Aesthetic Realism?” He said, “I don’t care
about Aesthetic Realism.”
To my shock and bewilderment, I heard the
woman in whose home Siegel stayed make fun
of his weakness and confusion of his wife, who
was dying of emphysema and of other students.
This was someone who functioned as the
supreme ethical monitor of other people, and I
heard her be hypocritical and cruel.
Then, as Siegel was dying, a woman I taught
with revealed with great pride that for years,
with the full knowledge of her own husband, she
had had what she called a “personal emotion”
about Siegel, “organic gratitude” this meant,
she told me in a telephone call, that her gratitude
took a physical form. She said Siegel had now
given her permission to talk about their
relationship. However clear this was to anyone
else, I couldn’t take in the meaning of the words.
Her husband talked to me cheerfully about
staying in a room with Siegel’s wife while his
own wife was in another room with Siegel “in
various states of undress.” Other young women
said they, too, had been “initiated.”
I began to feel that something crazy was going
on. I confided this to my mother, who confessed
she agreed with me.
Before he died, Siegel told the students who had
recommended he have surgery that they had
killed him. They reported this to the rest of us.
We were all to feel responsible. Some members,
including many of those who cared for him at
the end, soon left the movement. But those who
remained drew renewed energy from his
accusation, vowing to weed out the ethically
impaired and, with the remaining stalwarts, to
achieve the recognition for Siegel after his death
that had been denied him in his lifetime.
In the years just before and after Siegel’s death,
the new leaders began to do things he had never
done, such as take children away from their
parents, put couples together, or separate them,
regardless of what the individuals felt. They
hired and fired people at a moment’s notice from
jobs at the Foundation. They enjoyed managing
people’s lives.
Siegel had chosen a woman I grew up with, a
poet like himself, to continue his teaching. He
called her “the class chairman.” This woman
began a campaign called “Do you want to be
completely fair to Eli Siegel and Aesthetic
Realism?” She said either we wanted to be
completely fair, or we wanted to kill Aesthetic
Realism. The campaign consisted of students
standing in a class at the Foundation and trying
to convince the rest of us that they were sincere.
The few who were believed became the new
aristocracy. The rest of us cowered and braced
ourselves to try again.
My mother and I sought each other’s company
and were increasingly shunned. We were
accused of being in a team against Eli Siegel and
Aesthetic Realism. As the first person born into
Aesthetic Realism and one of the first people to
teach, my failure to convince anyone I wanted to
be completely fair was worse than other people’s
failures. I was in constant despair.
I had never known another life. What these
people wanted felt like my soul, and I couldn’t
give it to them. I felt as if I was in a dark tunnel,
with no light at the end. I would lie on my bed,
waiting for the next barrage of criticism, crawl
through it, and lie down again. I never wanted
to take my life but I couldn’t see any life ahead.
The new leaders maneuvered to have my mother
fired as Director of the Foundation. They
accused her of fabricated financial and ethical
improprieties. I watched her as she took a
telephone call in which they fired her as an
editor of Siegel’s books. She was devastated.
She had sacrificed her painting career because
the critics who praised her would not accept her
praise of Siegel. I had watched her all the years
I grew up trying to measure up to Siegel’s
ethical criteria and internalizing his criticism to
the point that she felt she was responsible for his
suffering. Now she was accused of sabotaging
his work.
This series of events pushed me over the line. I
resigned as an officer of the Foundation and
took a temporary typing job at a nonprofit
Jewish agency. For the first time as a mature
adult, I was functioning in the outside world. I
began to lead a double life. By day, at my job, I
advanced rapidly in position and salary. By
night, at the Foundation, I heard excoriating
criticism: I was a bad seed if Aesthetic Realism
42 International Journal of Cultic Studies ■ Vol. 5, 2014
about Aesthetic Realism.”
To my shock and bewilderment, I heard the
woman in whose home Siegel stayed make fun
of his weakness and confusion of his wife, who
was dying of emphysema and of other students.
This was someone who functioned as the
supreme ethical monitor of other people, and I
heard her be hypocritical and cruel.
Then, as Siegel was dying, a woman I taught
with revealed with great pride that for years,
with the full knowledge of her own husband, she
had had what she called a “personal emotion”
about Siegel, “organic gratitude” this meant,
she told me in a telephone call, that her gratitude
took a physical form. She said Siegel had now
given her permission to talk about their
relationship. However clear this was to anyone
else, I couldn’t take in the meaning of the words.
Her husband talked to me cheerfully about
staying in a room with Siegel’s wife while his
own wife was in another room with Siegel “in
various states of undress.” Other young women
said they, too, had been “initiated.”
I began to feel that something crazy was going
on. I confided this to my mother, who confessed
she agreed with me.
Before he died, Siegel told the students who had
recommended he have surgery that they had
killed him. They reported this to the rest of us.
We were all to feel responsible. Some members,
including many of those who cared for him at
the end, soon left the movement. But those who
remained drew renewed energy from his
accusation, vowing to weed out the ethically
impaired and, with the remaining stalwarts, to
achieve the recognition for Siegel after his death
that had been denied him in his lifetime.
In the years just before and after Siegel’s death,
the new leaders began to do things he had never
done, such as take children away from their
parents, put couples together, or separate them,
regardless of what the individuals felt. They
hired and fired people at a moment’s notice from
jobs at the Foundation. They enjoyed managing
people’s lives.
Siegel had chosen a woman I grew up with, a
poet like himself, to continue his teaching. He
called her “the class chairman.” This woman
began a campaign called “Do you want to be
completely fair to Eli Siegel and Aesthetic
Realism?” She said either we wanted to be
completely fair, or we wanted to kill Aesthetic
Realism. The campaign consisted of students
standing in a class at the Foundation and trying
to convince the rest of us that they were sincere.
The few who were believed became the new
aristocracy. The rest of us cowered and braced
ourselves to try again.
My mother and I sought each other’s company
and were increasingly shunned. We were
accused of being in a team against Eli Siegel and
Aesthetic Realism. As the first person born into
Aesthetic Realism and one of the first people to
teach, my failure to convince anyone I wanted to
be completely fair was worse than other people’s
failures. I was in constant despair.
I had never known another life. What these
people wanted felt like my soul, and I couldn’t
give it to them. I felt as if I was in a dark tunnel,
with no light at the end. I would lie on my bed,
waiting for the next barrage of criticism, crawl
through it, and lie down again. I never wanted
to take my life but I couldn’t see any life ahead.
The new leaders maneuvered to have my mother
fired as Director of the Foundation. They
accused her of fabricated financial and ethical
improprieties. I watched her as she took a
telephone call in which they fired her as an
editor of Siegel’s books. She was devastated.
She had sacrificed her painting career because
the critics who praised her would not accept her
praise of Siegel. I had watched her all the years
I grew up trying to measure up to Siegel’s
ethical criteria and internalizing his criticism to
the point that she felt she was responsible for his
suffering. Now she was accused of sabotaging
his work.
This series of events pushed me over the line. I
resigned as an officer of the Foundation and
took a temporary typing job at a nonprofit
Jewish agency. For the first time as a mature
adult, I was functioning in the outside world. I
began to lead a double life. By day, at my job, I
advanced rapidly in position and salary. By
night, at the Foundation, I heard excoriating
criticism: I was a bad seed if Aesthetic Realism
42 International Journal of Cultic Studies ■ Vol. 5, 2014
