[arts]
Sculptor, interrupted Out of the cold, an artist re-examines the meaning of success by Mark Matthews • photos by Cathrine L. Walters
Mark Matthews resurrected career after 20 yearshiatus, and now sculptures at his at Arlee Mark Matthews resurrected hishis artart career after a 20-year andmakes now makes sculptures his home. Arlee home.
M
ore than 20 years ago—on New Year’s Day 1991—my life as an artist apparently ended. Around three o’clock that afternoon I returned to Missoula from visiting my parents in Florida. The plane ticket had been a Christmas gift— otherwise I never would have been able to afford to go because, at the time, I was homeless. The reunion had been pleasant despite the usual rebukes about my wasting my life—or, to be more precise, not making money, living without health insurance and not saving for retirement. I neglected to inform my parents that I had been living out of my Ford Ranger pickup truck for the past year and that exactly $16 remained in my savings account. They thought I was attending the university in Missoula. Technically, I was. I had enrolled in a one-credit independent study in ceramic sculpture so that I could have unlimited access to the clay studio. The professors there appreciated the fact that I was a “professional” artist and invited me to sit in on their classes. Throughout that fall I slung mud at the studio for much of the day and evening, cooked simple meals on a camp stove in the kiln room, and showered at the gym. Around midnight I walked to a deadend street where it was legal to park a car without a residential parking sticker and climbed under the camper top of my truck to snuggle into a sleeping bag. On the weekends I often drove up Pattee Canyon to camp on Plum Creek land off Deer Creek. I made
friends with many of the graduate students, my work progressed, the weather remained mild and life was good. I had been sculpting full time since 1981 after I had retired at the age of 30 from a position with the federal government in Boston. I then moved to South
“Sad Eyed Lady” was one of the first sculptures Matthews did when he started making art again.
[20] Missoula Independent • July 25–August 1, 2013
Freeport in Maine and, throughout the ’80s, showed my work in various galleries across the state, making enough money to cover the basic necessities. Then I got a hankering for the mountains and moved to Montana in 1989. I continued to successfully line up exhibitions in various Western towns including Seattle and Spokane, Las Cruces, N.M. and Palm Desert, Calif. But then sales dwindled and living expenses increased, and I transitioned into voluntary homelessness. Blue skies and temps in the mid-50s greeted me that New Year’s Day at Missoula. While waiting for my luggage I contemplated what to do on my first afternoon back in town. I felt like unwinding a bit before falling back into the routine, so I decided to attend a movie. The old truck kicked to life on the second turn of the key. At the Village 6 on Brooks I purchased a ticket for Dances with Wolves. I appreciated the film’s depiction of Native Americans as genuine human beings, and then tensed when a soldier aimed his rifle at the wolf about a quarter way through the movie. But then the screen went blank, the house lights flashed on, and an excited usher hustled down the aisle. I half expected him to yell, “Fire.” Instead, he informed us that “a big storm is blowing up the Blackfoot, temperatures are expected to drop to 20 below, with three feet of snow. If you want to head home now you can pick up a rain check for the movie on the way out.”
Out in the lobby a stiff wind held the door open for the fleeing patrons. Biting icy pellets blew in a vertical line across the parking lot. The imminent darkness made the air seem even colder. Out of the back of my truck I grabbed an insulated flak jacket, wool hat and mittens before climbing into the cab. The frigid vinyl seat bit through the cotton of the Dockers I had slipped on in Florida. This time, the truck started with the third turn of the key. I instinctively sought refuge at the clay studio. It was Christmas break and few students were around. Nobody would have minded, anyway. The Quonset hut, a quarter mile from Hellgate Canyon, housed the clay studio, sculpture studio and Grizzly Pool. The Hellgate winds rocked the Ranger when I parked by the main entrance. A foot of snow already covered the ground and campus was a ghost town. I breathed a sigh of relief and popped out of the Ranger. The corridor beyond the glass doors was dark but I reached for the handle with a confident heart. It had never locked before—but, this time, it was. Pushed along by the wind, I rushed the length of the building to a back fire door that directly accessed the clay studio. I drummed upon it long and hard hoping some grad students might have returned early from break, but to no avail. I fought the wind back to the Ranger. This time the engine started with the fourth turn of the key and the heater struggled to keep a face-sized patch of windshield free of frost.