person entrusted with this knowledge, but that it
was his responsibility to have it known.
Although I was not yet 18, I asked permission to
attend Siegel’s evening lectures. On
Wednesdays and Fridays, he lectured on poetry,
science, history, sociology, music, pop culture,
current events—showing how everything
supported his theory of opposites. He was a
powerful and entertaining speaker.
One night, when he entered the room, a new
student stood and began to applaud. Others
quickly followed this response became a regular
routine. At the end of lectures, this same new
student would deliver eloquent speeches of
praise for Siegel. We followed this action too,
each of us trying to top the praise of the person
before. Siegel would look a little bemused, put
his chin on his hand, and smile. As he left the
room, we all stood and clapped again.
On Tuesdays, Siegel held what he called an
Ethical Study Conference, where he spoke to
individual people about their lives. He would
draw on literature and poetry and use poetic
language as he talked to couples about their
fights and resentments. He criticized
selfishness, narrow-mindedness, and mental
laziness. He was insightful and, I believe,
helped people understand themselves better and
like themselves more. Then, gradually, as his
impact on a person deepened, he would begin
talking about the person’s attitude to him. As
Siegel railed about how ungrateful we were, I
would sit as far back in the room as possible,
bending my head behind the person in front of
me, tears streaming down my face, vowing
inwardly to be more honest. But even when I
used the right words, I did not convince myself
so I was in constant expectation of the criticism,
which always came.
It was in these Ethical Study Conferences that a
new procedure began. People began to tell on
each other. Siegel would talk to person A, and
person B would pass him a written note about
something person A had done. There was no
such thing as privacy husband would tell on
wife, mother on child, friend on friend. And no
subject was exempt. Notes were written and
tales told about every aspect of a person’s life—
dreams, sex, career, eating habits, casual
conversations.
By the time I graduated from high school in
1961, the cooperative home on 16th Street had
broken up, and the building was sold. My
parents bought a loft building in SoHo, then still
a desolate industrial neighborhood, and my
mother moved the Terrain Gallery to the West
Village. I entered Brooklyn College zealous on
behalf of Aesthetic Realism. I was a fair student
at Hunter, but at Brooklyn I earned straight As
and got a lot of attention. I talked about
Aesthetic Realism in classes and wove it into all
my papers. Siegel held me up as an example,
saying I had compared him with the professors
and he had come out ahead.
I graduated from college summa cum laude near
the top of my class, with full degrees in French
and Latin, and with awards in language and
humanities. When my Latin professor told me I
was accepted into Phi Beta Kappa, she also said
the committee was concerned about my
involvement in Aesthetic Realism. I felt a hint
of worry when I heard this, but I quickly pushed
it away. Then, at a class just after I graduated, I
was mortified when Siegel said he was
disappointed in me. “I taught you how to use
your mind,” he said, “and you didn’t say a word
about me at your graduation.”
Although I received offers from graduate
programs out of state, I needed to stay near
Aesthetic Realism, so I applied for and received
a fellowship to study classics at Columbia
University. That summer, as I read the
orientation manual, I felt growing excitement at
the prospect of graduate school. I envisioned
myself in those grand, old buildings, talking
with people about ancient literature, studying the
Latin poetry I loved.
That summer, too, I became somewhat
obsessed about an artist I had dated through
most of college, a student of my father’s at the
School of Visual Arts who then studied with
Siegel. When James wanted to join the civil-
rights march in Selma, Alabama, Siegel said that
James wanted to go to escape Aesthetic Realism
criticism. He went anyway, so I broke up with
him.
40 International Journal of Cultic Studies ■ Vol. 5, 2014
was his responsibility to have it known.
Although I was not yet 18, I asked permission to
attend Siegel’s evening lectures. On
Wednesdays and Fridays, he lectured on poetry,
science, history, sociology, music, pop culture,
current events—showing how everything
supported his theory of opposites. He was a
powerful and entertaining speaker.
One night, when he entered the room, a new
student stood and began to applaud. Others
quickly followed this response became a regular
routine. At the end of lectures, this same new
student would deliver eloquent speeches of
praise for Siegel. We followed this action too,
each of us trying to top the praise of the person
before. Siegel would look a little bemused, put
his chin on his hand, and smile. As he left the
room, we all stood and clapped again.
On Tuesdays, Siegel held what he called an
Ethical Study Conference, where he spoke to
individual people about their lives. He would
draw on literature and poetry and use poetic
language as he talked to couples about their
fights and resentments. He criticized
selfishness, narrow-mindedness, and mental
laziness. He was insightful and, I believe,
helped people understand themselves better and
like themselves more. Then, gradually, as his
impact on a person deepened, he would begin
talking about the person’s attitude to him. As
Siegel railed about how ungrateful we were, I
would sit as far back in the room as possible,
bending my head behind the person in front of
me, tears streaming down my face, vowing
inwardly to be more honest. But even when I
used the right words, I did not convince myself
so I was in constant expectation of the criticism,
which always came.
It was in these Ethical Study Conferences that a
new procedure began. People began to tell on
each other. Siegel would talk to person A, and
person B would pass him a written note about
something person A had done. There was no
such thing as privacy husband would tell on
wife, mother on child, friend on friend. And no
subject was exempt. Notes were written and
tales told about every aspect of a person’s life—
dreams, sex, career, eating habits, casual
conversations.
By the time I graduated from high school in
1961, the cooperative home on 16th Street had
broken up, and the building was sold. My
parents bought a loft building in SoHo, then still
a desolate industrial neighborhood, and my
mother moved the Terrain Gallery to the West
Village. I entered Brooklyn College zealous on
behalf of Aesthetic Realism. I was a fair student
at Hunter, but at Brooklyn I earned straight As
and got a lot of attention. I talked about
Aesthetic Realism in classes and wove it into all
my papers. Siegel held me up as an example,
saying I had compared him with the professors
and he had come out ahead.
I graduated from college summa cum laude near
the top of my class, with full degrees in French
and Latin, and with awards in language and
humanities. When my Latin professor told me I
was accepted into Phi Beta Kappa, she also said
the committee was concerned about my
involvement in Aesthetic Realism. I felt a hint
of worry when I heard this, but I quickly pushed
it away. Then, at a class just after I graduated, I
was mortified when Siegel said he was
disappointed in me. “I taught you how to use
your mind,” he said, “and you didn’t say a word
about me at your graduation.”
Although I received offers from graduate
programs out of state, I needed to stay near
Aesthetic Realism, so I applied for and received
a fellowship to study classics at Columbia
University. That summer, as I read the
orientation manual, I felt growing excitement at
the prospect of graduate school. I envisioned
myself in those grand, old buildings, talking
with people about ancient literature, studying the
Latin poetry I loved.
That summer, too, I became somewhat
obsessed about an artist I had dated through
most of college, a student of my father’s at the
School of Visual Arts who then studied with
Siegel. When James wanted to join the civil-
rights march in Selma, Alabama, Siegel said that
James wanted to go to escape Aesthetic Realism
criticism. He went anyway, so I broke up with
him.
40 International Journal of Cultic Studies ■ Vol. 5, 2014
