Some people are born tinkerers. Since childhood, Leslie has tinkered with every material and found object that came her way. Yet one moment was seminal. In 1967, she spotted LIFE magazine photo, that featured the most unique box she had ever seen. The caption under it said “Medici Slot Machine” by artist Joseph Cornell. From then on, mesmerized by Cornell’s strange yet fabulous piece of art, Leslie saw each of her own creations as a private connection to an inner world fueled by creativity and wit.
In 2001, while attending a creative writing course, a soulful song was offered as a writing prompt. For several minutes, an unseen musician played a ukulele, while gently singing the words and music to “Over the Rainbow” and “It’s a Wonderful World”. Once the song ended, the class was asked to write whatever came to mind, as long as it ended with the words… “what a wonderful world.”
That was all that was needed. The first thing that popped into Leslie's head was an image of the late Joseph Cornell, the surreal conjurer of magical arts, whom she had learned, lovingly shared his world with a severely handicapped brother.
Please read below for what transpired.
Leslie Margolis
P.S.
Leslie just learned in 2014, via a sweet song sung by her 4-year old grandson, that the music she heard in 2001 was sung by the late Hawaiian singer IZ (Israel Kamakawiwo’ole). May his sweet, soulful voice inspire you as well.
Robert & Joseph, The Brothers Cornell
by Leslie Margolis
If you could hear how I talk in my head, you’d know my mind doesn’t shake. It’s steady as a rock, NO, make that a mountain even as the earth moves below. Only tell that to the rest of my body. ‘IT shakes whenever IT wants - more often then I’d like.
Wiseguys shout out ‘Shakey Boy’ – they think I don’t hear. My ears don’t shake. I hear those taunts loud and clear. Much as I‘d like them to know how it feels, few understand what comes from my throat.
Brother Joseph says, “It’s their stupidity, not yours. No one can stop you from being you.”
Mama just says, “Fate defined you from the ‘onset’.”
What does FATE mean? It’s certainly not owing to something I ate. As for ‘onset’, if you were housebound like me in Flushing, New York, you’d love the silent ‘flicks’ Joseph carts home to project on our bedroom wall. That’s about as close as I get to being ‘on set’ in near-by Bayside. I wish Joseph could wheel me there now to see D.W. Griffith shoot C.W. Field in his latest film.
I was born in a hospital, and not at home like the three others. Mama was rushed there on June 6, 1910, due to complications when in labor with me her fourth child. That’s where all my problems started.
Sorry, you’re probably wondering who I am. I’m Robert, Robert Cornell, but you can call me Robbie or Snickey if you like. The second nickname is short for ‘snickerdoodle’, a favorite cookie my Nana loves to bake.
“Snickey, did the phone ring while I was out? I’m expecting to hear from one of my friends.”
That’s Mama now. “Na ya, Maa.” (Lacking breath control my words come out like grunts. But I know I’m as smart as you.)
“Has Joseph returned from New York? He better not be messing up my table again with one of those projects. The ladies arrive for bridge and tea at 3:00.”
The table Mama’s referring to is a Victorian piece that graced our mansion at 137 South Broadway in Nyack, New Jersey. That’s where we lived, “the big house on the hill” when Father was still alive. He bought it in 1911, when Joseph was eight, the year after I was born. Only now the table’s crammed into a tiny dining room in the Queens, and Mama hates for anything to be untidy.
“Want a piece, Snickey? Thank God for cooking class. When Papa died, he left me practically penniless. I needed a skill to earn us funds.
Mama’s right, it hasn’t been easy. She’s been baking countless cakes to serve in other people’s homes, and making huge sandwiches to sell at the local drug store. She also knits sweaters for Abercrombie & Fitch.
“Naturally, everyone needs do their part,” adds Mama, as she carefully places a forkful of cake into my mouth. “Joseph and the girls contribute their weekly earnings and Grandpa Storm needs to pay his rent.
I hate every time this comes up. Doesn’t Mama realize how it makes me feel that I can’t add to the kitty. There’s no work for a guy like me, and it’s awful to be thought of as “Beautiful Little Laughing Boy”, the moniker given me when I was just a tot. As you can see, I’m neither little nor laughing now, but I am alert, and I do the best I can as a twenty two year old confined to a wicker wheelchair in a white frame house at 37-08 Utopia Parkway in Flushing, The Queens.
Grandpa, by the way, has slept upstairs, in the room next to Joseph’s ever since the death of Mama’s mother four years ago.
“Snickey, you know how much I appreciate the five thousand dollars you put in for the mortgage.”
Mama’s talking about my inheritance from Nana Storm. That, plus the eleven thousand dollars she left to Mama made it possible for us to buy this place in ‘29.
Now don’t any of you go and start feeling sorry for me. I may be stuck in a smaller space than you, but I bet you don’t have someone like Joseph to make your troubles melt away.
My brother’s so smart that he can turn a rainbow upside down and inside out. At least, that’s how he makes me feel about certain of life’s pleasures. Look around me. See the treasures in my cabinet that he brought home to entertain me. Be it bubble blowing with a pipe, visiting far away hotels, stopping time or helping a caged bird fly, my brother makes it all happen in a magical and mysterious way.
Need more proof? Then look out the kitchen window. Joseph calls it our bird’s-eye view on the whole world. Mama planted that Japanese quince tree over there, three years ago, using a 79-cent sprig she purchased at Bloomingdales. Joseph and I love to sit under it, feeding birds that come our way. Only Mama’s not too happy about all the broken shells left littered on the lawn.
Confined as I am to my home and chair, I love the thought of the birds flying free from their secret perches above my own utopia. And thanks to the cleverness and caring of my always thoughtful brother, I can think to myself, ‘What a Wonderful World’.”
(Written by Leslie Margolis 5-23-01 … The first two paragraphs came after hearing the above writing prompt. The rest, written later, was inspired from reading interviews given by Betty Cornell Benten (a Cornell sister) that were donated to the Smithsonian American Art Museum archives.)
