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Memories of A Piece of Steel by Mark Ebner (friend and former student) (with intro. by Michael Malpass, the artist's eldest son) Malpass was one to choose his friends wisely. He held the belief that honesty and loyalty, combined with a sense of humor and kind heart were the key ingredients in his definition of the word friendship. "If you can find one good friend in this world consider yourself lucky. If you can find two, consider yourself blessed," is what he used to say. Mark Ebner was that "good friend" to Malpass. Mark and Michael were entirely opposite people. In Mark's garage, tools were hung up, nails were in jars (and labeled), and the lawnmower would be pre-gassed and ready to go. The Malpass garage looked like Sanford and Son. Twisted hunks of metal, anvils, buoys, vices, gantry's, and old sculptures all had a place in the Malpass backyard. It was a metal graveyard. If one of his children was asked to get him a particular tool from the garage, it would be an all day event. Even though this may have bothered most people, he knew exactly where everything was. It always amazed me how a man that could be so messy, could create these beautiful, symmetrical shapes. Most people that knew Michael had a story to tell about him. I will never forget the one Mark told me... It was a bitterly cold, winter day in Brooklyn. I found myself in an unheated, one story garage space on the edge of Park Slope. It was time to sort for shapes. Allen (friends called him Allen) and I had taken a bus to Blue Star Scrap Metal. We stood for hours sorting 55-gallon drums filled with various shapes of metal. The only source of heat was a kerosene fired heater, which, if it was making a difference, was not clearly evident. The conversation and sorting continued and I still remember how cold and pained my feet were. I wish I could remember the conversation but I'm sure it included: army stories, fishing stories, or art moving stories. I do specifically remember how the both of us were impressed and astonished by a piece of equipment inside the garage. It was a power shear that was nothing short of frightening. Bobby (?), the owner, was using the shear to cut long lengths of steel into short nuggets. This machine was so powerful that it was slicing ¾"x 1-1/2" bar steel into chunks without any effort. Bobby, a powerhouse himself at 250 lbs.+, was lifted into the air with each passing of the shear's blade through the flat stock. Both Allen and I had attempted to cut steel of equal size using hack saws and understood the raw power that this machine exhibited. Out of respect and fear we never performed sorting with our backs to that machine. Along with the memory of that day, I took home a nugget of that steel and I still have it. Seeing and touching the chunk reminds me of that cold day when two friends found joy in the task and company. To this day, there are so many things that touch a nerve and engage memory cells that are sometimes easier to leave "off" than deal with the thoughts. Frankly, I'm not sure how you and the family have been able to survive the pain that pleasant memories must bring. I hope that someday you'll visit, touch, remember, and smile at the memories of a cold and rusted piece of steel.