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In a recent psychological study of perception, most viewers instructed to view a video and count the number of times a basketball is passed between two teams, failed to notice a large man in a gorilla suit walk across the screen, beat his chest, then walk off screen.

Within the gorilla suit, sculptor, Malcolm Susman.


 

Bow

 


Pas de Deux

  
Born in England, of parents in custodial conflict, Malcolm Susman and his fraternal twin brother Martin became wards of the court and bounced from abusive orphanages to boarding schools for the first nine years of their lives. But from earliest cognizant memory, Malcolm built, crafted, and drew with a manifest destiny. As tumultuous as his life story began, a parallel story emerged, of art making, as benign as his situation was malign, following a determined, thoroughly independent course sustained by its own ethers. 

 

At age 10, reunited with their biological father, the abuse continued, now by family, until following high school, Malcolm and Martin were separated for the first time. Martin left for Israel, while Malcolm went to art school in England. Then Malcolm married and followed Martin to Israel. Art took a back seat, as by necessity, he became a plant production manager in his adopted country, and raised a family. But then the charade which had become his professional life broke down. Malcolm abandoned home and family, migrating to the City of Angels, where he vowed to make sculpture for the rest of his life; another statistic on the list of California dreamers.
 


Not 2  Not 1


 


Our Separate Ways

  
In 1986, a friend introduced me to Malcolm, and we rented a studio together. Like an animal released from a cage he began prolific production of massive architectural scale steel sculpture. The sweetness of a romantic soul mixed with Semitic symbolism, in bold totems of welded, hammered steel. Within the studio, columns towered in intractable steel, formed to curve like blades severing air, hanging balanced, free from supporting hands. Hideous, shrieking, grinding of steel shaped faces linked in fuming welds, as his rancorous hammer pounded. A thousand hours later, Apollonian forms balanced effortlessly in ether, poised between worlds, shrouding roiling, tumultuous interiors, always a balance, consummated between immaculate complimentary twin parts.  
 


Ha Ha Ha


 

In the clamorous, starlit city of Los Angeles, where thousands struggle to imitate art, little is what it appears to be, and authenticity is rarely noticed. For twenty-five years I watched that which passed for art, transact between dealers and collectors. In the midst of the chaos, from the corner of my eye, I noticed a man in a gorilla suit step onto the court and pound his chest. Few others noticed, but there he was, larger than life, an authentic artist, the man in the gorilla suit, Malcolm Susman–just what he appeared to be–an artist.
 


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Malcolm Susman continues to work and reside in Los Angeles, creating architectural scale steel sculpture. He hopes to move back to Israel soon to continue his work.


At Peace With Myself



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