I was so mad for the movies that with rare exception I was usually the first person in line at the Avalon box office nearly every Sunday noon from 1953 until 1964 when I graduated from Bay View High. This did not go unnoticed by Tony Laporte, who often arrived to find me standing alone waiting for the box office to open a half-hour hence. There was something about walking into that cavernous emptiness and having my pick of the seats. I always sat about a dozen rows from the screen, the better to be enveloped by the movie experience.
Now you must understand that this majestic alcazar with spiral pillars, life-size statues, crystal lobby chandeliers, and a massive curved staircase leading up to its balconies, had more than one sort of magical grip on my senses. To begin with, my father’s employer, Nordberg Machinery, held a family day at the Avalon nearly every Christmas. The employees and their kids would show up and a party of sorts would ensue with the management distributing door prizes to the wives and candy baskets to the kids. After about an hour of that an amazing thing would happen. The parents would all leave and the kids would be left in the theater for six hours of uninterrupted cartoons! Yippee! Somewhere along the line, I stopped being a kid but I never lost my affection for motion pictures. I had to be there. Every week.
At mezzanine level over the staircase, glass double doors lead from the business office onto a miniature observation balcony overlooking the lobby. From there Tony, the manager, could survey his domain. Tony was a charismatic guy, a great source of conjecture among my friends. We thought Tony dressed like a movie gangster. He was short but stocky. His dark pinstripe suits were imposing. Add to this Tony’s fedora and his stubby cigar, always jutting out of the corner of his mouth.
Then figure in the Dragon Lady! That’s what the older guys called her. She was either Tony’s wife or girlfriend, no one knew, but she was stunning! I thought she was a ringer for Katy Jurado, who played Helen Ramirez in “High Noon.” But I was smitten and nearsighted, so… When she appeared on that little balcony, all eyes turned heavenward. She wore black slinky evening gowns! With her jet black hair and full crimson lips, she was the crown jewel of the Avalon. Guys would actually loiter in the lobby in the hope that she might appear during intermission!
I could not then have predicted that in my fifteenth summer, I would find myself fidgeting in her presence. One Sunday, as I approached the ticket booth a half-hour before opening, Tony drove up and came right over to me. He said, “Hey, kid. You’re here first in line every week for years, right?” I nodded. “One of your pals says you’re an artist, right?” I nodded again. “He says you’re a real good artist. I have a job for you. Come on in. The movie’s free for you tonight.” And there we were in the theater office â€" the artist, the gangster, and the Dragon Lady! I was so intimidated that I could barely focus on the job offer. I was sure they both knew that I was forcing myself not to look at her. On their private observation balcony she was distantly beautiful, but up close she was flawless!
That’s how I got to paint two 75-foots (?) murals on either side of the theater walls above the walkways leading to the private boxes. That job granted my fondest wish many times over. For two weeks I spent every weekday completely alone in the Avalon. It was wonderful. I listened to Paul Glass on a small, portable Victrola and worked on a ladder thirty feet above the floor, slopping fluorescent paint onto the walls just below the arcing curve of the theater’s ceiling, a starry night of blinking lights against a blue-black field. I was Michaelangelo, at least until the clean-up crew arrived.
It was Tony who suggested a floral motif (I chose Narcissus flowers) and he also requested the flourescent paint. Maybe he was influenced by the Hippie movement as someone suggested above, but it would be a few years before I grew into that myself. At the time, I hung with the older beat generation that frequented the Cafe Unique or the Avant Garde, sipping Latte and snapping fingers to Dave Van Ronk or Spider John Koerner. I remember that the “black light paint” was a challenge unto itself, since it required that I first had to apply brilliant white underpaint to everything that was intended to glow. Without a white base the Day-Glo simply would not glow. But this also facilitated the final color paint process because anything that accidentally dripped onto the black wall would not reflect light! During that two weeks the theater’s side lights were left off during projection so as to subdue the odd appearance of the unfinished portions of the work.
