Search Results

Notes from a First Meeting with Maestro Leon Botstein Site:  His residence at Bard College Subject:  Exploring the legacy of George Frederick Bristow and the possibility of a film Following directions through quiet Hudson Valley roads, I eventually reached a residential cul-de-sac at Bard reserved for faculty. Botstein’s assistant had texted me clear instructions: "enter through the main door, walk through the foyer, and I would find him waiting in his library." There was a sense of kinship, a familiarity—he and I could have been relatives. We looked like members of the same tribe. We explored those connections first: unknown corners of Poland, now Belarus, histories shaped by war and exile. Part of his family perished in the camps. So did mine. He could have been a much taller relative He wanted to know about my work, and I spoke of my films. He mentioned, almost in passing, that his daughter works closely with Ken Burns. Then we turned to what had brought us together: George Bristow and the upcoming concert at Carnegie Hall, where Botstein would conduct Bristow’s Fifth Symphony on January 30th. On Meeting Leon Botstein We spoke for hours—about Bristow, and what it means to create American music. After World War II, Hollywood embraced imperial aesthetics—Romans, Vikings—projections of American power. Quo Vadis  and its like, later parodied by the Coen brothers. And then came the music produced for television shows: soaring, nationalistic, martial. But Bristow had already been writing that kind of narrative, nationalistic, forward-driving music—before the fact. He talked about Rubin Goldmark, the bridge between Bristow and the moderns—Goldmark had taught both Copland and Gershwin. A New Yorker, rooted in two worlds. Bristow, too, had been that mix: European tradition and American ambition. Botstein also recalled that Gustav Mahler was pushed out of the Metropolitan Opera as the German wave gave way to Italianate fashion under Giulio Gatti-Casazza. Yet Mahler had tried to program American music, turning to George Whitefield Chadwick and others. Mahler, Dvořák, Ernest Bloch—all tried to embrace the American spirit. Bloch even wrote a symphonic choral work titled America: An Epic Rhapsody  in 1916. The conversation was quickly shifting into a master class—Botstein was teaching; I was learning. But American composers struggled. Antonín Dvořák had two Black students; one of them, Will Marion Cook, founded what became a cornerstone of African American musical tradition. Arthur Farwell championed Native American music. Still, composers like Chadwick, MacDowell, and Bristow were often dismissed as imitators of Europe. Charles Ives remained the notable exception, forging an American idiom all his own. I asked Botstein why were American composers of the 1800s accused of imitating European composers, when that was exactly what European composers were doing? Didn’t Beethoven draw inspiration from Mozart and Haydn, Brahms from Beethoven, Liszt from Chopin? He seemed to agree, and the discussion briefly turned to the difficult process of building a national identity—not just in America, but throughout 19th-century Europe. I was enjoying my self and I suspect he was also feeling comfortable with my presence. And what of modern nationalism? he asked. He invoked names like Louis Sullivan and Frank Lloyd Wright, and spoke of the aesthetic split between patriotism and nationalism—two different spirits. Bristow, Botstein believed, stood for something more cosmopolitan. He didn’t believe that American music needed to follow the European standard. He believed it should speak in its own voice, forged in the energy of a young republic. The ideal of cosmopolitanism brought the conversation briefly back to the influences of Hannah Arendt on the young Leon Botstein. “Walt Whitman was part of that voice,” he continued. European composers would later set Whitman’s words to music, but Bristow had already sensed that a new kind of poetry—and a new kind of music—was possible. And so, a film begins to take shape. What began as a quiet walk through Woodlawn in search of Bristow’s forgotten grave led to a four-hour conversation at Bard with one of the country’s most respected educators. A composer once silenced by time, remembered only in stone—now begins to be heard again, through film.

