Mary Anderson
When people refer to my work as "paintings," I tell them that they are drawings, mixed media drawings. I'm a draughtsman, that's what they call people who draw the figure.I was born in Darby, Pennsylvania on the outskirts of Philadelphia and lived in Lansdowne until the family moved to South Pasadena.
Unpleasant events can be the springboard to positive experiences; it is an irony that what seemed to be misfortune has brought about the happiest changes in my life. Closing doors circumstances brought my father, mother, sister and me to California in 1953, but the move brought my first art scholarship, to the legendary Chouinard Art Institute in Los Angeles. A kind, prophetic art teacher at South Pasadena High School, Hester Lauman, sent me to Saturday morning figure drawing classes. I took the bus, then the trolley out Seventh Street, and walked into my first nude figure class. The group were adult, quiet, serious. I didn't realize it, but that figure drawing class was right were I was supposed to be and where I would always be my best. Nothing has changed in these 30-odd years. I don't sculpt or paint; I draw the face and figure. It's an inexhaustible quest and though I love the richness of oil paint, I seem to be destined to line, volume and value. After two years at Pasadena City College, a friend took me to meet Joe Mugnaini at Otis Art Institute, In 1960, Otis had a splendid drawing department which was a mix of two disciplines and two men: Herb Jepson and Joe Mugnaini. Joe taught structural, anatomical drawing with skeletons, charts of muscles and reference to comparative anatomy. He was enthusiastic, skeptical, vulgar, exhortative, Italian, dedicated. He had a great following, produced many fine students, and some great books on drawing. The drawing lab was cavernous, with huge studio easels. We drew standing up, using big sheets of bond paper; drawing big threw us physically, as well as emotionally and intellectually into the act of drawing. Herb Jepson, himself a master of classical Renaissance drawing, had no patience with teaching how to draw, emphasizing more the process and the uniqueness of each drawing experience. Whatever his method, his students produced masterful, big bold drawings. Otis, in 1960, was a hot bed of extravagant individualism, romanticism, rebellion, bohemianism, both in the character of the faculty and students. Rent was cheap, cars and gas were cheap; one could go to school forever. Otis was a wild place for a middle class Catholic girl. My best girlfriends got pregnant, people were graduating with MFA's and no jobs - were not, except for teaching, employable. My father marched me into Cal State, Los Angeles, were I reluctantly, but doggedly, completed my bachelors degree and special secondary credential in Art. I entered my first high school classroom at 22, just seven years older than my students, and that, other than summer night school and sabbaticals, was the end of my art aspirations until six years ago. My perception of myself as an artist may seem self effacing or to lag behind my accomplishments, but that's OK, and here's why: A greater part of my life was spent as the beleaguered and bemused art teacher and servant of the homeboy, homegirls, Bloods, Crips, O.G. gangsters and disaffiliated white kids of the Los Angeles Harbor area. The hectic years in the classroom in the faculty room, laughing to keep sane, are more real to me than a quiet studio in the pines, as real as the identity of artist accorded to me here in Cambria. Unpleasant events have been the springboard for positive experiences. In 1986, despite many bright spots in my career, and many wonderful kids, I was outraged, exhausted, fed up. I decided to take a semester off, and what better place to come to than Cambria, the closest place to Highway One and the dreamscape of Big Sur. I exhibited and sold my drawings for the first time at the Pinedorado Art Show, 1986. All the years, through a divorce and a number of moves, I gave away the drawings, hung a few on my wall . . . never imagining I could sell them. Becoming an artist was not my intent. You might say it snuck up and transformed my life despite my disbelief. All my life I knew that there was something I should be doing, was avoiding. It haunted me, nagged at me, but if circumstances had not been intolerable (a story for my memoirs; you'll have to wait), I would have stayed in the Los Angeles Unified School District until retirement. If I had been comfortable, I would not have left and maybe non of this would have happened. So, sweet are the uses of adversity. I bought a house, did more drawings and sold them, but never acknowledged that my life had changed . . . kept extending my leave, ever reluctant to trust fate. The men in my life - many have been the objects of crushes and romantic dreams, requited or unrequited love. Some, like Charles White and Joe Mugnaini, have inspired and assisted me, and some have been and are Dutch uncles, guardian angels. In 1966, I first encountered the passionate, articulate draughtsman and teacher, Charles White, the limner of the black American. I have never experienced anything as precise, impassioned and powerful as his drawing demonstration. I haven't yet touched what he knew and imparted, but having seen the best, have something to aim for. Guardian angels? The outrageously funny, astute, cynical friend and critic, Bob Bailey, the wood shop teacher who helped and heckled me for eleven years at Cooper High. "Bailey," as the kids called him would creak back in his broken swivel chair, face wrinkled humorously with the ravages of booze, cigarettes, and 30 years of teaching everything from severely retarded kids to Samoan Crips, and say "Lover, you oughtta take your easel and paint box out of here and go up to Big Sur . . . put on a big straw hat like Deborah Kerr in Night of the Iguana and sketch portraits on a street corner." My father died, too young, in 1972. Bob Bailey died, loading his brand new mobile home for a trip, two years after retiring. I wish they could know that I've gotten this far. After 25 years of regimentation, I have a hard time with the solitude and discipline necessary to produce these drawings. I don't wait for inspiration; it goes like this. I take an 8x10 photograph, plant my feet in front of the big easel, invoke Charlie's memory and just start in, no preparatory sketches. About an hour later, I may have the conviction that I can't ever do it again, I don't know enough, and who cares anyway? I think about Social Security, low paying jobs that are already taken by younger, stronger women, then I go back and hit it again. At some point, it begins to take shape, or there's something in the face worth keeping. If it really goes well, and I've given it the best I have to give, a feeling of well-being, even euphoria, sets in. Why do I choose ethnic women and children for my subjects? I can draw them very well. Perhaps it's in the women's faces; enduring, expressive, vulnerable, charming . . . also I love costume. I spent 25 years looking into children's faces, and a lot of them were Black or Hispanic. I'll get around to drawing men and white folks one of these days. My career aspirations are modest. I don't enter competitions, merchandise prints or advertise myself. I just look for subject matter that appeals to me, struggle through the drawings, and sell them to some very nice people. My idols are Michelangelo, Ingres, countless 18thand 19th century draughtsman and painters, in the 20th century, Rico LeBran and Nocolai Fechin. My love and appreciation to my mother, who lived long enough to see her late bloomer succeed, and to all my friends.
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I was a fairly solitary kid, read a lot, wasn't much of a student, but I can
always remember being able to draw. I drew horses and fashion models; drawing
helped me through public school and through 24 years of teaching in the Los
Angeles Unified School District.
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