I will never forget my first few minutes alone in the theater. It was scary. I had the keys to the boxes over the stage area where I would be storing my painting supplies during the course of the job. I remember unlocking the door and feeling about for a light switch. When I flicked the toggle I was standing face-to-face with a life-size statue of a goddess holding her hand out to me. I just about came out of my skin! I let her hold my brushes during the course of the job!
Perhaps the best thing about that episode in my early career was that it lead directly to my career. Tony allowed a young artist to see how it might be possible to get “there” from “here”. And now I am there. I eschew the Day-Glo paints now in favor of oils, and I have just retired from a three-decade career in graphic design and illustration to return to my original pursuit of fine art. With any luck I may someday catch up with it. See my work online at Hypermodern Realism.
The Avalon holds only fond memories for me and I was disturbed by the newspaper clipping sent to me by a caring aunt who remembered my fondness for the flicks. I stumbled onto this site by entering “avalon theater” and “tony” into Google’s search fields. I’m going to check in here from time to time to follow the ongoing drama and I wish the best to those whose efforts are aimed at restoring the Avalon to some semblance of its original grandeur. In an era when shoebox Bauhaus theater architecture literally screams into the ears of its older attendees, “Get out of here! FLEE! Go home!”, I can only remember the wonderful memories I have of that extraordinary venue. I even remember cuddling a few early girlfriends there, trying to get some extra mileage through boasting about my decorative efforts. The murals looked OK (if eerie) from the theater floor. Up close they were quite the sloppy mess. Before my too-dazzling murals, the standard joke was to point up at the stars and tell your date that, “This theater’s so poor, they can’t afford a ceiling!” Gradually, that poor joke became fact.
I am the artist hired by Tony Laporte in 1961 to paint the Day-Glo murals on the topside walls of the Avalon’s auditorium, and I hope critics will forgive me for my naïveté. I was 15 years old and I hope my telling of the tale will make up a little for the deed itself. Ever since childhood, I was mad for the movies. We lived in the suburb of West Allis and I attended the Avalon (or the Pix) when my folks visited an aunt who lived on Homer Street just up from where the Avalon side exit emptied out. Imagine my youthful enthusiasm when Dad bought a house on Dover Street, just two blocks away! And then imagine my complete glee when we moved to yet another house right on Homer, just a half-block from the theater!
I was so mad for the movies that with rare exception I was usually the first person in line at the Avalon box office nearly every Sunday noon from 1953 until 1964 when I graduated from Bay View High. This did not go unnoticed by Tony Laporte, who often arrived to find me standing alone waiting for the box office to open a half-hour hence. There was something about walking into that cavernous emptiness and having my pick of the seats. I always sat about a dozen rows from the screen, the better to be enveloped by the movie experience.
Now you must understand that this majestic alcazar with spiral pillars, life-size statues, crystal lobby chandeliers, and a massive curved staircase leading up to its balconies, had more than one sort of magical grip on my senses. To begin with, my father’s employer, Nordberg Machinery, held a family day at the Avalon nearly every Christmas. The employees and their kids would show up and a party of sorts would ensue with the management distributing door prizes to the wives and candy baskets to the kids. After about an hour of that an amazing thing would happen. The parents would all leave and the kids would be left in the theater for six hours of uninterrupted cartoons! Yippee! Somewhere along the line, I stopped being a kid but I never lost my affection for motion pictures. I had to be there. Every week.
At mezzanine level over the staircase, glass double doors lead from the business office onto a miniature observation balcony overlooking the lobby. From there Tony, the manager, could survey his domain. Tony was a charismatic guy, a great source of conjecture among my friends. We thought Tony dressed like a movie gangster. He was short but stocky. His dark pinstripe suits were imposing. Add to this Tony’s fedora and his stubby cigar, always jutting out of the corner of his mouth.
