National Picture Frame Manufacturing Company

Sometime after my fathers return from WW2, he got a job in a small department store called Revsin’s. He was hired to work in the tiny picture framing shop that they had. Before long, people began to realize that he had a gift for framing.

Not a lot of people know how nuanced the process really is.

When someone comes up to the counter, they usually bring some form of art. It could be a drawing, a canvas, a photo, a needlepoint or even something three dimensional that requires a drop box. There are a lot of considerations.

You’ve got to match the colors and textures of the art to the shape, profile and color of the molding, the color and texture of the mat and the type of glass. A good framer will ask questions about the style of furniture, window treatments if any, the color and tonal values of the flooring as well as the paint or wallpaper in the room where the art will hang.

A good couple of years went by and my dad was given free reign to hire a handful of brilliant craftsmen, expand the shop and make Revsin’s the place to go for framing. At the time, there was no better frame shop anywhere in Philadelphia.

In the mid 1960’s, my dad began to wonder.. Why can’t I do this for myself? Despite the success he brought to Revsin’s, his wages didn’t change much and the lion's share of the profits went to George the owner.

He went to his parents for money and his mother gave him some of her savings. She was a very funny little lady. Her name was Minnie, but we called her ‘bubba’. A spin on Bubbee or Bubbeh which means grandmother in Yiddish. The only two languages she spoke were Russian and Yiddish. She had a few mispronounced English phrases. When two people argued long enough, she would say: “So Let’s Be” (let it be), meaning that you both need to stop this already.

When my brother and I would sit there and stare at the disgusting pile of tongue, liver, entrails and bits of animal that no one should ever have to eat, next to the mountain of beets on our plates… Bubba would yell “FinDish, FinDish”. Pretty obvious what she meant, but my brother and I envisioned a shark fin sticking out of a dinner plate and laughed.

She would yell at me in Russian occasionally. I never learned it, although enough people around me spoke it that I could just about understand her and I still don’t know how. She would say something that made no sense at all, but I'd be like: Okay, you left your bag on the front seat of my dad’s car. Go get it… yeah, okay.

So my mom and dad set out to find a location that wouldn’t break the bank for rent, secured some equipment and took all of George Revsin’s clients with them... to a little storefront at 144N. 13th Street, right on the edge of Chinatown in Philly.

Now that I think about it, the Chinese New Year Dragon would come down our street. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a New Year’s celebration in one of the metropolitan cities, but it defies description. Shop and restaurant owners hang huge strands of firecrackers out front and light them. This was meant to attract the dragon. If the dragon danced in front of your store, it was considered that your shop would prosper and flourish that year. I always loved walking the street afterward. The wind would blow bits of red paper from the firecrackers around in the fall breeze and the smell of gunpowder mixed with the delicious fragrance of Chinese food.

There was an absolute powerhouse of a recording studio across the alley from my dad's shop called Sigma Sound. It was not uncommon to see members of MFSB hanging out in the alley between sessions and my family knew many of them. This was an abbreviation for the studio musicians known as ‘Mother Father Sister Brother’. They created the unique sound of Kenny Gamble and Leon Huff's enterprise: Philadelphia International Records which launched the careers of too many legendary artists to list.

There's a family photo of MFSB floating around where all the musicians are standing in the alley with their instruments and you could see my dad's beat up, faux woodgrain paneled Ford Country Squire station wagon parked behind them.

One day I heard an awful racket in the alley and opened the side door to find three women in a heated screaming match, one walloped another in the head with her pocketbook. They were the 3 Degrees. You might know their hit: 'When Will I See You Again.' aka precious moments.

Across from us was a tiny, one bay gas station which was an Atlantic Richfield or later 'ARCO'. They had a little cat that everyone felt so bad for. It was always covered in grease and could never get itself clean. There was a White Tower hamburger stand next to the gas station. It was a knock off of the famous White Castle chain. Really good burgers.

Business was good throughout the 1970’s. When I started working for my dad, I was 5 years old. I went from sweeping up to doing putty. There was a workstation with 20 or so tins of colored putty. When frames were joined at the corners, a pneumatic nail gun was used which left 2 depressed holes. The holes needed to be filled in and it was necessary to blend different colors of putty to match the color of the frames.

In short order, I became the very best at doing this. You simply couldn’t see those holes when I got done with a frame. I used the smallest amount of each putty and got it right the first time. I have a good sense of color and knew exactly which would blend for the most invisible fill.

Later in life, I went to art school and one of my minors was actually Color Theory. At one point while doing freelance design which didn’t exactly pay the bills, I got a part time job at hardware store. One of my responsibilities was mixing paint. They didn’t have optical scanners at that time, but I wouldn’t need one. I’m sure I was the only one there with an actual color certification.

