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Photographs by Sarah Carmody
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Doctor on bike
If you think doctors spend all their free time on the golf course, think again—or hang out with Dr. Bob Waxler. An orthodontist, he sees similarities between his chosen occupation, which involves bending a lot of wire, and his preoccupation with shaping “junk” into art. For years now, he’s been affixing tiny metal brackets to tooth enamel by day and fashioning heavy metal—bicycle frames, computer parts, transmission cases—into whimsical sculptures by night.
“I’ve always hated to throw things away,” says Waxler, whose garage is chockablock with water pumps, heating ducts, old lamps and springs—some he’s scavenged, others contributed by friends and office staff. Sometimes, even he admits, the collection can get a bit out of hand. Take, for instance, the time a neighbor called to relate the day’s events: “The bad news is that I just ran over my kid’s bike in the driveway. The good news is that it’s now on your front porch.”
A fan of minimalist art, Waxler says that inspiration struck at least a dozen years ago. “I began tinkering with ways to bolt or screw different items together,” he says. Slowly, in the tradition of such “found object” artists as Marcel Duchamp and Louis Nevelson, Waxler began to create themed series—sculptures that mainly comprised bicycle pieces or computer disks, for example.
The collection has grown to include what he calls his “Ballbot” series (little robotlike creatures made up of electric boxes, pool balls and plumbing supplies), his “Fish” series (shiny creatures fashioned from heating ducts) and, most recently, his “Bug” series, made of old dental instruments such as tweezers, pliers and drills.
Though friends have been known to commission pieces, most of Waxler’s sculptures wind up as table décor or wall art in his home and office, where teenage patients often give them names such as “Cyclops” or “Hoopman.” Not one to take himself too seriously, Waxler has also been known to take apart a completed sculpture and reassemble it in a different way when he gets the hankering.
“None of this is sacred,” he says, gesturing to the doorknobs, ski poles and exercise equipment that clutter his workspace and await his deft hand and droll humor to turn them into one-of-a-kind pieces.
Ophthalmologist Jack Hartstein is hardly one to spend his weekends taking it easy. Try Easy Rider, instead. Hartstein revs up his motorcycle at 6:30 a.m. every Sunday with some 60-odd members of Jack’s Pack, the biking club he started early in his 43-year practice. Each week a designated leader takes the group, which meets at the corner of Route 141 and Olive Boulevard, on a two-hour mystery ride, maybe to visit Pere Marquette State Park in Illinois or to explore Union or Waterloo—and always to stop for breakfast along the way.
Although Hartstein admits that “being a motorcyclist is among the seven most dangerous occupations,” he won’t stop.
“First, riding a motorcycle is a great way to get close to nature,” he says. “Missouri is a beautiful state, but experiencing it while driving in a car is like watching scenery on TV.” Then there’s the relaxation: “When you’re taking all the twists and turns, you have to concentrate. You can’t think about anything else—no past, no future, only the ride.”
Finally there’s the camaraderie—with more than other physicians. Jack’s Pack includes an interior designer, a stockbroker, a molecular biologist and a builder, not to mention Richard Meyer, president of Webster University. “You get to know people from all walks of life,” Hartstein says, “and wonderful friendships develop over time.”
Speaking of time, Hartstein has another hobby that keeps him occupied when the weather isn’t conducive to motorcycling. “I love to tinker with broken watches,” he says. “It involves a lot of fine work—sort of like repairing eyes.”
When they’re not at the hospital, both pathologist Marshall Poger and radiologist David Gierada reach for more artistic instruments.
Poger, a violinist, began his studies at age 7, though his practice time was sporadic throughout college, med school, internships and residencies. About 15 years ago, he began taking regular lessons from Russian émigré Lazar Goffman; 10 years ago, Poger formed a trio with physicians Christian Wessling on piano and David Alpers on cello, and the group started staging musicales for friends and families in Poger’s Webster Groves home. Bitten by the performance bug, Poger became the first male inducted into the Chaminade Music Club. Now he plays in the University City Symphony Orchestra as well.
“Music is a large part of my life, but I wouldn’t call it relaxation,” he says dryly. “It’s a discipline that takes lots of patience and hard work.” For real downtime, Poger turns to another medium, architecture, organizing trips to the structures of favorite master builders Frank Lloyd Wright, Richard Neutra and Eric Mendelsohn.
Gierada, a longtime guitarist who played in a blues combo throughout his residency in Milwaukee, was inspired to learn another instrument when his two daughters started taking piano lessons. He picked bass (“It’s similar to guitar, so I figured I had a head start”) and has taken lessons for several years from Saint Louis Symphony musician Don Martin. The practice has paid off: He’s now a member of the Lionsgate String Ensemble and performs with the group everywhere from nursing homes to Plaza Frontenac. He even played on the street during the
St. Louis Marathon, which brings us to another passion: running. Though Gierada says he just tries to “do the cardio thing,” he’s been known to run at least a few 10Ks a year.
Perinatologist and race-walker Jaye Shyken is far more competitive: She has participated in 21 marathons in 21 states since 1997, when she joined the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society’s “Team in Training” and did her first 21.2-mile walk in Big Sur, Calif. Now, she says, her life’s goal is “to do a marathon in every state and the District of Columbia by the time I’m 100.”
“I’m an adult-onset athlete,” says Shyken. “I started walking at 5:15 a.m. with friends about 10 years ago, purely for physical and mental-health reasons. It was a way to get some weight-bearing exercise, burn some calories and socialize with other working moms, all at the same time.”