The Bristow School on Bristow Street On Bristow St. Friday afternoon The Bronx doesn’t apologize—it just is. On this Friday afternoon in Morrisania, the neighborhood that was once home to 19th-century American composer George Bristow, I walk in search of traces of a life we know so little about. Camera around my neck, notebook in hand, I begin to ask a question for which I know there may be no answer. This is not the Morrisania Bristow once knew, and that’s fine by me. I rode for about an hour on the 2-train from Brooklyn to Freeman Street Station, then walked west along Bristow Street. Just a few yards north of the intersection stands Public School 134, a relatively modern building sitting across from the Soul Tabernacle City of Refuge—a gospel church that proudly calls itself home to the “Soul Children of New York.” The school, like the street, is named for George F. Bristow, the composer whose life I’m now shadowing. José, a Puerto Rican neighbor, tells me no one ever mentions Bristow’s name. He grew up across the street and went to school there, but says nobody really knows who it was named after. From a nearby patio, the sound of Celia Cruz blasts. But this is no longer a Cuban space. José assures me Celia is international—she belongs to Puerto Ricans too. Morrisania today is Dominican, Boricua, Jamaican, West African—and thoroughly American. I saw a woman in Ghanaian dress leading her son past a Jamaican man lighting what might be the most formidable joint I’ve ever seen. Farther down Bristow Street, a thirteen-year-old girl danced gleefully through the spray of an open hydrant. The Soul Tabernacle The farther east I walked, the more I felt Africa’s presence—churches with names like Poder, Gracia y Amor; tire shops spilling onto the sidewalk; hand-wash car services; voodoo saints in makeshift shrines; and gospel billboards preaching resurrection in Morrisania. Here, the sacred and profane live side by side: a church on one side of the street, a botanica on the other. Somewhere between a Michael Jackson track booming from a 4x4 and the cry of a police siren, I reached Boston Road—its turn-of-the-century buildings catching golden light on their yellow and white bricks, five stories tall with old iron fire escapes. Community speaks its own language: a barbecue grill smoking in a narrow passage between buildings, kids playing ball, a woman selling watermelon under an umbrella, and a magical place—the Mary Brooks Community Garden—serving as a cooling haven for the elderly and their dominoes. I came expecting to be looking over my shoulder. But I felt safer here than in the streets of the 20th arrondissement of Paris. This is The Bronx. This is where Bristow lived with his wife and two daughters. Hispanic and Black pride in Morrisania I made my way to Forest Avenue and East 166th Street, where the First Congregational Church of Morrisania was established in 1851. The building still stands—weathered, locked, its windows barred, its original tracery just visible beneath layers of grime. It hasn’t reopened since the pandemic. Locals tell me it’s private property now. I searched for 1086 Forest Avenue—Bristow’s home—but it’s no longer there. From here, Manhattan’s skyline floats faintly on the horizon. Two worlds. A chasm bridged only by the elevated tracks connecting the Bronx to the rest of the city. From a truck loaded with old car radiators, where men mine for copper, comes the sound of a sweet bachata. At the next corner, a veteran waves as if we’ve known each other for years. At PS 140, the school motto is “Reaching Unlimited Possibilities.” The signs are in English and Spanish. In Morrisania, eclecticism rules—in architecture, in belief, in identity. Colombian cumbia fades into Dominican merengue, then into the rasp of an old gospel tune from a passing Buick. I saw a young woman in shorts so tight I wondered how she managed to fit in them, a mother in a white dress, two tall Muslim women wearing colorful burkas and sandals. Then I met D., a photographer like me, who told me the neighborhood was safer now that the police are everywhere, and that most people don’t know the man who gave Morrisania its name—Morris—was a slave owner. That, too, is part of the Bronx’s history. As I headed back to the train station for the ride to Brooklyn, I passed a woman seated on a walker outside a modest church. She greeted me with a “Buenas tardes.” I replied instinctively, “Buenas tardes.” She smiled—After all, here, the white men don’t speak English. This is Morrisania. George Frederick Bristow’s turf. I came looking for the composer’s ghost and found others—many—perhaps even my own.

