spent in the Midwest and West made the visit to the Hios brownstone on the upper West Side of Manhattan more of an annual pilgrimage, which continued for a period of thirty years.

Climbing the stairs to their second story apartment was like entering a museum, every wall and shelf festooned with tastefully arranged artworks, mainly by Theo himself, but also sculptures and paintings by Cathy's world-famous brother Michael Lekakis as well as her equally noted artist brother-in-law George Constant. Also, about were works by Cathy Hios herself, an accomplished ceramicist whose workshop was housed in the 1900 brownstone's basement. Bookshelves were filled with not only the classics of Western Civilization but also a remarkable collection of large format art volumes featuring artists of all styles and periods. Here was a place where art thrived, catching your every glance, providing beauty and calm, seemingly on another planet from the noise and bustle of Amsterdam Avenue. It was as if Western art and culture were distilled into an essential oil and left infusing the very air 24 hours every day.

Accompanying our own family, kids always included, would often be my mother who in an earlier period of her life danced with Cathy in the Maria Theresa and Heliconiades Group, Maria Theresa being one of the Isadorables, the proteges of perhaps the most important pioneer of modern dance, Isadora Duncan. The requisite coffee made, we would sit down for a fare of nuts, olives, cheeses and fresh bakery bread. The emphasis was on conversation, not cooking. My earliest journal note about a conversation with Theo has him telling me, “We are all in the arts for the ego trip.” Despite this view we almost never heard about Theo's shows, openings, awards...no me, me, me. Instead, Cathy and Theo were inquirers, ever asking questions about our children, our everyday lives, our camping trips. I also noted on more than one visit that my mother and Cathy's reminiscing would dominate the conversation. They loved this yearly time together, so precious was it, and not easily accomplished without our help. Theo would rarely interject but just sit quietly with a hint of a grin on his face. To all appearances he was an essentially happy man despite having experienced some of the very worst atrocities of World War II.

Theo had found his calling, but then his calling kept calling as he explored new media and styles of art. He approached each new period of his artwork with the enthusiasm of a teenager in love and the innocence of a child. Every new place or travel served as a spring for a new flow of creativity. As I said at the beginning of this reflection, he was a person whose life's work was synonymous with whom they were. I could not imagine Theo without his studio, and, indeed, he died within two years of selling the brownstone and moving to a nearby apartment, one without any studio space. As he struggled with an illness, Cathy told me that he had lost the will to live, that without his art nothing seemed to have too much meaning to him.

And then there was the studio. As the hours of our visit accumulated the moment came when Theo invited us to follow him up one more flight to his studio, encompassing the entire third floor of the brownstone. The space had perfect north-facing windows, unshadowed by taller buildings. It was filled with easels, work tables and works in progress. Toward the rear were huge racks of canvases and chests with wide drawers for works on paper. A moment came, one we were familiar with, when Theo began rummaging through the drawers removing one piece then another, sometimes two or three, sometimes five or six: oil paintings, drawings, acrylics, watercolors, silkscreens. These were generous gifts to us as well as designated to other family members. He would roll them carefully in neutral PH slip sheets and then seal them with the tiniest possible pieces of masking tape, as he was a man to waste neither words nor tape.

Hios at The University of Arizona Museum of Art 2024

I will end on a more personal note because Theo never failed during the course of our visits to ask me about my own work. In the early days that might refer to my self-image as a fledgling writer, but for most years it referred to my furniture making. I can say of these chats that there is nothing more likely to put artistic tension into the soul of a would-be artist than the interest of a genuine artist. Maybe there was a way to be an artistic furniture-maker? Theo had some well-meaning suggestions such as painting Western motifs on my pieces using a set of exactly eight standard acrylic colors in order to develop a “signature,” with motifs by which I would be recognized. Alas, I never took up that idea as I could only picture the familiar painted chairs and tables of Mexican restaurants. Another time he recommended that I must put something of myself into each piece, something to represent my curiosity about the world and wood, finishing this discussion by suggesting a study of Antoni Guadí, sculptor, architect and furniture designer. He certainly was trying to be helpful, but in the end the design and cost constraints of commissions generally superseded creativity, not that furniture making itself is particularly well suited as a fine art.

Even if Theo did not succeed in making a fine artist out of me, the visits with Theo and Catherine were genuine refreshment to spirit and soul. I would always leave feeling very good, but there was more. Theo showed me that a life can be spent in no better way than pursuing one's passion, one's calling. He was living proof. But barring any sense of a deep calling, as was my own case, the next best life is spent doing what one enjoys and living a lifestyle of one's choosing, even at the cost of monetary gain. Theo built his own spaces, he created his own art, and he lived a life he loved. In quite a few ways I can say his footsteps were ones I chose to follow. I still to this day remain thankful for our friendship.

After-note:

In 1979 Theo's work took a dramatic change with the inclusion of images and motifs from travels among some of the greatest of the Western National Parks. I had the privilege of hosting the Hios's in Flagstaff and taking them to the Grand Canyon where we witnessed an unusual layer of stratus completely filling the canyon from rim to rim, the landscape within completely hidden under a white carpet, but then slowly reappearing temple by temple. In my several hundred days hiking and rafting the Grand Canyon I never witnessed this again. Theo would be quite pleased to know that today, here in the West, several of his works are in the permanent collection of The University of Arizona Museum of Art.

Half Dome, Yosemite