Before long, Shyken’s compulsive nature took over—she started wearing a heart monitor, carrying weights and keeping computerized records of her times and mileage. Now a member of the Racewalkers Club of St. Louis, she routinely logs several hour-long walks during the work week and two- to four-hour walks on weekends, preparing for races held everywhere from Anchorage, Alaska, to Burlington, Vt.
“Even I can’t believe I do this sometimes; it seems kind of insane,” Shyken says with a laugh. “But I find solitary walks to be meditative, and marathon walks are a great way to see the country and hang out with other people who do what you do.”
General surgeon David Berwald parlayed a more static passion, for rock collecting, into a way to see the world. As a young father, he took his three kids all over the country—Oregon, Arizona, Texas, California, Colorado, Mississippi—on treasure hunts for geodes, opals, agates, star garnets, topaz, quartz crystals and the like. Now he’s continuing the tradition by searching for everything from diamonds to dinosaur fossils with his grandchildren.
Berwald (a.k.a. the Rock Doc) first wandered into a gem-and-mineral show in Savannah, Ga., where he was stationed with the U.S. Army. “I must have had a latent interest in it,” he says. “Almost as soon as I started my practice in St. Louis, I discovered B&J Rock Shop and learned how to cut stones.”
A basement avocation was born. For years, Berwald explored old mines, riverbeds and gravel bars in the summer and spent the winter cutting and polishing stones, even fashioning jewelry for his wife from his treasure trove. His partner in crime was his father-in-law, Abe Bookman, inventor of the Magic 8-Ball and a true tinker at heart. Until he was 95, Bookman puttered alongside Berwald in his subterranean workshop.
“Nothing is more important for families than spending time together, and for me, rockhounding is a means to that end,” says Berwald. “My wife used to say she never needed to worry about where I was or what I was doing after hours. The only fooling around I ever did was in the basement with my rock collection.”
Among St. Louis doctors, the ultimate collector may be dermatologist Jerome Aronberg. Though he started amassing baseball cards as a kid, his first real collection began when his uncle gave him a political campaign button reading “Ike and Dick, Sure to Click” during the 1952 presidential election. Since then, Aronberg has accumulated hundreds of buttons—many displayed in his office examining rooms—that portray more than two centuries of the American political process.
Aronberg also collects fabric art, rotating quilt displays throughout his office on a monthly basis—except for his pizza quilt, that is. It’s his signature piece, a permanent installation quite popular with patients.
Then there are his 650-odd pieces of Red Wing pottery—casseroles, nesting bowls, bottle warmers, Christmas-tree stands—produced in Red Wing, Minn., from the 1880s through the 1960s. That obsession began when Aronberg was an intern in Iowa and accompanied a fellow medical student to an antiques auction.
“ Since Nash was a Missourian, I thought it might be nice to keep the Show-Me tradition going,” explains Aronberg.
“At the time, I was collecting old crank-box telephones, but I was impressed by the fact that my new kitchenware was falling apart after six months’ use and here were all these 100-year-old crockery pieces in perfect condition,” remembers Aronberg. “I bought a phone, and, as part of the deal, I asked the guy to throw in a two-gallon crock that I intended to use as a waste can.”
Red Wing won his admiration, but he’s most passionate about his Donald Duck collection, which was sparked by a friend’s gift—a hand-colored studio portrait of Donald, circa 1935, that looked very different from the contemporary cartoon duck.
“I was always a Donald Duck fan, but I was fascinated by this picture in particular: Donald had a very long face; he almost resembled a pelican,” says Aronberg, who immediately began researching—and accumulating—other vintage Donald Duck pieces. Today he’s the owner of a world-class collection that includes pull toys, coloring books, salt and pepper shakers, belt buckles, race cars and umbrellas. Part of his collection recently went on display at Kansas City’s Crown Center. And Donald has become such an integral part of Aronberg’s life that when the man behind Donald’s original voice died in 1988, Aronberg flew to L.A. to audition for the role.
“Since he was a Missourian, I thought it might be nice to keep the Show-Me tradition going,” explains Aronberg.
He finished second to Tony Anselmo.
Drs. Fred and Anita Chu (he’s a neuro-ophthalmologist; she’s a neurologist) have a tradition of their own, bringing home the gold in dozens of national student ballroom-dance competitions.
It all started in 1993, when they were persuaded to perform the rumba as part of a medical-association Christmas show. “It was fun, so afterward we just decided to take a few classes from Stan Collins at U Can Dance Studio,” recalls Fred Chu.
Those lessons turned into an obsession; soon the Chus were quick-stepping their way across the country, accumulating several closets full of custom-made costumes along the way. Among the highlights? Performing at the Ohio Star Ball, the most prestigious student exhibition in the United States.
“ It’s been a great experience; we joke that we are physicians until 6 p.m. and dancers until midnight,” says Fred.
When they’re not competing, the Chus cut a rug at the Casa Loma, the Ritz-Carlton, the Ameristar Casino in St. Charles and the Focal Point. In the last few years, they’ve broadened their repertoire with tango lessons in Argentina and samba sessions in Brazil.
“It’s been a great experience; we joke that we are physicians until 6 p.m. and dancers until midnight,” says Fred. “Dancing has facilitated our communication as a couple, and it’s gotten us through some rough spots, like my cancer diagnosis in 1995.” He smiles. “What could be better in life than dancing with your wife?”