Last Stop: Woodlawn Station EXT. DAY — NEW YORK — WOODLAWN CEMETERY The camera glides over the rolling grounds of Woodlawn, pausing on tombs that once marked fame, fortune, or civic pride. Names carved in stone, now mostly forgotten. Finally, it stops before a modest headstone: George F. Bristow. Along this path, accompanied by Bristow’s own music, the narrator sets the stage. NARRATOR (V.O.) You’d think it would be easy to find the grave of George Frederick Bristow. After all, he was a celebrated composer, a beloved teacher. His final symphony premiered at Carnegie Hall just months before his death—he was still teaching music in New York’s public schools when the end came. But his grave proved elusive. The elusive Gravestone Along the way, I passed monuments that spoke loudly of legacy—some noble, others self-important—all determined to say: I was here. Regardless of where their souls ended up—heaven, hell, or purgatory—they secured a pied-à-terre here on Earth. Something permanent. Something remembered. Most gravestones are calling cards: brief, pointed, and revealing. But Bristow’s doesn’t speak. No mention of “Frederick,” the name his father likely gave him in honor of Handel—a clue to musical lineage, erased. No birth year either. We’re left to subtract from the death date and guess. Still, December 1825 deserved to be chiseled into stone. Dates matter. And nowhere does it say composer, teacher, musician. Instead, a branch. A papyrus. A single stone rests atop the headstone—suggestive of Jewish custom, though Bristow wasn’t Jewish. He was something else: an American composer, hailed in his time as one of the greatest. And yet, I’d never heard his name—until someone asked if I did. That question led to this film. If we’re lucky, in the hour ahead, we’ll carve into memory what his gravestone forgot — and push back against a century of neglect. Who's buried on the plot: George Frederick Bristow died in 1898 and is buried at Woodlawn Cemetery in the Bronx, New York. His grave, marked by a modest stone with minimal biographical detail, is located in a shared plot with several family members, including Nina L. Rieger (age 40), Louise N. Bristow (age 84), William H. Dearborn (age 67), and Louise B. Patterson (age 48).

A Buffalo Sunday newspaper article from the late 19th century offers a vivid account of the premiere of Niagara, a choral symphony by American composer George Frederick Bristow. The piece, described as a “descriptive work of the great cataract,” was performed by the Manuscript Society at Carnegie Hall and drew particular interest from the Buffalo region, home to the awe-inspiring falls that inspired it. According to the article, the symphony was conceived when poet Charles Walker Lord shared his verses on Niagara with Bristow after a rehearsal of one of the composer’s symphonies. Bristow was so moved by the poem that he promised to set it to music—a promise he fulfilled in this grand composition. The article includes the full text of Lord’s poem, a deeply spiritual meditation on the majesty of the falls and the forces of nature that shape them. Bristow’s setting captures the poem’s emotional and dramatic essence across several movements. The first is largely instrumental, opening with a violin solo and building through tremolos and sweeping phrases. The choral sections—six in total—introduce the poem’s verses with increasingly intricate vocal arrangements. The second movement features a plaintive bass solo, while the third is a technically demanding piece for soprano and alto, symbolizing the rushing rivers that feed Niagara. The article notes that Bristow initially considered composing an entirely instrumental work but ultimately chose to incorporate the poem fully into the score. In conclusion, the article praises Niagara as a “remarkable work,” both for its musical scope and its successful rendering of Lord’s evocative poetry. It stands as a testament to Bristow’s role in shaping a distinctly American symphonic tradition.

