Painting Was His Life. And What a Life It Was.

BY GERRY MANDEL

He was a private man, an unpretentious man, an enthusiastic and fun-loving man. He was also a talented artist, a master with the brush, the pen, the pencil. He was my friend, and the friend of many. One more thing: he was a B-17 pilot during World War II. I want to tell you about Ed Smith. Full name: George Edward Smith. But he went by the name of Ed, because, as he said, “My mother couldn’t look at me in the cradle and see a George in there. So she used my

middle name.” Ed was born into an Irish family, in Ft. Wayne, Indiana. His father wanted him to become a doctor, particularly an Ear, Nose and Throat Specialist. Ed had no interest in that. The possibilities of art fascinated him, awakened a spirit in him and carried him through various art schools, eventually into the world of advertising. Which is where I met him. A note about his comments here. In 2004, several years after Ed and I had been “retired” from D’Arcy Advertising, I finally convinced him to let me shoot a video conversation with him, something he had always been reluctant to do. His memories and thoughts quoted in this article are pulled from that video. Ed died in 2018, and was buried at Jefferson Barracks National Cemetery with full military honors, an interesting contrast for a man who said, “Painting is my life.” Ed played basketball in high school, at six foot three, the tallest one on the team. He stayed active in sports, especially tennis, bowling, and golf. After high school, he went to war. “I wasn’t gung-ho. I didn’t think I’d be a good soldier.” But, motivated by events in Europe, he joined the Army and was assigned to an artillery unit at Ft. Sam Houston. He soon realized he hated the artillery, so he transferred to the Army Air Corps in 1943 and was assigned to a bomber squadron in England, at a base for B-17’s. They made bombing runs over Germany. “If I was going up in a B-17, I didn’t want to be a radio operator or a gunner. I wanted to fly the thing.” Which he did as a co-pilot. “I served with some really neat guys.” He showed me a photo of his crew, and remembered all their names. Life changed for him during a bombing run over Hanover. His plane was crippled by fighter planes and flak. “I told the crew we had to bail out. I was terrified. The plane’s on fire, the German pilots are shooting at us, there’s flak all around. I jumped – the first time I’d ever parachuted from a plane – and floated down between the Messerschmitts and landed unharmed.” Ed was captured and taken to a POW camp, where he remained for one-and-a-half years, until the end of the war. A telegram was sent to his parents. “My mother fainted after she read it. She figured I was dead.” During his time in the camp, he kept a scrapbook, which he had until he died. The Red Cross sent parcels containing art supplies, so Ed was able to draw planes he saw around him, planes in flight, burning,

taking off. His love of planes was evident. Guards and prisoners were among his favorites. “I did a lot of walking, and did sketches of what I saw.” The war may have been over for Ed, but it rekindled his interest in art. When the war ended, he was discharged. That’s when his love of art defined the rest of his life for the next seventy years. He wanted to be an illustrator, so he enrolled at the Central Art Academy in Cincinnati. He did well and shortly thereafter landed a job with the Arthur Meyerhoff Advertising Agency in Chicago, which included Wrigley chewing gum as a client. “I loved Chicago. My time there was wonderful. I lived on Lake Shore Drive, not far from Meyerhoff.” He studied at the Chicago Art Institute, further developing his skills and fascination with learning about the various aspects of painting and drawing. In 1956, St. Louis beckoned. He left Chicago to join D’Arcy Advertising as director of design and illustration. His talent was put to use on major accounts, including Budweiser and Michelob. He worked with pastels, markers and pencil on tv storyboards, magazine ads, and outdoor billboards. He was in great demand by the creative department. His drawings of the Clydesdales were exquisite and, frequently, kept by the client for their walls. I met Ed when I started at D’Arcy in 1977, the beginning of a friendship and working relationship that lasted until he died.

When I learned of his experience during the war, I told him I wanted to get his story on video. That finally happened in 2004. Despite his modesty and reluctance, he was pleased with the 90-minute video and said he wanted to do something for me in return. He knew of my obsession with Charlie Chaplin, so he created a range of artwork from an oil painting to pencil and charcoal sketches. Ed’s wife, Helen, enthusiastically supported Ed, admiring his paintings, giving him all the time he needed in his studio. He once said, ““Helen and I have been soulmates for the past 41 years, and I find her, by far, the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known.” Helen died in 2013, two weeks before they were to move into their condo at Meramec Bluffs. Ed continued without her and spent the next five years immersed in painting. It gave him a life after Helen was gone. He painted every day, sometimes late into the night. His talents were recognized by gallery owners and art patrons.

The Eva Reynolds gallery in Kansas

City carried his paintings for several years. A one-man art show at the Park

Pacific building in downtown St. Louis featured many of Ed’s paintings. An article in the Post-Dispatch on that show, written by the late Sarah Bryan Miller, quoted Ed: “I’m not a fine artist, truly. I always wanted to be in fine arts, but as far as making a livelihood at it, I took the easy route as a professional illustrator.” Some of Ed’s later paintings came from photographs in the New York Times: A village scene in Africa, a French woman who survived the concentration camps, author John LeCarre. He donated the painting of the survivor to the St. Louis Holocaust Museum. The LeCarre painting hangs on my studio wall. I even emailed a photo of it to him, and got a response two days later. He was flattered and loved it. “Subject matter doesn’t make any difference,” he said. “It’s the approach. Later in life you have less patience for detail. Your eyes aren’t as good, your hands shake, your mind isn’t as nimble. Now I have a freedom of approach that is just as interesting.” When Ed died, his condo was filled with art: oils, acrylics, pen-and-ink sketches, self-portraits and paintings of Helen and friends and landscapes, and a succession of pet cats. Anything that caught his eye and his imagination. Following his memorial service, everyone was invited to lunch, organized by his niece, Victoria, where dozens of his art works were waiting. We were told to take what we wanted. Ed would have liked that. “Painting is like a drug ...... my whole life.” And what a life it was.