Eric John Shaw, TX
After five higher degrees, Eric has published the book, B.K.S. Iyengar and the Making of Modern Yoga, and articles for Yoga Journal, Yoga International, Mantra Yoga & Health—and like-minded publications. He has been hired to pen books on artificial intelligence, architecture, true crime, medicine, professorship, government, high-seas fishing, and horse-trading. A tactful organizer of facts, Eric is versatile in his storytelling, with his interests leaning towards history, philosophy, politics, wellness, meditation, and art.
As a StoryTerrace writer, Eric interviews customers and turns their life stories into books. Get to know him better by reading his autobiographical anecdote below.
Heat and Nan
As it did for most of us, college blew my mind. All those romances, midnight talking sessions and restless energy. Most importantly, no parents. We had cars and new sections of the country to live in. We had classes to avoid and days filled countless opportunities. Sometimes a professor took a shine to you and opened a door to a new city, new culture, or a new test of discipline.
In the summer days of ’84, such a portal squeaked opened for me and my dorm-mate, Lisa. The eminent art historian, Nan Rosenthal, wanted us in Manhattan pronto those months as her girl- and boy-Fridays. We were racing all over the Big Apple, picking up her dry cleaning and pestering the late, great painter, Robert Rauschenberg. We picked his brain for facts and curios to fill out the monograph Nan was penning on that careless genius.
I could have screamed with delight every night in that town–at the rainstorms, at the glory of the loft Nan gave us, and at the paint and canvas I cobbled together to work on most days, when Lisa and I weren’t together. Lisa’s discomfort with all things Manhattan only made it more dear. My boyhood friend, Mike Montano, showed up with his camera from the Fashion Institute of Technology, while I got a temp job proofreading. When my months in New York were done, they offered me a permanent position, which I contemplated. However, the beach-life and degree-work at UC Santa Cruz won out. Unable to cope with the overcrowded gaggle of pedestrians on a 5th Avenue sidewalk, Lisa had skipped back to California halfway through—back to her boyfriend and his top sider shoes.
Decades on, my mind still echoes with amazement at Nan’s pettiness over a taxi-fare, and my nights with Lisa in the loft, as Soho’s humidity tucked us in bed till noon the next day.
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