Kansas City Art Institute
Hard Times And Dreams Of A Future
My Sophomore & Junior Years were my Dark Years
I was out of sync at the Art Institute. I started my sophomore year as a second-semester freshman. I was the new student and everyone else had settled in.
Many of my engineering credit hours from the University of Missouri - Rolla did not fit in the Art Institute's curriculum. I needed to make up a whole semester's worth of credits in the next three summers in order to graduate on schedule. To catch up, I attended summer school every summer. The summer after Rolla, I attended Florissant Valley Community College. I didn't mind as I found classes challenging and fun. I earned an 'A' in class. I enrolled in the basic academic classes I'd need for my BFA. I always chose early morning classes as then I could work the rest of the day trying to earn next semester's needed funds.
Between Rolla and my first year at KCAI I lived with my mother and my four siblings in their two-bedroom apartment. I slept on the sofa. Every day I got up early went to school then on to work. I worked as many hours as I could. I was hardly ever at home. When I was home, I'd talk with my mother and would try to help her through those hard times. Sometimes I'd visit my father and talk with him. It was hard going between the two of them. On payday, I'd give 10% of whatever I made to my mother to help her out, the rest I saved for school costs.
When I arrived at KCAI in the fall, I was expecting to start as a sophomore, the school had other ideas, they decided that I needed to be 'introduced' to the ways and methods of their school. I started as a second-semester freshman. I was the only one.
Their freshman program was called 'Foundations". Normally it was two semesters long. The program gave each incoming freshman student a sample of most of the different departments so that the student could have a better idea as to what to major in. Starting late, I got just one semester of Foundations. I had a lot of catching up to do.
In my first semester, I was able to visit most departments for about a week or so. It was supposed to be a chance to sample what was offered in each discipline.
The week I spent visiting the Design Department was confusing. I was ignored. I never even met an instructor and the students there acted as though I was a visitor. I was ignored.
The situation was repeated in the Sculptor, Ceramics, and several other departments. The instructors and students in those departments were all busy doing their own thing.
It was a little better in the Photography Department. The photography department's instructor threw me in with the rest of his classes, and just expected me to catch up. I was a semester behind. I only recall a few lectures. Several students took me under their wing and helped me. It was OK. I learned a lot about photography in a hurry. I actually learned how to take good pictures, learned how to process black and white film, and print my own pictures in the darkroom. What I learned, stuck. I still use what I learned back then, today.
I felt comfortable in the Woodworking Department. I learned a lot under the tutelage of instructor John Kraighauser. He was a very good teacher. He constantly would pass on many small but meaningful bits of information that he discovered through his years of working in wood. I've never hurt myself working with power tools. Over the years, I've used my woodworking skills more than anything else I've ever learned. I enjoy building things.
I loved drawing classes, printmaking, and painting. I had a chance to get to know most of the instructors and some students. I spent most of my time at the Art Institute in these classes.
It seems funny that I spent three years there and I can only recall a few instructor's names.
I decided to major in painting with a second emphasis on printmaking.
I studied printmaking under the chairman of the printmaking department, Bill McKim. Bill was a character. He always had a cigarette in one hand, ashes constantly would fall on everything around him. He smelled like an ashtray. However, he knew his stuff. I liked him. Whenever I had an issue with one of my stone lithographs, he'd immediately knew how to fix it. I learned to love and appreciate the process of making original prints. One late evening while working on a lithographic stone, Bill stopped by to see my progress. In our conversation I discovered that he was a friend of Thomas Hart Benton. I loved Benton's work. Bill offered to introduce me to Mr. Benton. Bill set up the meeting for late January. Unfortunately, Tom Benton died a few days before our meeting. Missing the opportunity of meeting with Thomas Hart Benton is one of the saddest events of my life.
I've always found it gratifying to work with my hands. I guess the proof is in the results. I worked hard on my printmaking and drawing skills and I constantly improved. By my senior year, two of my original stone lithographs were selected to be included in the Senior Student Traveling Art Show. The selected works were sent around the nation to all the participating Union of Independent Art Schools. It was a great honor. I was in outstanding company. Sadly, in the end, those prints were never returned to me. I've always wondered what happened to them.
As a painting major, I was selected by Wilbur Neiwald, the chairman of the painting department, to study under him. I studied oil painting and drawing. I have fond memories of him. Wilbur loved, admired, and painted like Cezanne. It took me a while to shed his influence. In his classes, I drew many figure studies, painted lots of geraniums, landscapes, and self-portraits. Wilbur had a funny habit of 'fixing' his students' paintings. He'd rotate around the class stopping at each student's easel. He'd sit down, study the sill-life, ask for a 'nice round brush', and repaint, and reposition everything in the painting. As expected, students would let out a gasp as Wilbur would completely demolish their weeks' work. My hard work was not exempted. I guess Wilbur forgot that live plants continually move toward the light as the day goes on. We'd start painting in the morning, he'd come to review our work in the afternoon. The live still-life had moved.
My sophomore and junior years were basically a repeat. I'd get up early every morning and clean and empty trash cans in the painting department building. It was hard, dirty work. The cans were heavy and always filled with oily, wet used oil paints, unwanted still-life materials, and all sorts of stuff.
I'd go to life drawing class every day from 8:30 till noon. I'd dash home for some sort of lunch then return to either my painting studio or my printmaking studio. I'd work till dark when the light faded. I'd head home and find something to eat then read a little before falling asleep. These were lean times, rent was relatively expensive and I had little money left for food. I weighed between 145 - 150 pounds.
I worked weekends at the gas station for about $1 per hour. I'd head there right after my final class on Friday and work as many hours as I could over the weekend. I'd work a double shift, drive home, go to sleep and repeat until late Sunday. Sunday evening I'd fall exhausted into bed, get some rest and start over again on Monday morning. It was always the same. I had no time or money for a social life.
I stayed in KC the following two summers. I rented a small room in the upper level of an old lady's house to save money. I was fed up trying to find a reliable roommate. It was a long walk to the campus.
I took early morning summer classes the next two summers at Penn Valley Community College just as I did in St Louis. I enjoyed those classes and earned "A's" there too. I worked every shift that I could. Living was expensive and my old car kept breaking down.
Near the end of each of those two summers, I'd beg for a few days off from work so that I could go home to St Louis. I was very lonely and I missed my family. I'd scrape up gas money and force that old car across the state back to St Louis. Just seeing my family for two or three days reenergized me. We'd catch up and re-connect. I'd always feel a bit depressed driving back to KC. I knew the next year would not be any better it would be hard. I missed my family and I was lonely.
These were my "Dark Years".
I think my next story might be about my old car. It was a rolling disaster.
Another story would be about my landlady. Renting a room from her was interesting.
That's all till next week.
