| Being
an artist gives me a lot of pain, gives me a lot of trouble. And
I couldn’t be anything else. Sometimes maybe it’s unspoken,
maybe it isn’t even there, but you feel like people are baffled
or critical or something like that. You can’t explain it, and
you don’t have to. I often wonder if I could really choose, would
I do this again, because it’s so maddening. But I guess I would,
because I don’t like ordinary stuff.
My mother was very gentle, very kind—to a fault, that
she wouldn’t defend herself. My father was very fun-loving.
He was a hard worker. He also was very fair-minded and interested
in everything. He quit eventually because we lost the farm. Then
he was a tenant farmer, and then he had to quit that. It was extremely
hard to do.
They
really believed in the Golden Rule and followed it. Very honest
people. They had guts. They never gave up. They were fighters. It
was tough during the Depression. The food was scarce. The farm was
mortgaged. We couldn’t kill a chicken or cow. We could eat
the vegetables. We ate onions one winter—every way there is
to fix onions. We didn’t really feel poor, but it was just
hard to see parents like that, when they couldn’t provide.
I was very shy; I was always on the outside of this active family
looking in. I had a hard time getting attention always. There
were so many of us! Not much encouragement from the siblings—they
just want to squash you, pretty much. But sometimes I think, Gosh,
life would have been strange without them, even though they didn’t
include me in a lot of things. I was alone an awful lot, and I learned
to like that. I’ve been thinking lately that maybe nature was
a substitute for a lot of things—that I endowed nature with
qualities that I couldn’t find in people around me. I took
envelopes apart and drew on the backs of those—insides of them.
I did get a little attention over that.
I went
through tenth grade on the farm before we left that area. I had
the last two years at Central in Sioux City. Now that was an ordeal.
Town of a hundred to classes with four hundred in them. Twenty-five-hundred
kids, I think. Who was paying attention? I just had to fake it all
the time. I just had to try to fake it.
After
graduating, I worked for Dr. Wilson in the office, keeping records,
writing letters. I worked from eight till probably six, and then
half a day on Saturdays, for ten dollars a week. And then I worked
for the draft board.
During World War II, it got pretty exciting because I got
married and moved all over the country. I went to Oakland, California
with my sister, and lived by the California College of Arts and
Crafts. That was the first time I had taken any art classes, and
it was fabulous. Ali Baba—is that correct?—had a cave
full of treasures. It was kind of like that—dazzling!
I knew
there were possibilities there, because you don’t get praise
from the president of a college like that. But I couldn’t believe
it. After the war, I thought it was my duty to come back home and
be a regular person. I just had never had any belief in myself.
No self-confidence. So I slammed the door on that and never looked
back. I wouldn’t dare. But it is hard for me to even think
about. That you could see what you were, and you had to deny it—or
you thought you had to. I think maybe it was like, “Why should
I have what I want when, for example, my parents worked so hard
and they ended up losing it all to get nothing out of it. Who am
I?” I can’t make any sense out of it otherwise. I just
didn’t have any self-confidence. Or I felt like I had no right
to it.
My
husband finished school up at Westmar, and then he taught in Mapleton.
After that I had a baby—the first one. Then he went back into
the Air Force as a recruiter. And things just totally fell apart.
There was no together, no nothing. No marriage. We were divorced.
I went to New York City with my sister for awhile. Then I came back
here, and I worked at the Sioux City Journal, and I married the
farm editor. It was a farm weekly magazine, and he was the editor.
By then I had decided to be a watercolorist, because it drove
me nuts. I couldn’t handle it and I, being German, said,
“I have to do this!” I used to actually cry at times,
it was so hard. But once you get the hang of it, it is so much fun.
I loved it, for many years.
I had
three more children. I kept painting through the whole thing, but
I was kind of torn. I wanted the children, but I also wanted to
be painting. And Jeffrey, that’s Marc’s and my first child,
he has Spina Bifida and also Fragile X chromosome, which causes
retardation. So that was hard, very demanding—especially at
that time, there was nothing.
They
all are interested in art, but they don’t do it much. Chris
did some in Iowa City, he did silkscreening and pottery, and he
loved it, but he didn’t keep it up. But they all appreciate
it. And they have good taste, because it’s like mine! I have
seven exceptional grandchildren. They love art. I see a lot of traits
come out in them that I didn’t see in my own children. And
that’s wonderful.
My
second husband died in plane crash in Minnesota. It was a bad time.
A real bad time. A short while I worked for lawyers. And then I
went to school, and then I taught art for a couple of years in public
school. Other than that I taught art on my own or maybe at the Art
Center.
I went through a time when I just stumbled onto doing things
from a totally unconscious point. Now I think it’s a combination—conscious
and unconscious. And I like that all right, but it’s work—oils
and acrylics. Whereas watercolor was always fun—once you catch
on to it, I mean. Using acrylics at the moment, but I don’t
really like them that much. I need a studio, that’s all.
It
was purely visual at first. Now, it’s hardly visual at all.
I mean, I don’t have to look at anything; I usually don’t
look at anything. Now, my favorite pieces are figurative, whereas
it used to be pretty much landscape. They will have emotion in them,
and maybe they’re kind of symbolic—not conventional symbols
but actually the viewer has to see what they see in it.
I’ll
just get an idea sometimes. It starts with an idea. I have never
done small sketches as a preliminary to painting. I just start painting,
win or lose. Sometimes paintings kind of paint themselves. Sometimes
it’s good, and sometimes I wonder, where did this go? You wouldn’t
want anything to be that certain, I guess.
It takes absolutely blocking out the things you have to do,
especially when you work at home. If you cared about the dust and
the dirt and the dishes, you would never paint. Never. So, you have
to brave out either criticism or what you think what might be criticized
and forget it.
I’m
not motivated. It’s just I won’t die—I guess I get
that quality from my folks, and it’s, “Don’t quit.”
I’m not used to rewards enough to figure it into the equation.
You know, just do it whether the world rewards it or not. If it’s
been awhile, I’ll just paint anything—maybe the lamp or
anything. Just start something. That does it for me. Because if
you’re going to think, “Oh God, I have to do a wonderful
painting,” you will stay blocked.
I’ve always been an Iowan. It was, when I did watercolors,
very, very much a part of the process. Now it’s almost like
something I have to fight. I just think in general, in the whole
United States, there isn’t a whole lot of interest in art.
And the Midwest is certainly not your big crashing leader in the
art world, although it’s got its moments. But it’s not
ever easy here. In the sense of a positive support, there’s
not much. But there’s also not a lot of negativity. So, that’s
all right.
If
an artist is what you are, then go for it—don’t give the
excuse that you have to work in an office. So did Franz Kafka, you
know. Don’t be looking for excuses. If you’re going to
go for it, you still have to be willing to sacrifice. It’s
not just a romantic notion. It’s true. If you’re going
to go for the money, if you’re going to go for, “will
this sell?”—which I never heard of when I was learning
art, and I still can’t get used to it. “Did you sell anything?”
That total concentration on selling, I just don’t like it.
Once you get into it, it’s pretty hard to get out of.
I
followed the muse, never aimed at selling.
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