I am not an artist. My father was the artist of our large extended family. In any group of three dozen people connected by blood, you will find one outlier, the lone artist, the renegade.
My father, Charles Nelson Leichner (1921-1994) was born with the creative gene, gifted by chance, gifted by nature… the artist… the driver of the spirit of human evolution. By his example, his children, too, were blessed with artistic sensibilities and the tendency to gravitate toward people with a robust Creative I.Q.
My father’s father, my grandfather, Roy B. Leichner (1894-1960) owned and operated a downtown department store. When World War II broke out, my father was a student at the Cleveland School of Art. After his stint in the Navy, the pressure was on my father Chuck to join his father Roy at “the store” and eventually take the reins.
Parental pressure, money issues and the responsibility for providing for a wife and three kids drove my father’s dream into exile. He gave up art. He paid a hefty price for his surrender, a price that crushed his soul. His life as a retail businessman drove him deeper and deeper into alcoholism. My father’s dream slipped from his hands and fell in slow motion. I caught his dream just before it shattered on the floor, took it home and raised it as my own.
Ring the bells that still can ring,
forget your perfect offering,
there is a crack in everything,
that's how the light gets in...
-Leonard Cohen
“May all your holiday demands be met.”