Intended Publication: Harper's
The morning I met David Elhart, I
overslept.
While digging through my closet, I called
to tell him I was running late. “Oh, don’t worry about it, Paula. You sound just
like our granddaughter- she’s always staying up late and reading. Well, we’re sitting
in the middle here, so when you come inside, just look confused and we’ll flag
you down.”
Frantic with the realization that I had
no clean clothes, I didn’t think to ask David who the “we” was.
I settled on a dress that smelled like
the restaurant where I had worn it last. I thought it was too short to be
considered professional, but funky enough to wear when meeting an artist.
Artists
like funky clothes, right?
Well, David would, I assumed. With the
bold colors and loud shapes of his paintings, I figured he was all about funky.
I had some sense of his political views,
too. During our first phone call, he warned, “Just don’t get me started on
George Bush, ok?”
As I ran inside Water Street, the place I
had first seen David’s artwork, I realized I didn’t know who I was supposed to
be looking for. I must have looked confused enough though because I was
immediately flagged down.
The “we” was David and Rose, a married
couple in their late sixties. David was dressed in a tee shirt, jeans, and a
baseball cap. His full beard and glasses reminded me of my own grandpa. Rose
has short curly hair and a kind, open face. She wore a bright blue windbreaker
with a button of her granddaughter’s track picture right next to her
heart.
Despite my lateness, they still asked if
I wanted anything to eat before we got started. After politely rejecting their
offer, we decided to move to a more quiet space in the other room. We situated
ourselves in a row, sitting in three leather armchairs. The back room featured
a different artist’s work, which David admired. He said, “Whoever painted these
is good. Just look at those glasses!”
I sat facing David. He angled himself slightly
forward, while Rose sat far away enough to look over both of us. I began by
asking when David first became interested in art.
He says, “ Before I got a real job,
before I got married...45 years ago.”
“46”, Rose says, correcting David, “46
years ago.”
Rose was a reliable source for all the details
David didn’t remember.
“When’d we move here?” David asks.
Rose pauses from texting her
granddaughter to answer, “October of ’77.”
With her ability to retain dates, it
makes sense Rose is in charge of the administrative part of David’s art. When
joking about her what her job entails, she says, “I keep him in line”.
David and Rose first lived in Milwaukee,
where David received his Associate’s Degree from Milwaukee Technical College
and his Bachelor’s Degree from the University of Wisconsin. They moved to Iowa
in ’74—thanks to the G.I. Bill, David could simultaneously work and study at
the University of Iowa.
“I worked in the research field for 40
years. I’ve been painting since I retired 3 years ago.”
“4”, Rose says without looking up from
texting, “It’s been 4 years.”
Rose apologizes for being on her phone. Their
family is going through a hard time right now—their son is getting a divorce,
and him and his daughter are staying at their house. Even with the distraction,
however, she doesn’t miss a beat when David or I ask her questions.
She tells me, “He doesn’t stop painting.”
After working in pharmacological research
for 40 years, David has his own studio in their basement. Yet, as he explained
earlier, his interest in art is an old one. He had taken a few art classes at
the University of Iowa and received training at the Layton School of Art in
Milwaukee. Before securing a research job, he did government contract work and
illustrated engine parts. His art had to wait out of necessity, however. It was
a pragmatic decision that came down to having to pay the bills. “I needed to
eat, and being an artist wasn’t going to get it.”
Rose chimes in, “We had a baby.”
David doesn’t want to talk about his work
in research, but he shares that he was an animal welfare specialist, and he
taught and wrote for twenty years.
“You did a great job teaching,” Rose
says. “Didn’t Steve just thank you the other day at breakfast?”
“He sure did. That was very nice of him.”
Through his work, David got to travel to
Japan in 1991 for one month, and took Rose with him when he went again in 2001
and 2006. He mainly went to learn the methods they use in their research. He
describes Japan as “one large extended family. They’re very community
oriented.”
