Priceless Price

On this day in 1921, a great artist was born.  My Grandpa Price Lierly would have been 95 today, and though he is no longer with us in the physical realm, his creative spirit lingers in my own art, in the art of my collective gifted family,  and in the hearts of each of us who knew and loved him.

Grandpa was making recycled "junk" art before anyone had a name for it.  Though, he never called it art, it is undoubtedly some the most enchanting, raw and unique work I'll ever experience.  He never sold it for money, and he certainly didn't want to be recognized for it.  He simply wanted to spend his evenings in the shop - making it.  He gave some away.  He scrapped some.  He Started and stopped, and generally just built things to his heart's content.  His property was a like a museum of metal sculpture.

His house was a also an elaborate work of art. He and his one true love, my grandmother Sylvia, collaborated with an avant-garde architect from Texas in 1979 to build a home that would eventually showcase in various publications due to the unique nature of its design. It was entirely underground. Constructed of concrete and rebar into the side of a hill.  There was a rock wall hiding the earth beside and a small wooden-shingled eave masking a roof made of dirt and grass.

 From the street, it appeared pretty standard.  And it is noteworthy that in Oklahoma, a dwelling like this is as practical as it is innovative.  When the tornadoes spawned, (which was often in the springtime) much of the family would converge on Grandma and Grandpa's house, gather in the living room, and enjoy knowing at the very least, we would all make it out with our lives. These circumstances usually resembled more of an impromptu family gathering than a terrifying stint in the cellar. It would suffice to say we all have some pretty fond memories born of some pretty wicked Oklahoma weather.  
Beyond the practical aspect of the house, it also contained some brilliantly creative components.  The only source of daylight inside the house was a 12ft x 12ft skylight strategically placed over a room dubbed "the courtyard".  The room was fully an interior space but was made to look like an outdoor space.  There were wooden slats fixed to the walls to resemble a privacy fence, and above them... wallpaper with a lush foliage design.  There were raised rock flower beds built into this room, with artificial turf covering the floor and a slate colored tile walk way from the kitchen door to the exterior door... as if it were a garden path.  The flower beds were brimming with huge peace lilies, elephant ears, ferns and the like. There were huge bay windows on either side of the courtyard... one adjacent to the master bedroom and one adjacent to the kitchen... and a small window where the hallway connected the two.  These windows allowed natural light into most parts of the house via the skylight/atrium though the structure was completely buried beneath the earth.  The extra bedroom and living room were the only two places where the light of day was scarce. So in those rooms, there were window panes installed with recessed walls behind. Then an artist was hired to paint murals on those walls depicting the scenes one might actually see outside those windows if the house were above ground.  On the wall beside each faux window was a panel of four light switches.  Above the murals were four florescent lights in various different shades of the color spectrum.  The first switch turned on the morning light.  The tone was very similar to first light.. just before dawn... greenish.  The next switch was a midday light...bright and sunny... yellow.  The third switch was dusk.  Dimmer.  Blue.  And the last switch was a black light.  This was my favorite because once the switch was flipped, then and only then could I see the crescent moon.  It was there all along, but hidden in the clouds.  The black light illuminated it and the eyes of raccoons half hidden behind the trees.  I think these switches were designed to help give a sense of normalcy to an otherwise unconventional setting, but for me... they were a portal to an alter universe inside my own imagination.  When I got to the end of the light switch panel, I went back the beginning. Over and over.  Until someone finally deterred my little weird self.  I mean, seriously.  If that's not a brilliant creative venture, I don't know what is....
My grandpa also built a windmill a few stories high, positioned it on the hill between the house and shop, and for years they used it as an energy source.  He built an arched metal bridge over the pond.  There were ornate wrought iron chandeliers, end tables and various other accents at every turn. He randomly attached fabricated metal butterflies and grasshoppers to fences and gates around the property. Every square inch of the place was a wonderland of creativity. 
My Grandma Sylvia loved cardinals, and her favorite color was red.  As were the doors on the house.  As was the crushed velvet furniture in the family room.  There were two huge oil portraits of Spanish bullfighters inhabiting a good bit of the focal wall in the den, one male and one female. My grandparents weren't affluent or extravagant by any stretch, but they both had an affinity for hand-crafted things and that's how they chose to invest in themselves... bringing many pieces back from Old Mexico in the days when they still called it Old Mexico. I'm still not sure exactly what the matadors meant to them, but I eventually realized Grandma sat in her recliner directly below the female portrait, and Grandpa did the same respectively.  In those days, there was a fairly good distance between the paintings and thus between their chairs...spending time together but each generally minding their own business.  In later years, as Grandma's health declined,  the paintings stayed where they were, but the chairs moved closer. And when I'd come to visit, I'd find them sitting with their chairs touching and her hand in his.  They were married 60 yrs. when Grandma passed away.  Grandpa spoke of her daily, and kept the program from her funeral beside his easy chair. It was worn around the edges and stained with coffee because he didn't just look at it... he held it every day.  Though he still worked in the shop and told stories and laughed and lived... he really, REALLY missed her and after six years without her,  he decided to go to her.  My dad says he would have easily lived to be 100, and I'm confident that's true.  But according to Grandpa in the last year or so of his life, he was "ready to go see grandma".  I come from a long line of people who get married and intend on staying that way.  I am forever grateful to know what that kind of love looks like.... and feels like.  I wrote this poem on the flight home the day he made his transition:

