There was always a door I could knock on when coming home after a taxing day on the run. It was 1B—ground floor rear of the aging midtown Manhattan building where I live—Otto's apartment. Or, I'd find him installed on the front stoop, tipping his hat (so often left behind) to passers-by, flirting, spilling coffee and dispensing wisdom.
By 2004, Otto could barely make it to his outdoor perch. I had begun to seek him out, listening at the door first to avoid barging in on the lucky members of his heterogeneous fan club who had beat me to his doorstep: admirers of his intense multimedia paintings depicting every conceivable trial and triumph of his life in the passionate facial lines of his famed self-portraits.
Otto had stories to inspire courage and make you laugh at the same time. He had become my living proof of the old adage, “Whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger.” Every nugget of wisdom he shot out was not so much advice as an order to just let go of it.
We liked to barter the contents of our cozy dens with each other. He taught me computer functions and swapped colored crayons, tattered books, and business schemes with me, all the while showing that the brain stays young indefinitely if you just keep using it. His was a toothpaste tube you could squeeze daily for endless spurts of creativity. And all this while his body was painfully collapsing under it.
How did he get up every morning? He said he had to. He confessed to being wedded to some mystical obligation to keep this contribution going. I can remember sighting him occasionally a decade ago on a distant corner of the neighborhood hawking pictures, or in a far-off part of town bent on some venture partnering business and the arts, my neighbor and ultimate Renaissance man. Now, he was virtually confined to a crescent of floor in 1B connecting his bed to his desk. I often wondered if that decline could possibly mean we'd soon lose him, but always concluded that could never happen.
Otto was fading. One day he was gone. What our friendship was about was an existential joy over every experience of life. That communication gives me a boost when I confront the inevitable onset of despair, the aches and pains to be overcome as I age myself. How I'll miss the extra support of that powerful example supplied by my neighbor in Apt. 1B.
Remembrance by Laura Eglis

Otto's Early Years World War II NewYork City Marriage Latter Years
About his artwork