His life's canvas left so much untold

William Henry Johnson, a once-famed artist whose talent helped propel what became known as the Harlem Renaissance of the 1920s and 1930s, died in obscurity in 1970. A recent Newsday story about a forgotten cemetery behind Central Islip State Hospital caught my eye because my prior research had informed me it had become Johnson’s final resting place.

I had investigated the lives of several African American artists who were responsible for the Harlem Renaissance. As a retired history teacher in Queens and member of the Westbury Arts board of directors, I volunteered to compile biographies to be posted online in February 2021 for Black History Month. The profiles focused on how artists, authors and performers’ works played key roles in the reemergence of African American art as part of mainstream American art during the early 20th century renaissance. One artist I learned about was Johnson, who died at 69.

I soon found out that he is among those buried at the hospital cemetery in a grave marked only by the number 5405, etched into a piece of stone. How could a man once considered one of the most important African American artists of his generation have died in such obscurity and be buried in a long-forgotten grave, without a name, in a field of weeds, in an abandoned cemetery, behind a deserted psychiatric hospital?

I learned that Johnson’s life story was one of paradox, marked by brilliance and tragedy. His artistic career spanned decades in America and Europe. He produced color-driven portraits that were scenes of African American life in Harlem and the rural South. It took little time for him to gain critical recognition. He received the Harmon Foundation Award and attained commercial success with several solo exhibitions at U.S. and European galleries.

In 1930, while studying in France, Johnson met Danish textile designer and artist Holcha Krake.  They influenced each other's artistic direction and married in 1930. In 1944, Krake died of breast cancer at age 59, and Johnson’s career began a downward spiral. He could not produce any art the rest of his life. His friends noted he had become depressed and became concerned about his eccentric behavior, such as wandering the New York City streets with his paintings tied in a burlap sack. He had a nervous breakdown in 1947 and was hospitalized at Central Islip Psychiatric Center.

While he was hospitalized, Johnson’s artwork was in limbo. His court-appointed caretaker could not keep paying storage fees, and a buyer couldn’t be found. The art sat decaying in a storage bin from 1947 to 1956. In April 1956, while Johnson was still alive, the caretaker asked the Surrogate Court to rule that the art was “abandoned and worthless.” The contents of the bin were given to the Harmon Foundation, a nonprofit philanthropic organization based in New York (which closed in 1967).

Today, more than 1,000 of Johnson’s paintings are a part of the Smithsonian American Art Museum collection. Although Johnson’s paintings have recently sold for $150,000 to $200,000, the Smithsonian calls the collection “priceless.” 

Whenever I read about that Central Islip cemetery, I think of Johnson and how fame can be so fleeting. Hopefully, the cemetery grounds will be restored, his grave appropriately marked, and William Henry Johnson will receive the recognition and respect he deserves.

Reader Stanley Turetsky lives in Westbury.