Then figure in the Dragon Lady! That’s what the older guys called her. She was either Tony’s wife or girlfriend, no one knew, but she was stunning! I thought she was a ringer for Katy Jurado, who played Helen Ramirez in “High Noon.” But I was smitten and nearsighted, so… When she appeared on that little balcony, all eyes turned heavenward. She wore black slinky evening gowns! With her jet black hair and full crimson lips, she was the crown jewel of the Avalon. Guys would actually loiter in the lobby in the hope that she might appear during intermission!
I could not then have predicted that in my fifteenth summer, I would find myself fidgeting in her presence. One Sunday, as I approached the ticket booth a half-hour before opening, Tony drove up and came right over to me. He said, “Hey, kid. You’re here first in line every week for years, right?” I nodded. “One of your pals says you’re an artist, right?” I nodded again. “He says you’re a real good artist. I have a job for you. Come on in. The movie’s free for you tonight.” And there we were in the theater office â€" the artist, the gangster, and the Dragon Lady! I was so intimidated that I could barely focus on the job offer. I was sure they both knew that I was forcing myself not to look at her. On their private observation balcony she was distantly beautiful, but up close she was flawless!
That’s how I got to paint two 75-foots (?) murals on either side of the theater walls above the walkways leading to the private boxes. That job granted my fondest wish many times over. For two weeks I spent every weekday completely alone in the Avalon. It was wonderful. I listened to Paul Glass on a small, portable Victrola and worked on a ladder thirty feet above the floor, slopping fluorescent paint onto the walls just below the arcing curve of the theater’s ceiling, a starry night of blinking lights against a blue-black field. I was Michaelangelo, at least until the clean-up crew arrived.
It was Tony who suggested a floral motif (I chose Narcissus flowers) and he also requested the flourescent paint. Maybe he was influenced by the Hippie movement as someone suggested above, but it would be a few years before I grew into that myself. At the time, I hung with the older beat generation that frequented the Cafe Unique or the Avant Garde, sipping Latte and snapping fingers to Dave Van Ronk or Spider John Koerner. I remember that the “black light paint” was a challenge unto itself, since it required that I first had to apply brilliant white underpaint to everything that was intended to glow. Without a white base the Day-Glo simply would not glow. But this also facilitated the final color paint process because anything that accidentally dripped onto the black wall would not reflect light! During that two weeks the theater’s side lights were left off during projection so as to subdue the odd appearance of the unfinished portions of the work.
I will never forget my first few minutes alone in the theater. It was scary. I had the keys to the boxes over the stage area where I would be storing my painting supplies during the course of the job. I remember unlocking the door and feeling about for a light switch. When I flicked the toggle I was standing face-to-face with a life-size statue of a goddess holding her hand out to me. I just about came out of my skin! I let her hold my brushes during the course of the job!
Perhaps the best thing about that episode in my early career was that it lead directly to my career. Tony allowed a young artist to see how it might be possible to get “there” from “here”. And now I am there. I eschew the Day-Glo paints now in favor of oils, and I have just retired from a three-decade career in graphic design and illustration to return to my original pursuit of fine art. With any luck I may someday catch up with it. See my work online at Hypermodern Realism.
The Avalon holds only fond memories for me and I was disturbed by the newspaper clipping sent to me by a caring aunt who remembered my fondness for the flicks. I stumbled onto this site by entering “avalon theater” and “tony” into Google’s search fields. I’m going to check in here from time to time to follow the ongoing drama and I wish the best to those whose efforts are aimed at restoring the Avalon to some semblance of its original grandeur. In an era when shoebox Bauhaus theater architecture literally screams into the ears of its older attendees, “Get out of here! FLEE! Go home!”, I can only remember the wonderful memories I have of that extraordinary venue. I even remember cuddling a few early girlfriends there, trying to get some extra mileage through boasting about my decorative efforts. The murals looked OK (if eerie) from the theater floor. Up close they were quite the sloppy mess. Before my too-dazzling murals, the standard joke was to point up at the stars and tell your date that, “This theater’s so poor, they can’t afford a ceiling!” Gradually, that poor joke became fact.