Allen M. Spivack uses steel and found materials to create
a wide range of art pieces that tell our stories.
a wide range of art pieces that tell our stories.
After working for over 40 years in a variety of settings- fundraising, home renovation, stay-at-home dad, and social work-Allen decided to devote his time to making sculpture, a passion he’s nurtured for over 45 years. Allen’s professional work speaks to his skills in program planning, team building, curriculum development, training, individual and group clinical work as well as project management. He was the Director of Development for the MA American Heart Association, ran a general contracting business for 12 years, and worked for the MA Department of Public Health in HIV and housing services.He also managed HIV housing services and developed supportive housing for the City of Boston and created two innovative residential treatment programs in Roxbury, MA for women with trauma, mental health and substance abuse issues. He has also organized and facilitated groups for abusive men.
Allen lives in Jamaica Plain, MA with his wife. He has two married adult sons and two grandchildren. His studio, called OMOS Studios (meaning the Other Man Of Steel) is located in his garage. Allen is a self-trained artist. He's taken classes at MASSART (MA College for Art and Design) and Stonybrook Fine Arts Studio and been mentored by David Stromeyer, the renowned VT-based sculptor. He is an avid reader about art history and individual artists. He regularly visits art museums in and around Greater Boston and when traveling in the US and abroad, makes museum visits his first priority. Allen’s career as an artist started late in life, but as he notes, "My life experience is quite rich and complex, filled with plenty of adventures that inform my work. I’ve lived a very full and purposeful life, and I draw on this rich reservoir of accumulated experience to make my art.” His work reflects a wide range of themes and stories, inspired by social justice issues, Jewish themes, personal events or bizarre flights of the imagination. Allen has participated in gallery shows at the Uforge Gallery in Boston, MA, Salem State University in Salem, MA, the Imago Gallery in Warren, RI and a social justice-themed exhibition at the Attleboro Art Museum in Attleboro, MA. Allen exhibited his sculptures for the last four years (2017-2020) in the annual renowned Flying Horse Outdoor Sculpture Exhibit at The Pingree School in South Hamilton, MA. His sculpture, 13 Acts of Creation, appeared in the NESA-sponsored show at the Crane Estates (Trustee of Reservation ) in Ipswich, MA. Allen participated in Jamaica Plain Open Studios for many years where hundreds of people visited his studio during open studios weekend. Allen had sculpture in the NESA-sponsored show at the MA Horticultural Society show at Elm Banks in Wellesley, MA. His sculpture, Monument to Lost Gloves, was part of the Studio Without Walls show in Brookline, MA in 2019 and, in 2020 he showed Yet Another Sunrise...Tomorrow. Allen has been a member of the New England Sculptors Association (NESA) since 2017 and served on its board of directors. Photo above: Allen and his wife, Sherry Grossman, completing the 2018 Mother's Day Walk for Peace in Boston, MA. They have participated in this event for a number of years which raises awareness about gun violence and victim support. Stories About the Pieces called 'Guardian of memories' |
Story for Guardian of Memories 1
“You own your secrets, but your words enslave you.” Carlos Antonio Lozada, FARC Commander
To Whom It May Concern:
I write this letter because I know life for me may be ending soon. Forgive my crude writing style. Writing for me was always a utilitarian function and not something that was either effortless or natural. I often struggle to say what I mean. When I take stock of my life, I feel satisfied in what I’ve accomplished and the people and relationships I’ve had. But this letter isn’t intended to inventory those so-called accomplishments and people but rather to disclose an action that has tormented me for decades. The angel who is my guardian of memories has a stranglehold on me. Like an abscess that never stops weeping, I remain tormented day in and day out by a particular action, an action that showed me how cruel and sadistic I could be. I learned to cover it over, to contain it just enough so I could function day to day. I became a professional faker, quite capable of masking the real torment I was feeling. It may shock you to read this about me, since I know this wasn’t your experience of me. Like I said, I’m a professional faker.
When I was a young man, I served in the military because of the war. Oh how lucky we are to have these wars so we can prove ourselves and extol the virtues of our country, even when we lose. And don’t forget those tragic wounded vets who keep persevering in spite of lost limbs, eyes, brains. Part of me may pity them for what they’ve suffered through but I know many revel in how they lost their limbs, eyes, brains-in the heat of battle. Oh the glory and honor of it all.
I was trained to kill and be part of the killing machine. I was intimidated and scared. It wasn’t part of my life plan, but here I was. I did what I was supposed to do and became what I was supposed to become. What terrified me the most wasn’t the mud or the bullets or the exhaustion or the endless insults but the savage anti-Semitism directed at me by one of my platoon-mates. At first, mild insults and whispering. Things put in my bunk or in my locker. It gradually became louder and then others joined in until one night they savagely beat me. No investigation. No questions. No problem.