In approaching The Bristow Project , I am constantly reminded of the extraordinary power — and delicate responsibility — that comes with using new technologies to recreate images of the past. The arrival of generative AI allows filmmakers like myself to explore dimensions of historical reconstruction that were previously unimaginable. And paradoxically, it offers a tool not to falsify the past but, in certain cases, to render it more credible — perhaps even more authentic. Of course, this tension is not new. Every tool that enters the creative process brings resistance, suspicion, and conflict. When color television appeared, critics rushed to declare it a threat to artistic purity. I remember my own initial discomfort — it took nearly an hour and a half to stop resisting the strange sensation of seeing familiar shows rendered in color for the first time. The battle over new technologies has always followed us. When sound was introduced to film, it too was seen as a violation of cinema’s purity — and yet, sound became fundamental. The same holds true for how we reconstruct visual identity when original sources are limited or absent. The case of George Frederick Bristow In the case of George Frederick Bristow, this challenge becomes central. One of America’s great 19th-century composers, Bristow left behind almost no iconography. We have his grave at Woodlawn Cemetery, a single portrait painted when he was about forty, and little else — except, of course, his music. Thanks to Leon Botstein and Katherine Preston, Bristow’s compositions and biography are preserved and available. But for a filmmaker, this is not enough. Audiences today expect more than static interviews and carefully lit experts. They seek — and deserve — a deeper visual engagement with history. This is a faithful enhancement with AI of an original oil painting | AI generated | © Heritage Film Project This is where artificial intelligence, used responsibly, becomes not a shortcut but a legitimate creative tool. And there is historical precedent for this kind of intervention. When daguerreotypes were first made of American presidents, George Washington had already been dead for decades. The solution was simple and entirely accepted: daguerreotypes were taken of Gilbert Stuart’s unfinished 1796 painting of Washington. In effect, a photograph of an idealized, incomplete painting became accepted historical evidence — not because it was definitive, but because it was all that existed. This same daguerreotype, laterally reversed, went on to serve as the foundation for countless engravings and reproductions, permanently embedding that version of Washington into the American visual record. Bristow at Central Park, December 1998 |AI generated | © Heritage Film Project Bristow conducting at Carnegie Hall, January 1998 | AI generated | © Heritage Film Project The process I am engaged in with Bristow is not fundamentally different. Using what sparse visual evidence survives, I work with AI models conditioned by careful research to produce historically plausible representations. Like anthropologists reconstructing long-extinct human ancestors from limited fossil evidence, my role is to guide the technology, not surrender to it. As I develop these new images of Bristow, I remain fully aware of both the creative opportunity and the ethical responsibility involved. But I am excited by what is emerging. The result is not fantasy or fabrication. It is an informed visual interpretation that allows modern audiences to encounter Bristow as something more than a name or a voice — to see him with the same immediacy we unconsciously grant to Washington every time we glance at a dollar bill. AI, in this process, becomes not a threat to history but a bridge between past and present — preparing the past, quite literally, for the future.

I want to take a moment to shine a spotlight on the incredible work of my talented friend, Eduardo Galliani , particularly his contributions to the world of Book Arts and Publishing through Antares Portfolio. If you visit Antares's "Book Arts & Publishing" section, you'll immediately get a sense of the meticulous craftsmanship and artistic dedication that defines Eduardo Galliani's work. He's not just a photographer; he's a true artist who brings stories to life through exquisitely designed and published books. University of Virginia by Eduardo Galliani John and Betsy Casteen by Eduardo Galliani Duke University by Eduardo Galliani Antares Portfolio highlights the Artistic Vision of Eduardo Galliani , and his specialization in "Photo Book Arts & Publishing," offering custom-designed books and exquisite fine art prints. This is where Eduardo's expertise truly shines. His ability to capture emotion and detail through his lens, and then translate that into tangible, beautiful printed works, is truly remarkable. From university collections featuring images of prestigious institutions like Harvard, Georgetown, and UVA, to custom projects for a diverse range of clients, Eduardo's work consistently demonstrates a commitment to timeless elegance and museum-grade quality. The site emphasizes that his work is "made to be touched," inviting a tactile experience that goes beyond mere viewing – a testament to the quality of his printing and presentation. Celebrating the Artistic Vision of Eduardo Galliani goes beyond the "Book Arts," Eduardo's broader photographic journey is equally impressive, encompassing fine art, commercial, documentary, and even underwater photography, among many other specialties. His vast experience and unique perspective undoubtedly enrich every publishing project he undertakes. It's clear that Eduardo Galliani is a master of his craft, bringing a profound artistic sensibility and technical skill to every book and publication. His dedication to creating lasting, beautiful works is truly inspiring. If you're looking for exceptional quality in photography and publishing, you'd be hard-pressed to find someone as talented and committed as Eduardo. Bravo, Eduardo, for your continued "good work" and for bringing such beauty into the world through Antares Portfolio!

