My Father

When I was growing up It was often quipped, "I don't know where you got your artistic ability." This was generally said by my mother after looking at my sketches and drawings. This continued up into college I think, this particular phrase. However, after I graduated and nearing the time for my dad to retire, I think I learned exactly where I got this talent from.

My father worked hard while I was young to pay for things and save up some money to put me through college later. One incident that comes to mind while growing up that always seems to emphasize this is during one winter my dad worked many doubles in a row. He worked in the Steel Mill as a welder at the time and when my mother asked me if I wanted to speak with my dad on the phone, I jokingly asked, "Who's that?" He often stayed at my Grandmother's because after a double shift driving the winding roads of the mountains can be dangerous when tired.

As I went into middle school, I didn't seem to follow in his footsteps except for one thing, Music. Dad played Guitar, Piano, Organ, Accordian, and more I'm sure, but that was what I knew him to play. I picked up the Saxophone, but at least it was music. I practiced often, imitating the delicate mating call of the Great Northen Moose, but he was proud, I'm sure. After all it was he who taught me to read music and he did his best to teach me to play the keyboard, of which I'm still trying to do well. Music and Art however are often considered separate and I did not recognize the subtle creativity with which he made life easier, so where did I get that particular talent to create art?

Into high school I participated in theater, and eventually found art. I left music behind and learned to read French instead. During this time, I think, I remember him showing me a small metal scale model of a new ductwork system for the mill. As he explained how the ducts worked I glanced briefly to the left to see a metal sphere that appeared to be constructed with silver orange peels and welded together at various points. After asking what it was, it was explained to me that it was just something he did.

Although I'm sure it's not the first bit of art he had done I think it is the first small experiment of my father playing with materials at hand. It was simple, elegant, rough around the edges, but something amazing. High school gave way to college and I petitioned my dad to help me with large art projects like a door frame construction that you could stand in and close the door to see by a red light, painted stairs and mysterious message. He helped me hold together a butterfly box with wooden butterflies and beetle wing like doors that hid the thick rough edged cut outs. He stood by and watched as I spray painted an old rusty tricycle red and yellow and attached broken cords to.

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