Coffee brewing...6 am.
He poured himself a cup.
I came in through the back door,
As the sun was coming up.

He sat down at the table
with a grunt and then a grin.
And there, he spun the tallest tales
of places he had been.

We talked until the sun was
hanging just below midday.
Old photographs and log books
strewn about in vast array.

Then he 'rose and softly sauntered
back toward his easy chair.
And as he sat, he reached for her,
and always found her there.

Though just a tattered photograph,
he kept her by his side.
A love without abandon.
This dear man without his bride.

He told of how he missed her,
and recalled the way they were.
For 60 yrs. she'd loved him,
And for 6 more... he loved her.

The two of them,they raised six kids, 
And one of them raised me.
The man my father is today
is Grandpa's legacy.

He taught us to be virtuous.
He taught us to be true.
And though he never spoke of these,
he lived them through and through.

We'll miss you, Grandpa, more than words...
But grateful we remain.
For all the precious moments shared
have far surpassed the pain.

I imagine you in Army greens
and she in Sunday dress.
Both young again and laughing,
Sweet reunion; blissful rest.

So as the sun has set upon
a life so good and full.
We celebrate you, Grandpa!
Now you've finally got your girl...


Grandpa was a long-haul trucker for quite some time when he was near my age. We never talked much about his art, but we talked a lot about his days pulling a rig across the U.S. He had stacks of log books he loved to flip through and spin the correlating tales.  There was a story for every entry.  He was an introvert, and by his description, seemingly much happier by himself on the open road than at the truck stop having coffee. He drank instant coffee black all day everyday of his life without the slightest change in his calm demeanor.  He loved ice cream. He had lovely blue eyes. He was tough as nails, barrel-chested, solid and strong until his last days.  But the thing I loved most about him were his hands, for all the amazing things they crafted and how they taught me to play solitaire when I just a pup.  And how that was a gentle, safe, quiet place for him... and me. He played everyday. I'd sit on the arm of his easy chair, and we'd play solitaire together... which I suppose may mean it wasn't really solitaire anymore. Then he'd send me to the floor with my own deck of cards, and we'd hang out for hours like that without many words.
He wasn't a very affectionate man, and if there were "i love you's", I always said it first. Even then, it wasn't often an emotional exchange, but I never questioned whether or not he meant it.  Hugging him was usually a bit awkward, but not because he didn't care for the person doing the hugging... maybe just because he wasn't sure if he was comfortable sharing his hula hoop. Small talk wasn't his thing.  He liked people, but he liked his own company just as well. I understood him inherently in this way.  As a child, I remember feeling relieved around him because he was perfectly okay with silence.  I never took it personally.  In fact, it was a gift.  Today I recognize that silence is the only place folks like he and I can recharge,  and without it life is harder than it needs to be.  He had so many skills.  He was smart, a visionary, an innovator, a wise man, and he chose to use his free time to create... to allow it ALL to escape through his fingertips.... to bring something to the world no one else EVER will again.  Some would say he was a simple man, but I think he was more complex than we will ever know.  The more I become aquainted with myself, the more I understand why he always felt so familiar to me.  Because those are many of the things I am.  And that's pretty much just dandy.

