The Story of Two Tribeca Artists, and Their Unlikely Lasting Bond

Stanley Kaplan and Damjanski on their way back to Tribeca from the hospital. After Kaplan fell in his apartment, the younger artist had taken him to the hospital, where he stayed with him through the night. Photo courtesy of Damjanski

This is the story of an unlikely friendship between the late abstract painter and poet Stanley Kaplan, a Tribeca artist pioneer who lived at 18 North Moore Street from 1969 until 2018, and Damjanski, a young digital artist who became his neighbor in 2013. It was a bond that led Damjanski (who goes by one name) to become the conservator of Kaplan’s work after his death from Covid-19 in 2020 at age 84. An exhibition of Kaplan’s work, “The Idealism of Geometry, the Reality of Chaos,” organized by Damjanski to honor the legacy of his friend's work, is now on view through March 29 at Picture Theory gallery, 548 West 28 St. #238.

By DAMJANSKI

“Do you work in finance?” were the first words I ever heard my future dear friend say to me. It was November 2013, and I was moving out of a shared apartment on West Broadway, a block away, into 18 North Moore Street, above Walker’s. Everything I owned fit into a single box, which I was carrying when I encountered this charming older man in the hallway. I shook my head in response to his question, and his face broke into a small, cheeky smile. His next words were, “Welcome to the neighborhood.”

A few days later, I found a handwritten note and an article left at my door, signed “Stan from 5F.” The torn-out article from The New York Times covered a topic on the Affordable Care Act. I read it, wrote a response, and slipped my letter under his door.

For the next two years, this became our way of communicating. I woke up to articles, poems, and books, and he woke up to my replies—written in my still-improving English. The last note I sent him was an invitation to dinner from me and my partner at the time. He accepted via another note, and that’s how our friendship truly began.

At dinner, he was delighted and surprised to learn that I was an artist, too. He had assumed that no creatives were moving to the area anymore—only people in corporate professions, as he put it. I learned that he was a painter and his wife, who had passed away a few years before, was too. 

Over the years, our friendship deepened, over dinners and long walks through the neighborhood. Listening to his stories about New York’s downtown art scene—stories I had only read about in books or seen in films—was fascinating. Seeing the city through his eyes, enriched by his anecdotes, transformed my own perception of it.

Stanley had been part of the Art Workers’ Coalition, an organization advocating for economic and political reform in New York’s museum system, as well as a founding member of 55 Mercer, an artist-run space that emerged from AWC discussions in 1969. One of my favorite stories was how he and his fellow artists rejected the term artist at the time, thinking it sounded too elitist. Instead, they called themselves “art workers” and wore blue overalls.

As our bond grew, he became not just a close friend but a mentor. He introduced me to John Dewey’s writings—something I would have never read otherwise. But beyond books, the most important thing he gave me was encouragement. No matter what idea I had, he pushed me to see it through. I create what I call Internet Sculptures and although our artistic practices couldn’t have been more different, on a philosophical level, we could talk for hours about ideas. And though he wasn’t particularly fond of conceptual art, he’d say, “But I like yours,” in his own way of assuring me that I shouldn’t doubt myself.

One topic that frequently came up in our conversations was what would happen to his and his wife’s paintings after he passed. He stored them in a room in the back of his apartment, but the uncertainty of their future weighed on him. Without children or close relatives to look after his work, he was worried. A quick online search for his name brought up very little—just a handful of mentions, including an article about 55 Mercer in the Smithsonian magazine, a reference to the prestigious Pollock-Krasner Grant he received in 2001, and a few of his published poems.

In 2016, I was out at a bar with friends when I received a call from Stanley. He had fallen in his apartment. I rushed over, helped him up, and we spent the night in the emergency room. Thankfully, nothing was broken, and after a series of tests, we were able to return home in the morning. But the aftermath of the fall significantly impacted his life. Living on the fifth floor of a walk-up had already been challenging, but after the accident, even short walks became nearly impossible. By the end of 2018, he made the difficult decision to move into a retirement home.

I never visited him there—not because I didn’t want to, but because he didn’t want me to. We spoke frequently on the phone, and though he appreciated having a comfortable room and the ability to take walks, he often lamented that no one there was truly interested in art. He felt out of place among the other residents, surrounded only by old people he couldn’t relate to, which likely made him feel old himself. At 83, his mind was sharp, eager, and endlessly curious. He spent much of his time writing poems and sketching, and he remained deeply engaged in politics, never shy about voicing his concerns.

On April 17, 2020, I received the heartbreaking news that Stanley had passed away. It felt surreal. I mourned the loss of a dear friend but was profoundly grateful to have known him. 

I’ve taken on the responsibility of preserving his work, and the work of his late artist wife Blossom Esainko, which spans three to four decades of paintings and drawings. It includes a couple of hundred works, along with archives of personal documents such as poems, journals, photographs, books, and more. After his passing, I moved everything to a storage facility.

In 2023, I met Rebekah Kim, the owner of Picture Theory gallery, at a friend’s exhibition at her space. A few weeks later, we ran into each other at a restaurant and started talking about Stanley. From the very beginning, she was intrigued.

Not long after, we visited the works together. And now, this conversation has led to something truly wonderful—a solo exhibition of Stanley’s work at her gallery. And I’m deeply grateful for Rebekah’s support and vision in making this happen.

I can’t express how much joy this brings me. I hope he’d be happy about it, too. I picture Stanley now, that signature cheeky smile on his face. 

Damjanski [1] is a digital artist who exhibits and lectures internationally. He describes himself as “an artist living in a browser,” exploring “the concept of apps as artwork.”