We headed off to war and spent many months engaged in fierce fighting. We spent weeks pursuing and being pursued by our enemy until one night we came face to face with each other-enemy facing enemy. The savage firefight began and lasted for hours. Bullets. Explosions. Hand to hand combat. No let-up. As I approached from the rear, many of our soldiers were engaged in close range fighting. I saw one of ours fighting an enemy soldier and went to assist. Then I saw that our soldier was the anti-Semite. He stole a quick glance at me and motioned me to come and help him. I moved closer, slowly raised my rifle, took dead aim and shot him in the head twice.The enemy soldier looked at me assuming I was one of his own and then froze in shock when he realized what I had done. I motioned for him to drop his weapon and cuffed him. He was now a POW and I had to respect the so-called rules of war. Here’s how I figured it-I killed one man and saved another. I thought that would even the score. Kill the anti-Semite and save an enemy soldier.
Telling this story in this way at this time is cowardice. Do I regret what I did? Not at all. My only solace is that I hope the enemy soldier I saved has done some good in this world knowing what I did for him.
XXX (Name Withheld)
“You own your secrets, but your words enslave you.” Carlos Antonio Lozada, FARC Commander
To Whom It May Concern:
I write this letter because I know life for me may be ending soon. Forgive my crude writing style. Writing for me was always a utilitarian function and not something that was either effortless or natural. I often struggle to say what I mean. When I take stock of my life, I feel satisfied in what I’ve accomplished and the people and relationships I’ve had. But this letter isn’t intended to inventory those so-called accomplishments and people but rather to disclose an action that has tormented me for decades. The angel who is my guardian of memories has a stranglehold on me. Like an abscess that never stops weeping, I remain tormented day in and day out by a particular action, an action that showed me how cruel and sadistic I could be. I learned to cover it over, to contain it just enough so I could function day to day. I became a professional faker, quite capable of masking the real torment I was feeling. It may shock you to read this about me, since I know this wasn’t your experience of me. Like I said, I’m a professional faker.
When I was a young man, I served in the military because of the war. Oh how lucky we are to have these wars so we can prove ourselves and extol the virtues of our country, even when we lose. And don’t forget those tragic wounded vets who keep persevering in spite of lost limbs, eyes, brains. Part of me may pity them for what they’ve suffered through but I know many revel in how they lost their limbs, eyes, brains-in the heat of battle. Oh the glory and honor of it all.
I was trained to kill and be part of the killing machine. I was intimidated and scared. It wasn’t part of my life plan, but here I was. I did what I was supposed to do and became what I was supposed to become. What terrified me the most wasn’t the mud or the bullets or the exhaustion or the endless insults but the savage anti-Semitism directed at me by one of my platoon-mates. At first, mild insults and whispering. Things put in my bunk or in my locker. It gradually became louder and then others joined in until one night they savagely beat me. No investigation. No questions. No problem.
We headed off to war and spent many months engaged in fierce fighting. We spent weeks pursuing and being pursued by our enemy until one night we came face to face with each other-enemy facing enemy. The savage firefight began and lasted for hours. Bullets. Explosions. Hand to hand combat. No let-up. As I approached from the rear, many of our soldiers were engaged in close range fighting. I saw one of ours fighting an enemy soldier and went to assist. Then I saw that our soldier was the anti-Semite. He stole a quick glance at me and motioned me to come and help him. I moved closer, slowly raised my rifle, took dead aim and shot him in the head twice.The enemy soldier looked at me assuming I was one of his own and then froze in shock when he realized what I had done. I motioned for him to drop his weapon and cuffed him. He was now a POW and I had to respect the so-called rules of war. Here’s how I figured it-I killed one man and saved another. I thought that would even the score. Kill the anti-Semite and save an enemy soldier.
Telling this story in this way at this time is cowardice. Do I regret what I did? Not at all. My only solace is that I hope the enemy soldier I saved has done some good in this world knowing what I did for him.
XXX (Name Withheld)
Jigsaw
by Rabbi Lawrence Kushner
(see the art pieces inspired by the poem 'Jigsaw' in the Art Gallery tab under "Themed Art")
Each lifetime is the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.
For some there are more pieces.
For others the puzzle is more difficult to assemble.
Some seem to be born with a nearly completed puzzle.
And so it goes.
Souls go this way and that.
Trying to assemble the myriad parts.
But know this. No one has within themselves
All the pieces to their puzzle.
Everyone carries with them at least one and probably many pieces
To someone else's puzzle.
Sometimes they know it.
Sometimes they don't.
And when you present your piece to another
Whether you know it or not,
Whether they know it or not,
You are a messenger from the Most High.
by Rabbi Lawrence Kushner
(see the art pieces inspired by the poem 'Jigsaw' in the Art Gallery tab under "Themed Art")
Each lifetime is the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.
For some there are more pieces.
For others the puzzle is more difficult to assemble.
Some seem to be born with a nearly completed puzzle.
And so it goes.
Souls go this way and that.
Trying to assemble the myriad parts.
But know this. No one has within themselves
All the pieces to their puzzle.
Everyone carries with them at least one and probably many pieces
To someone else's puzzle.
Sometimes they know it.
Sometimes they don't.
And when you present your piece to another
Whether you know it or not,
Whether they know it or not,
You are a messenger from the Most High.