He never wanted the kids hanging around the shop much because it made him nervous (and probably a little annoyed at times if we're being real. ha!), but he usually let us in despite his reluctance.  He worked mostly with metal as he was a blacksmith by trade... always welding/torching/forging (making sure I either had a welding mask of my own or I turned my head and didn't look back until he permitted it, ordering me to move further away so I wasn't in the path of flying sparks, or to cover my ears while he ran the saw or some other awfully loud machine.)  He spent the most time in the shop during the winter as that was the slow season for his day job as a contractor.  There was a larger than necessary wood burning stove inches from where he worked, and just in case it wasn't already apparent, almost everything he did was larger than necessary. The heat was so intense from the stove that he would occasionally put down his tools, walk over to the large rolling shop door and give it good fling.... letting in a blast of cold crisp air to counter his giant metal box full of forest fire.   
I think he was pretty picky about who he let in his space.  I remember knowing it was some kind of privilege to be present with him in that space and trying so hard to mind my P's and Q's. The urge to participate was uncontrollable at times being that I was a precocious, creative, little art junkie myself.  I didn't know how to articulate it then, but today I understand the power of the energy in that space and why it affected me in that way.  Often, my curiosity would get the best of me, and when grandpa would get lost in his work, I would wander off.  It was an artist's dream in there.  I remember looking up amid the rows and rows of "junk".  Shelves full of old horseshoes, salvaged hardware, old steering wheels and tractor seats,  and weird fragments of discarded sculpted metal. Bins upon bins of every nut, bolt, screw, washer, bracket, faucet handle, fan blade, ball bearing, license plate, broom handle, shovel head, etc. you could or would ever need... EVER.  He would eventually look up from his work and realize I'd disappeared.  When he couldn't get a visual on my scrawny little head amid the maze of metal,  he would raise his voice (he never yelled), and firmly say, "Where'd you go?"  And I would happily relinquish my freedom and return to my perch.  
I was never afraid of him though he could be stern.  I never feared him because he was as gentle as he was stoic.  I never told him how much it meant to me to have spent time with him in his sacred space because I didn't know how much it meant until after he was gone.  I didn't request anything but his deck of cards when he passed, but he left me so much more.  Almost 8 months to the day after I flew home for his memorial, I sat down and painted my first piece of art on canvas.  Today my work has evolved into what's loosely considered recycled junk art.  Coincidence?  I believe probably not.
I recently walked through Grandpa's shop building again with my dad.  It's empty now.  But in the back I found a small blue metal parts organizer... still full of random, usable hardware.  It now sits in my studio, and I use it's contents often.

My dad is a visionary artist himself and a 4th generation blacksmith. In the near future, I plan to head to his shop in Oklahoma, next door to Grandpa's old shop , to begin learning how to become the 5th.
Not long ago when I was home for a visit, we were digging around some old five gallon buckets full of odds and ends.  I picked up a couple of old iron rake heads, and asked Dad what he planned to do with them.  He said, "I don't have any plans for those.  Put them in your pile."  (I have a pile, yes.  Of course I do.)  As we stood there talking, I began to notice a few slight differences in the rakes. I realized one of them was missing a couple of teeth.  Then I realized they'd been cut.  Then I realized, the same hands that cut them were the same hands that crafted them. My grandpa had built that rake from scratch... most likely to use for the tail feathers on one of his life-sized sculpted metal birds.  Dad and I just stood there smiling for a minute while I had a revelation of sorts.
We don't make the art...  the art makes us.  There is a need in those of us who have this gift to bring forth a piece of our souls, and we will go to great lengths to do it.  We will build items from scratch that we could buy for $10 because we believe in using what we already have to create beauty in the world.  We believe in the process of finding the perfect combination of ordinary objects to create extraordinary things.  We believe that if we are true to it, no matter how crazy it may seem to the outside world, it will bring forth truth in us.  My grandpa built that rake because there was apparently a need for it, he possessed the resources, and he was gifted enough to see it through.  I didn't have to be there to know the reward was great, and though it never made its way into a piece of his art... it will soon find a place in mine... which I believe is exactly where it was intended to land all along.
 I didn't even realize I was an artist until months after he left us.  I never imagined I would be making art almost every single day like Grandpa did, and I certainly couldn't have dreamed my work would evolve the way it has .  BUT at this point...there is nothing in the world that makes more sense to me.
I really miss Grandpa, his creative spirit and his crooked grin.  Especially on this day.  He was a New Year's baby, and I always loved starting the year celebrating his life.  Still do. He would get a huge kick out of what we've been doing lately... long-haul truckin'... livin' on junk art... and generally making something out of absolutely nothing.   We lost a gem and a truly original artist the day we lost him, but I am so grateful that through my creative process, I am still able to spend time with him any time I want.  Happy Birthday, Grandpa!  Miss you so!