//metrognome logo -- 11/25/02/

I learned everything I needed to know about art from LeRoy Neiman.

I'm not talking about technique; any artist can tell you how to throw paint on a canvas. I'm talking about
 life. I'm talking about recognition. I'm talking about fame.

"You know how I gauge success?" Neiman told me. "I haven't paid for a meal or a cigar in 30 years!"

Ridicule if you like. You won't be the first. Over the years, Neiman -- who is as famous for his color-mad
 paintings of sports heroes as he is for his Dali-inspired handlebar mustache -- has been lambasted as "the
 visual equivalent of an overbearing lounge band" or "jock-schlock."

It has been said that Neiman's is the kind of work that should be hanging in a steakhouse. Well, now it is. The
 other day, Gallagher's celebrated its 75th anniversary by clearing away some ancient photos of guys in bowlers
 and waistcoats from a prominent spot near the bar to make room for 10 of Neiman's most-famous prints.

The new "LeRoy Neiman Collection" will feature, among others, Neiman's verdant green take on Joe Namath, his
 dark, brooding Casey Stengel, his mustard-yellow John McEnroe and his fiery red portrait of Secretariat (the
 only animal in the collection, unless you count Stengel).

At an event to mark the occasion last week, I asked Neiman if he was honored by the permanent display. Judging
 by his reaction, honor is not a dish on LeRoy Neiman's table.

"The agreement was that they could have the prints as long as I eat complimentary -- with beverages," Neiman
 said. "And they are living up to that arrangement."

That left it up to others to put the tribute in context -- although the tastes of the sportscasters and writers
 on hand are typically limited to the free booze and steaks they were enjoying at the restaurant's expense.

Burt Sugar, the boxing commentator, had only sour words for Neiman's critics. "Other artists hate him because
 he's popular," Sugar said. "The man on the street can't even spell 'art,' but he knows LeRoy Neiman. Other
 artists resent that."

True, some of Neiman's friends are critics. One friend recalled an Olympic games a few years back when Neiman's
 prints were on display. After a long drinking bout, a sportscaster was returning to his room when he happened
 upon Neiman's portrait of the weightlifter Vassily Alexeyev, known for his bulging Soviet-issued red leotard.
 "My god," the wobbly sportscaster said, looking up at Neiman's tomato-hued mural, "did someone blow up the
 pizzeria?"

I found Sugar, who dismissed the story as just a bon-mot made under the influence. "LeRoy Neiman is our
 modern-day Hogarth," he said, referring to the 18th-century artist who chronicled life in the 18th century.
 "If LeRoy painted you, you obviously were somebody."

I couldn't leave without asking Neiman why he devoted his career to chronicling the rich, the famous, the
 athletic giants of our society rather than casting his keen eye to the less-fortunate.

"You don't paint the bench, kid," he told me, lighting up one of those eight-inch cigars (with Neiman, a cigar
 is never just a cigar). "Paint the stars. They're better subjects."

And you'll never pay for a meal.

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