The Life and Work of Edmund Alan Fain

Beginnings: A Life That Almost Wasn’t Expected

Edmund Alan Fain entered the world in September of 1928 in Hartford, Connecticut, on Kol Nidre—the eve of Yom Kippur, the holiest day in the Jewish calendar. His arrival was, in many ways, unexpected. His mother, Belle, was 38 years old; his father, Samuel, 42. He joined a household already shaped by two older brothers and the quiet, steady pressures of a nation entering the Great Depression.

It was a time that demanded resilience. Families adapted or struggled. Belle Fain did not wait for circumstances to improve—she created her own opportunity, opening a card shop to help sustain the household. For a woman in the early twentieth century, this was no small act. It was independence, necessity, and determination all at once. Samuel worked at Pratt & Whitney in East Hartford, contributing to the industrial backbone of a changing America.

Another presence would shape the emotional fabric of the home. A young girl, Myrtle Hendrickson, came to live with the family as a cook and housekeeper at the age of fourteen. Over time, she became something far more enduring—a constant, a witness to decades of family life, and a quiet, stabilizing force who remained with Belle until her passing at ninety-seven.

Within this environment—structured, disciplined, yet quietly adaptive—Ed grew.

A Mind Apart

From an early age, Ed displayed a mind that moved differently.

He had what would later be understood as a genius-level intelligence, one that expressed itself not only in art but in literature, mathematics, and history. He could solve complex problems in his head, absorbing patterns and systems with an ease that set him apart. Yet this difference was not named, not diagnosed, not explained. In the era in which he lived, neurodiversity was neither recognized nor understood.

And perhaps because of that, much of his inner world remained his own.

Art became one of the few places where that inner world could exist freely.

The First Signs of an Artist

Ed showed an interest in art early—instinctively, persistently. But encouragement was scarce. There was no structured path laid out for him, no mentor guiding his hand. What he developed, he developed alone.

And yet, he did not stop.

He observed. He experimented. He practiced.

At fifteen, he entered a competition with a graphite and watercolor rendering of a rose in a glass vase. It was not simply a student exercise—it was an act of intention. The piece won an award. More importantly, it survived. Decades later, that same work would hang on the wall of his daughter’s studio, a quiet testament to the beginning of something much larger.

He briefly considered commercial art, but even at that age, he understood something fundamental: compromise would cost him the integrity of his vision. And that, he would not trade.

War, Loss, and Perspective

As Ed came of age, the world was at war.

His oldest brother, Joel, was captured and held as a prisoner of war during World War II. When he was finally liberated, he weighed just ninety pounds—physically diminished, but alive. Given the family’s Jewish heritage, the outcome could have been far worse.

This was not abstract history. It was personal. It lived inside the family.

Experiences like this shape perception. They deepen observation. They create an awareness of fragility, resilience, and the unseen layers beneath everyday life—themes that would quietly echo through Ed’s work in the years to come.

Education and the Expanding Mind

Ed pursued higher education at the University of Connecticut, earning degrees in History and Literature, followed by a Master’s in higher education. His academic path was broad, not narrow. He studied how people think, how societies evolve, how ideas are constructed and remembered.

At the same time, his mathematical ability remained exceptional. Numbers, like images, were systems—patterns to be understood and shaped. He would later co-author a math book, another expression of the same analytical mind that informed his art.

Yet through all of this, art remained largely self-taught.

He did not take a formal art class until he was in his forties.

Service and an Unexpected Meeting

During the Korean War, Ed served as a medical assistant near Reno, Nevada. Though not a soldier in combat, he was close enough to human vulnerability to develop a deeper interest in medicine. He considered pursuing further education in that field, but family concerns ultimately redirected him.

It was during this period that another pivotal moment occurred.

While home on leave, his brother Arthur arranged for him to meet a young woman named Evalee—known as Lee. A year later, on Halloween, they were married.

This was not simply a personal milestone.

It was the beginning of a partnership that would shape the survival of an entire artistic legacy.

A Life Built on Responsibility

Ed and Lee settled in Newington, Connecticut, where both worked as school teachers. Their life, at least outwardly, was steady. They raised three daughters. Summers were filled with additional work—selling encyclopedias, pest control, even engineering-related jobs—anything to support the family.

But beneath that structure, Ed continued to create.

Not as a hobby. Not as a pastime.

As a necessity.

The Turning Point

Around 1976, everything shifted.

Ed became entangled in a controversy within the Hartford school system—one not of his making. Despite tenure and a record of flexibility in teaching assignments, he was targeted through a series of accusations that were later understood to be part of broader institutional tensions.

The period was marked by conflict over staffing, policy, and “racial balance.” Multiple teachers were forced out. Many of them, notably, were Jewish.

The situation culminated in Ed losing his position.

What appeared to be a professional ending became something else entirely.

It was a release.

Freed from institutional constraints, Ed turned more fully toward the vision that had always existed within him. He worked various jobs, but something fundamental had changed.

He was no longer dividing himself between obligation and expression.

He was becoming, fully, an artist.

The Artist Emerges

Art was not something Ed did.

It was who he was.

It was his language, his refuge, his way of processing the world.

He worked with what he had—charcoal, oil paint, whatever materials were available and affordable. He was not precious about surfaces. Newspaper, wallpaper, plywood—if it could hold an image, it could be used.

He was constantly experimenting.

He studied faces, especially those marked by age. He once said he preferred older subjects because “you could see their character.” Youth, perhaps, held too many unformed stories. Age revealed them.

He rarely painted those closest to him. There was only one true exception—a portrait of his father, Samuel, completed two years after his passing. Some subjects were too close, too personal, to approach directly.

When asked what guided his work, Ed gave a simple answer:

“Shadow, texture, and color.”

From these elements, he could create entire worlds.

A Partnership That Preserved Everything

If Ed was the force of creation, Lee was the force of preservation.

Early in their marriage, she noticed something alarming: Ed would discard works he felt were not good enough. Pieces that, to him, were incomplete or unworthy.

To Lee, they were something else.

They were part of a larger whole.

Quietly, she began saving them.

Over the years, this act of care became a system of preservation. Works that might have been lost—works that now reveal the evolution of his technique and vision—survived because she refused to let them disappear.

The existence of the Edmund Alan Fain Collection is, in many ways, a shared creation.

Light, Space, and a New Chapter

In 1989, Ed and Lee retired early and moved to Palm Coast, Florida.

The change was immediate and profound.

The light was different—stronger, more atmospheric, more alive. It influenced his palette, his compositions, and his materials. He began working more frequently with Yupo paper, exploring sharper contrasts, fluid movement, and luminous color.

Years later, they relocated again to Florida’s Suncoast, closer to family. The environment shifted once more, and with it, his work continued to evolve.

He never stopped experimenting.

Loss and Continuation

In March of 2019, Lee passed away after a battle with cancer.

For Ed, the loss was immense.

She had been not only his partner in life, but the guardian of his work, the quiet architect of its survival.

He continued painting.

Even as the world entered the isolation of COVID-19, even as visits became less frequent, he held onto the one constant that had defined his life.

Art.

In December of 2020, after contracting the virus, Edmund Alan Fain passed away at the age of 92.

What Remains

What remains is not simply a collection.

It is a lifetime of observation, resilience, and expression.

It is the record of a mind that saw the world differently—and insisted on translating that vision into form, again and again, across decades.

It is also the result of devotion—of a partnership that ensured the work would survive long enough to be seen, understood, and shared.

Today, the Edmund Alan Fain Collection stands not only as a body of work, but as an unfolding story.

One that is only just beginning to be discovered.