The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

I got a friend who’s a very good sculptor. When he couldn’t find clients or galleries or museums to appreciate his work, he blamed his lack of commercial success on the dearth of culture here in the Yew Ess Aye, a nation of philistines and nabobs, according to Ed. Fine art was beyond their limited aesthetic comprehension. And probably their checkbook too.

Ed worked in classic forms mostly but he also created modern work too. I have a few of his sculptures, some bronze, some plaster castings. The man was good at his art, I’ll say that, but like a lot of us artists, not so hot at self-promotion, networking or sales, totally different skillsets. Disillusioned with the American art scene and America in general, he packed up and moved to Europe where, he was convinced, his talents would not only be appreciated but remunerated. I guess Café Society sounded its siren call, good friends, fine coffees, excellent food and wines. The guy never made another sculpture, far as I know, but he found happiness, no small substitution.

You might think Ed studied fine art in some University to learn his craft. The truth is he was a painter when he moved to Seattle and Gomorrah where he bought a city log cabin and met a cute neighbor woman who had a young daughter. Knowing Ed, the woman was the draw. But he spent hours on the living room floor playing with the kid, and one of the amusements was making stuff out of Play-Dough, lots of stuff.

Eventually Ed substituted real clay for the Play-Dough, got himself hooked on creating clay sculpture, learned how to make wax castings and cast his own work in bronze where he’d volunteered his time to apprentice free for a foundry. Say what you will about his fiscal success, this is a great story, rags to … okay, not riches, but still an inspirational story.

And maybe Ed wouldn’t agree with me on this, an archetypal American story.