My brother was a finisher. At his station, he would receive pieces that were almost done. They had already been fitted with the glass, matting, art and backer board. He had a hot glue pot and he’d brush the hot glue around the flat back section of the frame. He’d then roll brown craft paper off of big spools, onto the glue as flat as possible, run a fingernail around it so the paper would bend at the edge of the frame and cut off the excess paper with a razor blade.

He then measured the height of the sides to tap starter holes with an awl for the screw eyes that would hold the hanging wire which he would pull off other spools, cut to size, feed through the screw eyes and twist up. One last spritz with glass cleaner, wipe it down and wrap the whole thing up. He taped the invoice to the back and used a marker to write the last name of the client down the side of the package. It was placed into a rack and one of us would call the client to let them know it was done.

My mother was my dad’s book keeper. I’d say that she was the brains of the operation. She handled all the things my dad didn’t have the capacity to. Invoicing, payroll, taxes, licenses, ordering from suppliers and paying the bills. Most of the time, she worked from a shoebox of a home office but she worked at the store at least once a week.

My father was the lead fitter, his brother Marty and his brother in law Sid were the others. The fitters dealt directly with the customer, helping them choose the molding style, the matting, the glass, etc. They wrote the job up and totaled it. From there, an order went upstairs to Shep.

Shep went to Overbrook High School with my dad. When my dad started his business, he ran into Shep who was living on the streets. He knew that Shep was good with his hands, a union machinist and not only hired him, but carved out a place for him to stay on the second floor. Shep had a pull out couch, a bathroom, a hotplate a cupboard and a little TV on a milk crate. He was a soft spoken guy. He looked weathered. I’d never seen him clean shaven. He didn’t need much and was well paid for the work he did.

Shep operated the heavy equipment. We had industrial table shapers. You could combine a stack of 3 bladed cutting heads that had various profiles to create almost any shape of frame molding you could think of. Some blade stacks could rip deep, ornate profiles and other combinations could make simple square, rounded or beveled moldings. We made and stored 300 styles of our own molding. Far more than anyone else in the city. Each had an identifying number and when Shep got an order, he would pick the molding, cut it to size and spray it with the lacquer color and finish that the order indicated.

The cured sections went over to Al. Al was an Italian South Philly schlub. That might be a bit derogatory, but he had no manners and didn’t really care about anyone but himself. He had greasy black hair and a gold cornicello hanging around his neck. His gut hung out below the ribbed white tank top undershirt that bears a really unfortunate name which I refuse to use, stained slacks and two tone black and white disco loafers with a buckle and fringe. He considered himself a real ladies man. He was perhaps the grossest person I’ve ever known. My putty station was right across from his joining table so I had to listen to him spout garbage about anyone and anything all day long. The only reprieve I had was drowning him out with KYW News Radio.

He would take the 4 sections of a frame from Shep and use a pneumatic nailer to join those sections into a properly aligned, sturdy, flat and load bearing piece. He would then hand it off to me or put it on a pile of work next to my desk which I had to putty.

Al unknowingly provided my introduction to the beauty of the female body. I would see him eating a ham and mustard sandwich on his lunch break which he would invariably end up wearing on his shirt while 'reading' a magazine. When he was done, he would slide a suitcase out from under his workbench, open it, put the magazine in there, click the latches shut and slide it away.

You can guess what I discovered in there when curiosity got the better of me. Oui, Hustler, Penthouse, Juggs, Barely Legal etc. Not necessarily the best way to begin my sexplorations.

One day, a director from the Philadelphia Art Museum reached out to us. There was an exhibit scheduled around one of the most famous impressionists and in the process of hanging one of the focal works of the exhibit, two weeks before opening… the frame just disintegrated.

The wood was so old and dry rotted, and the plaster used to form the pattern just crumbled away. Apparently, they didn’t have the staff to do this kind of restoration work or any period correct frame that would match and he asked if we could do it. In those days, there were only a few shops in the entire country that did restorations on historic frames. Not like today, where museums have sterile labs where this work is done.

My dad accepted the challenge.

I watched as our staff picked apart the old frame and determined what the type of wood was, what the plaster composition was, an acceptable substitute for the horse glue, the glazing, the egg tempera paint and the splotchy bronze leafing. We ordered materials, ground our own pigments, created plaster forms from clay and formulated the bonding ourselves. We recreated marks from the back of the original and carefully hung the yellowed, barely legible paper statement from the original Paris manufacturer in an acid free plastic envelope.

The Philadelphia Museum of Art was floored with the result. We aged the frame flawlessly. It looked and felt so much like the original that no one could tell the difference. The show opened as planned and not only did the museum pay us handsomely, but we received a letter of appreciation from the board of directors.

When word got out, it was off to the races. We had at least one historic restoration work going on at any point. We moved to a bigger location at 1122 Walnut Street. To this very day, the jobs we took on still hang in the Philadelphia Art Museum, The National Gallery of Canada, The Louvre, The Walker Gallery England and The Museum of Fine Arts Boston.