This coming weekend, I’ll be visiting with Neely Bruce in Middletown, Connecticut. I hope to learn more about George Frederick Bristow —and perhaps, just perhaps, about Amy Beach as well. Neely brings deep expertise and extensive knowledge to the subject. He also owns a piano and has a sharp sense of humor—two qualities I find myself consistently drawn toward. Trina Sears Sternstein I’ll also be visiting with Trina Sears Sternstein , a longtime friend and neighbor of Alice Parker . Trina is currently exhibiting her paintings at a gallery in Shelburne Falls , a charming town nestled in the western mountains of Massachusetts. She works from her home studio in Hawley, MA , a place her family settled in the late 18th century. Her profound connection to this area—and to the pristine natural beauty that surrounds her—deeply informs her work. Her paintings explore the moods and sensations that emerge when immersed in nature’s quiet splendor. Exploring Connecticut’s Culture This weekend is not just about art and music; it’s about immersing myself in Connecticut's culture. The chance to connect with talented individuals like Neely and Trina excites me. Their work embodies the rich history and vibrant arts scene that exists in this part of the country. Cultural events in Connecticut are vibrant and engaging. Whether it’s music, art exhibitions, or theater, there’s always something to experience. Artists like Neely Bruce and Trina Sears Sternstein contribute to this dynamic atmosphere. Their dedication to their crafts inspires many, including myself. The Influence of Nature on Art Art is often influenced by its surroundings. For Trina, the natural beauty of Hawley, MA, plays a crucial role in her work. She captures the essence of nature in her paintings. This connection helps her convey emotions that resonate with viewers. Nature can stimulate creativity in profound ways. Studies have shown that spending time in nature can boost mood and enhance creativity. For artists like Trina, this is not just a theory; it’s a way of life. Their work serves as a reminder of the beauty that exists around us. It encourages others to reflect on their own connections to nature. A Weekend of Inspiration It promises to be an intense weekend filled with peaceful narratives, music, and friendship. I look forward to the conversations I’ll have with both Neely and Trina. We will discuss their work and the importance of arts and culture. There’s always something new to learn from those around us. Make sure to explore your local art scene. Attend exhibits and performances in your community. You may find a new favorite artist or genre. Supporting local artists helps foster creativity and innovation. So if you happen to be in the neighborhood, don’t hesitate to cross my path on the road. The beauty of art and music lies in their power to bring people together. They create connections and spark conversations. It’s through these interactions that we grow and learn. This weekend is set to be filled with experiences that will inspire me for years to come. Conclusion In conclusion, my visit with Neely and Trina is not just about appreciating art and music. It’s a celebration of friendship, culture, and the beauty of life itself. I encourage everyone to seek out moments that inspire you. Whether through visiting galleries or attending local performances, embrace the creativity that surrounds you. Your next adventure might just be a conversation with an artist, a glance at a beautiful painting, or a melody that resonates deeply. Never miss the chance to connect with the arts—they have a way of enriching our lives profoundly.

Documentaries have a unique way of telling stories. They transform complex narratives into compelling visual tales that resonate with audiences around the world. Cultural documentaries, in particular, serve as vital conduits for understanding history. By showcasing different perspectives, these films allow viewers to engage with their own cultural heritage and learn about others. Understanding Art Documentaries Documentaries can serve as cinematic expressions that explore social practices, traditions, and the shared experiences of specific groups. They take audiences on journeys across different eras and locales, offering insight into the forces that shape identity. A notable example is Won’t You Be My Neighbor? which illuminates Fred Rogers’ approach to children’s television and his lasting influence on American culture. However, approaching this path of exploration through the Arts can make a distinct difference—at least, that has been true in my own experience working with subjects such as Alice Parker, Daniel Chester French, the Piccirilli Brothers, and most recently, Joy Brown. These films often combine interviews, archival footage, and authentic soundscapes to convey historical and cultural context. Through this multimedia approach, viewers witness stories rarely addressed in traditional history classes or textbooks. Whether implicitly or explicitly, art documentaries underscore the importance of history in shaping contemporary society. Documentary filmmaking in action: Andres Waisman by Montes-Bradley The Role of Documentaries in Preservation Art documentaries play an important role in preserving history. They open conversations about key