Philip B. Dedrick1921-2001: "Senior Seminar 1976 aka Krakatoa 1883."

Often I would get a special pass from Mr. Dedrick to stay late in art building, sometimes until early morning all alone without even a radio to break the silence. Occasionally the security guards would sit and watch for a while, fascinated I suppose by what was happening in clay.

One of those quiet nights I struggled with a piece that would eventually be the Egyptian god Horus, when surprised by Dave Bloomquist's sudden appearance. He had graduated the year before, co-captain of the swim team, and had modeled for me in front of the camera and for sketches. Physically he was a stunning example of mankind at its best; and as his fellow teammate Peter Graves described him, "A gentle giant."

Dave had a terrible cold that night. We chatted and I complained I was not getting this figure's anatomy correct. Volunteering, Dave went to the drawing studio and took off his clothes so I could do a quick sketch for better reference- though freezing and repeatedly blowing his nose. Sadly the statue was destined for doom since I stupidly glazed it- and glazing pooled over the details whereas staining in red-iron-oxide always proved the better result. Yet still, more than thirty years later, I have not forgotten the kindness of that 'gentle giant'.

Always locked away in my memory is the instance when I first saw the classmates who became my art. Art Dessureau in the empty gym, also from the swim team, wearing just a Speedo and shooting hoops. Elaine Nofsinger standing with a group of people in the hallway of my dorm- and in my eyes resembling Diana Rigg of 'The Avengers' with whom I had fallen in love back in 1968. Joe Tromiczak, bearded and hairy-chested, bent over while helping to look for someone's lost contact lens in the grass. Tom Pritchard, skin bronzed and blonde hair nearly bleached white by the sun, escorted into my room by his teammate Art (bless that swim team) and after brief conversion he shrugged and said, "Sure, I'll do it." Little Mahmood, an Iranian wrestler and the only model in my lifetime who could twist to reveal his butt AND bellybutton at the same time. Petite Pat Forester from the dance department with those gorgeous, almond shaped eyes and long hair that fell straight down to the small of her back. Lisa, a lovely girl I met in the litho studio (a townie student whose last name I never knew) that resembled a Renaissance Madonna- her face appeared in so many of my drawings.

Senior Seminar was a required independent study course. Gathered together we sat on the carpeted floor of the gallery to present works in progress. I set out a number of my drawings for inspection. I had learned a great deal from fellow art major Bill Bruning the benefit of working with various pencils, a gum eraser, and tissue for smoothing & blending on litho paper- a departure from my signature scratchboards.

~Pencil Drawing, 1974-

Bill Bruning

Timothy Mather whose position as chair of the department and ceramics instructor at R.C. was a brief two years, spoke the words that will never leave me: "Why do you work with perfect bodies? I remember the day when my waist size was smaller than my inseam. What is the difference between what you're doing and what appears in Playboy or Playgirl magazine?"

I stood in shock. My agony Promethean. My anger off the the Richter scale. The sun turned black & the stars winked out one by one. I waved my hand over my seated classmates like a scythe slicing tense air and bellowed, "You can talk to the rest of these sheep like that but you do not talk like that to me!" I do not know the record for gathering up drawings and storming out of a room but whatever it was, I broke it. Later I cornered Mather outside his office and growled, "You did that on purpose, didn't you? Just to create controversy and stir up conversation at my expense!" He stared at me for a while, then silently nodded in agreement. I hurried to Mr. Dedrick with the earnest hope he would have the ceramics instructor killed (after all, his office was filled with New Guinea war clubs and equal lethal primitive paraphernalia).

Bo-Bo told me later of his exchange with this teacher who did not understand me any more than I understood him. In his calm fashion he explained to Mather that I might just possibly be the next--- and here I forget the name, but it was a French artist of the Art Nouveau period. Didn't see the connection, but did see the familiar smile and faint amusement: the ultimate diplomat at work using his superior knowledge of art history to smooth over hurt feelings and homicidal propensities- and as always his unwavering support. However, I refused to ever attend that Senior Seminar course again.

Scored an ~A~ in the class.