We still stretched needlepoint for old ladies and framed diplomas for graduates of the 50+ colleges and universities around Philly. We also did all the framing for the Philadelphia Flyers hockey team. Back then, professional sports teams were a family affair. It wasn’t uncommon for them to send their guys out on errands after practice.

One day, Gary Dornhoefer and Bernie Parent came into the shop to pick up some work. My dad asked if they had lunch yet and offered to take them over to The Greeks, well.. we called it The Greeks, but it was really the Midtown Diner.

Me and my dad got to have lunch with Stanley Cup champions. For some reason, they really liked me and my brother. We were die hard fans and they gave us tickets to their games. Going to The Spectrum back in the day was a big deal. We got to meet all the guys and Gary gave me a game worn cup jersey which he signed for my birthday. It was hermetically sealed in one of my dresser drawers. It was my most prized possession.

Years later, I moved back to Philly from living in Seattle to find that my mom gave it to the Salvation Army along with all my other clothes. That jersey would have been worth thousands of dollars today.

Next to the shop was the Lucien Blackwell Clinic. It was a clinic that specialized in women’s healthcare for underserved, low income communities in Philadelphia. They provided professional surgical care and support for high risk childbirths and abortions for women with medical complications. The number of mothers and babies lives they saved was extraordinary.

Unfortunately, almost every week there was a heated protest with two sides of the abortion issue waving signs and screaming at each other.

My mom was walking back to the shop from lunch one day and a bunch of protesters grabbed and started pulling her away thinking she was heading into the clinic. She, kicked, punched, took two of them down and let them know with a primal scream that “THIS (pointing at our building) IS MY BUSINESS and YOU will BACK THE FUCK OFF!”. No one could have expected the fight they got.

Frank was a beat cop. A 7’4” monster of an old Irish enforcer. He would stroll down the block whistling while twirling his ancient oak baton, wearing his 8 point duty cap and his holstered 38 S&W revolver which he refused to give up when they went to 9mm. He jumped into the fray and escorted my mom into our shop, turned and let them all have it.

You have to imagine a heavy Irish brogue when you read this next paragraph. I know he's actually a Scot, but think Sean Connery's Jimmy Malone character in the movie: The Untouchables.

“Deez good people r my friends, an’ dare try'na run a business wit no help from you lot. A family business built from da ground up wit’ blood, sweat and tears. I’ll not ave' you block dare entrance or intimidate dare customers. You tought’ Evelyn was tough? I’ll crack some skulls if you don’t git cross da street… ALL OF YOU, Right NOW!”

Another thing I loved about the place is that it was practical joke central. We would fill Sid's umbrella with confetti and watch him walk out in the rain, nail a quarter to the ground in front of Marty’s desk, carefully break a pencil in 5 pieces, put it back together on my dad’s desk and watch him try to pick it up. Even our store mascot cat ‘Wazoo’ got into the act. After hours, almost every night, she would pick up little boxes of wire brad nails from Marty’s desk and carry the boxes by the flap in her teeth up the stairs and put them in a corner. We thought another one of us was responsible but not letting on until I saw this one night with my own eyes.

Down the block from us was a tavern called Moriarty’s Irish Pub. It was owned by a friend of the family named John Ferry. One of the nicest Irish pubs in town. Mahogany, brass and beveled glass. A class act that’s still there. There are thousands of pictures, historic advertisements and breweriana that line the walls and we framed a whole bunch of it. Around the top of most walls are 3 and 4up framed playbills from plays that were hosted by the Forrest Theatre which is just across the alley from Moriarty’s.

I remember the week the play Cats debuted there in 1982. There was some ordinance in Philly that prohibited the use of standard smoke machines because of a fire hazard potential, so the theatre company had to use machines that generated smoke from some type of clean oil. With only 2 hours until doors, a stage hand swung a ladder around and knocked one of these machines over, creating a huge oil slick which spread all over the stage. None of the dancers would be able to handle that slippery mess without landing on their ass.

The theatre company sent people down the street to round up volunteers, mops, towels and anything else they could find that would help. My brother and I went over to lend a hand. About 10 minutes after doors, and a full house with the curtain down, we were as done as we could be. There was only one minor controlled slide that happened which one of the actors encountered, but thankfully none of the critics noticed.

Somewhere in the mid eighties, my mom and dad decided to call it quits. There were many other frame shops which had opened. Some of them were even ‘You Do It’ places where they had all the tools available and the customer could work with a meager molding and matting selection and guidance from someone. To this day, no one in Philly has the machinery or the know how to shape and finish their own inventory of molding. They all rely on ‘Chop Service’ from companies like Larson Juhl.

What I’ve shared with you is a tiny sampling of the thousands of stories which came out of that place and I have to say that it was quite an experience. My dad was impossible to deal with, but I did my thing in my little corner and stayed out of his way.

We had master craftspeople who I learned a lot from and I’m proud of what my mom and dad built. It’s all just a wonderful smear of memories now that will disappear into the ether when my brother and I shuffle off this mortal coil.