events, lifestyles, and notions that are often neglected or forgotten. For instance, the documentary Rita Dove: An American Poet . By weaving archival footage with pictorical evicence by Jacob Lawrence, and the on camera presence of the poet, the film not only informs viewers about Ms. Dove´s literary work, but also challenges them to reconsider American History, and their perceptions of race and justice. How Documentaries Foster Understanding One of the most profound effects cultural documentaries have been their ability to foster understanding. By bringing viewers face to face with other cultural tribes, experiences, and struggles, these films can contribute to break down stereotypes. Black Fiddlers , or even The Piccirilli Brothers take an unflinching look at the past, focusing on issues that transcend the artistic perspective contextualizing slavery, imigration and geopolitics as it pertains to war and displacement. . These emotional journeys allow audiences to connect with historical events and the individuals affected by them. The intimacy of the filmed subjects prompts a sense of understanding that statistics and historical facts alone often cannot provide. Rita Dove encounters segregation at Fort Myers Beach The Educational Value of Documentaries In educational settings, Art documentaries can be an invaluable resource. They can supplement textbooks and lectures, making lessons more relatable and engaging. Educators often find a wealth of opportunities within these films to spark discussions, debates, and critical thinking among students. Our films are available in Academic and public Libraries through Kanopy Streaming and Alexander Street. Using documentaries in the classroom can lead to a rich exploration of history, society, and globalization. It's important for educators to curate a diverse selection of films that reflect various cultural experiences. By doing so, they not only educate but also validate the importance of different perspectives in the collective understanding of history. The Impact of Technology on Documentaries With the advent of new technologies, the production and distribution of documentary films have changed dramatically. Traditional media outlets are no longer the sole gatekeepers; platforms like Kanopy, YouTube, and various streaming services have helped democratize the documentary space. This shift has allowed a broader range of voices to tell their stories. Mobile technology has also empowered emerging filmmakers. Today, many individuals can document their cultures, traditions, and struggles using simple devices like smartphones. This kind of access is especially vital in a globalized world where mass media often reduces complex narratives to oversimplified frames. Social media, too, has become an essential tool for raising awareness around cultural and historical issues. By sharing trailers, clips, and even full features online, filmmakers and activists can now reach global audiences in ways previously unimaginable. In our own work, for example, we’ve shared more than one hundred short clips from films still in production—generating early interest and meaningful engagement well before their official release. Holding a Bolex by the gravesite of Jorge Luis Borges, Geneva 1998 Celebrating Life Through Documentaries Ultimately, art documentaries play a pivotal role in celebrating life. They serve as vessels for underrepresented stories, revealing the richness and diversity of human experience. From films centered on literature and fine arts to those exploring the social fabric of New York and Florence in the Ottocento, cultural documentaries encapsulate the breadth of global civilization. When thoughtfully produced, they foster greater understanding by highlighting the beauty and complexity of different backgrounds, values, and traditions. Art documentaries also inspire viewers to engage more deeply with their own cultural environments. This kind of reflection often leads to a more meaningful understanding of personal identity within the larger social fabric. By offering intimate glimpses into the lives and histories of people across the world, these films provide insight into both individual and collective struggles and triumphs. For those interested in learning about multiple cultures, art documentaries open a window to the past while paving the way for a future rooted in empathy and appreciation. They are not merely entertainment—they educate, provoke thought, and inspire action. Whether you’re watching a film that traces one man’s attempt to reconstruct his memories of pre-revolutionary Cuba (Humberto Calzada) or one that celebrates ancestral traditions (Samba on Your Feet), these stories resonate deeply, reminding us of our shared human experience. By recognizing the value of these documentaries, we gain not only a richer understanding of the world’s history but also a deeper awareness of our role as informed, culturally conscious citizens. To explore this powerful medium further, consider immersing yourself in impactful civil rights documentaries available through the link below. Through the lens of history and art, documentaries continue to illuminate the many paths that lead us to understanding, reminding us that culture is a living tapestry—woven from the vivid threads of human experience.