Although both David and Rose speak fondly
of Japan, they would never move there because all their family is in Michigan. David
says, “Japan is so clean...the people are so courteous.” Rose reminds David of
the time they got lost, and a man walked them the two miles back to their
hotel. “I can only speak a little Japanese, but we had the card with the name
of the hotel on it,” David explains.
David also talks about the Hiroshima
Peace Park. He describes two theatres that “show footage you would never see in
this country.” David is consistent and honest with his political views. Yet, although
they are an important part of him, he only subtly incorporates them in his
paintings. “I don’t set out to be political. I set out to create another place.
Unless you read the titles, you might not even know.” For example, his
painting, titled “To Joe From Harry”, is about the message Harry Truman wanted
to send Joseph Stalin with the bombing of Hiroshima. David says, “The message
was to the Russians about who was going to be in charge of the world after the
Second World War.” Admittedly, when David’s artwork initially caught my eye, I
hadn’t noticed the political undertones of his paintings.
In continuing to talk about his art, he
repeats the theme that it’s not from a deep, philosophical message. He says the
endpoint is to have fun. “I kind of paint blindly”—he explains that nothing
about his art is pre-planned, and it’s more of a sum of his thoughts.
Without
me bringing it up, he also speaks about his age, “People who don’t know me
anticipate a younger person.” It’s true—when I first saw David’s paintings, I pictured
the artist as young and hip: apparently my mind can't wrap itself around an
older man creating vivid pop art that pays homage to the likes of Andy Warhol
and Jackson Pollock. I comment on David’s distinct style and he agrees, “I
think it’s different—different enough to be something new. I’m creating
something nice while supposedly breaking rules—like you’re not supposed to use
a ruler.”
David’s work is an intriguing balance of
technical art and the fine arts—he attributes the mix to his past work, which
involved him being very precise. He thinks his technicality adds to the story
telling capability of his artwork. David’s favorite types of stories to tell
are about things that reflect memory. He asks me if I know of a very old and
deserted paper mill in Vicksburg. With a sense of awe in his voice, he
describes staring at the building and wanting to ask it, “Please, tell me what
went on here...even though the building can’t talk. The older [the building]
the better.”
Or on a trip to Ellis Island, he became
wrapped up in the emotional experiences preserved in the location. He speaks
quickly as he thinks about the memories it holds. He sees the memories as alive
and still going on because they’re “trapped in the walls of the building”. His
face lights up during his recollection like a little kid who just discovered a
secret shortcut.
Rose senses that David is getting caught
up in his reminiscence and reminds him to tell me about his work in Saugatuck.
“Right, right” he says, “I work down there at the Artist Collective. I hang
paintings. There are about 25 artists who work there, and pay rent so they have
a space to do their work.” Because it’s hard to get that type of thing
organized, he’s only been able to volunteer once. But now that the ball is
rolling, he plans on getting more involved.
I sense that David is done talking about
himself so I put my notebook away. He begins to give me advice on my future
travels because I had told him I was interested in joining the Peace Corps at
the beginning of the interview. He warns me that Americans love themselves to
death and love to talk. In a lowered voice he says, “When they go abroad Americans
needs to learn to shut the fuck up.”
“Oh, David. I’m sorry about that Paula,”
Rose says.
I giggle upon hearing David cuss and
assure both of them it’s fine and that I agree. I promise David I won’t be that
obnoxious American when I travel.
He repeats himself about Americans loving
to talk too much and Rose jokes, “Yeah, exactly like what you’re doing right
now. Let’s go honey.”
David and Rose walk out of Water Street
together, holding hands, and I hear Rose tell David about the text messages she
had been receiving. I wait to see them get into their car before I finally
order myself a coffee. As I stood in line, I look at David’s paintings and try
to picture him creating them. At that moment, something David had said about
his art stood out in my mind, “I enjoy doing what I’m doing so much because I’m
discovering.”
I sit down with my cup of coffee and take
one last look at his art before I immerse myself in my book. The paintings all
seem to be speaking to me in David’s voice, and I smile to myself, knowing
exactly what he was talking about.
