ON THE OCCASION OF HIS 90TH BIRTHDAY, LEROY NEIMAN TELLS US THE STORIES BEHIND THE PICTURES
SECRETARIAT: At Hialeah I had a stone cottage at the turn to the homestretch—the perfect vantage point to take in the races.
SONNY LISTON: It's February 1964 in Miami, before the first of two fights between Cassius Clay and Sonny Liston. I'm doing what I always do: hanging around sketching. My subject is the surly, often belligerent, sometimes hostile felon with underworld connections Sonny Liston. He spent his formative years unsuccessfully avoiding arrest, and the press is now having a field day with his police record. I'm here to grab images. At first Liston doesn't notice me as he circles the ring, shadow-boxing and scowling. Then I get the glare. "Hey, artist, get rid of the cigar." I look up at him. "It's not lit," I say. Now he comes over. "I said the cigar's got to go. I don't care if the cigar ain't lit. The artist is out of here!" No reason to let a good Cuban get in the way. I set it aside, move out of Liston's radar and continue drawing. The incident didn't mark me forever with Sonny. Eventually he asked me to sketch him at his home. "I don't want you to paint me as a fighter," he told me. "I want you to paint me as a gentleman." Maybe that explained it all.
SALVADOR DALI:
Never go with Dali to a soiree in a blizzard. "LeRoy, you must sit beside me," he beckons. He's in a Daliesque pose—erect, unruffled, hands resting on a cane—while his galoshes create a puddle of melting snow on the white carpet.
LEO DUROCHER: It's two in the morning, and Sinatra is calling. "Me and the boys have decided on a housewarming gift for Durocher," he says. I finish Leo and the Ump, my homage to the St. Paul rookie I cheered as a kid, in two weeks and express it to Palm Springs. Durocher's widow displayed the painting at Leo's funeral.
BOBBY FISCHER: Another two a.m. call, only it's six a.m. Reykjavik time. Roone Arledge calls from the Bobby Fischer-Boris Spassky chess championship. "Fischer's banned the camera crew. Get on the next plane!" First day on the set, I work with my Rapidograph. Fischer looks in my direction. My pen scratching bothers him. I take up a silent felt-tip. Fischer sniffs the air. The scent of ink! I reach for a graphite pencil—squeakless, odorless—finally off Fischer's radar.