I can’t get the thought out of my mind—these young girls, the same age as my mother at the time, would have been my aunts had it not been for the German army’s determination to eliminate every trace of Jewish life in Europe. That thought haunts me more intensely now, perhaps because of the criminal events of October 7th in Israel. The images of that massacre brought back memories I never fully processed—memories that became unbearably vivid when I recently came across this photograph of Rivka and Rachel. With white dresses my aunts Rick’s and Rachel It’s a photo I had always known existed, but never held in my hands. As a documentarian, I’m drawn to the physical presence of memory. There’s something sacred about a photograph that survives what its subjects did not. In this case, the image captures three little girls in white dresses—two of them are Rivka and Rachel, daughters of Mirtche and Shoulk’ke Gurinski. Shoulk’ke was my grandfather’s sister. My mother still remembers sewing those dresses with her own mother in New York before sending them to Poland, along with a letter and the funds to help bring the family to safety. But between the taking of that photograph in Kamienets-Litovsk and its arrival in the United States, the Nazis arrived. And history closed in. Kamyanyets (Kamienets) on the map What followed is still uncertain. One version says the girls and their family were made to dig their own graves before being shot and buried in a mass grave that may never be found. Another suggests they were sent to Treblinka. Either way, this is the last image of the great-aunts I never had the chance to know. In recent months, I’ve come to see how the same ideology that murdered Rivka and Rachel survived the war. Many of its followers scattered—some to Argentina and Brazil, others even to the United States—but several found refuge in the Middle East. Former SS officers became instructors in Egypt, Syria, and Jordan. The PLO, in great measure, was trained by these criminals. And Hamas has inherited their ideals. The parallels between the Kamenets massacre and October 7th are chilling. The hate is the same. The cruelty—unforced and gleeful—is the same. We must look at these echoes not as accidents of history, but as consequences of an unfinished reckoning.

Last night at The Rotunda, the University of Virginia honored Joe Erdman with a moving tribute and the unveiling of his photographic portrait. The event, held in the presence of UVA President Jim Ryan and Vice Provost Jody Kielbasa, celebrated Joe’s unwavering commitment to the arts across the University and beyond. As co-trustee of the Joseph and Robert Cornell Memorial Foundation, Joe Erdman has been a steadfast supporter of our work at Heritage Film Project. His generosity has helped bring to life films such as Black Fiddlers , Daniel Chester French: American Sculptor , and most recently, The Piccirilli Factor . His impact, however, extends far beyond our documentary efforts. Joe’s deep engagement with the arts has helped make possible vital initiatives at UVA including the Virginia Theatre Festival, The Fralin Museum of Art, the Charlottesville Symphony, and the Virginia Film Festival—where many of our films have premiered over the years. The Cornell Foundation, established through the estate of artist Joseph Cornell, has long championed cultural enrichment by supporting nonprofit artistic endeavors. Its reach includes institutions like the Metropolitan Opera and the Charlottesville Opera, which have likewise benefited from Joe’s thoughtful leadership. Joe Erdman Joe Erdman: Steward for the Arts Erdman arrived at the University of Virginia on a cold winter day in 1953, one of a couple dozen mid-year transfer students. There was no orientation, no handholding, no welcoming ceremony. The kid from Brooklyn found himself in small-town Charlottesville at a prestigious—but still somewhat insular—Southern institution. Still, he knew he was in the right place. “This university—which I love—was a different cultural experience for me,” he once said. “It was an all-male school, coat and tie, traditional. And yet it was right because I loved history and politics. I was admitted to Dartmouth and Columbia, but I didn’t want to stay in New York, and Dartmouth wouldn’t take me until the fall. So here I was—bingo.” Erdman also loved the arts. His older brother had taken him to see the Broadway production of The Member of the Wedding , adapted from the Carson McCullers novel, in 1950. “I was mesmerized by the experience of being in a theater,” he recalled. At UVA, he attended productions by the Virginia Players, a student-run theater group that later became the Department of Drama. He also joined the Jefferson Society, the University’s oldest student-run organization, where he enjoyed the art of debate. He spent a long, hot summer in Fort Campbell, Kentucky, as part of an ROTC program—an experience made bearable by weekend escapes to Nashville. “Boy, I remember the streets in Nashville,” he said. “You’d go to one little music place after another. Those were the days where Elvis Presley would be playing in some club, and then you’d have Brenda Lee in another club, that kind of thing. It was an important stage for pop music, early rock, country music.” Last night’s tribute was more than fitting. It was a reminder that the arts don’t flourish without stewards—those who believe, quietly and persistently, in the transformative power of culture and community. Joe Erdman is one of them. And we’re all the better for it. Referenced Notes: University News