The
moment had arrived. Today marks the
day. The shots had already been fired; the
action taken. Standing on creaking
boards of a rural bridge, dirty hands of a few simple folk swept in the
passion of fighting for what was precious, took a stand—shouting defiance
against the most powerful imperial power in the world. A movement undertaken that carried a consequence
dire. The action had passed. What was needed now was an artist.
A
man who could take the ideal and make it actual, the job was given. But to who?
The exemplar of the colonies-Benjamin
Franklin? Though flattered, he
declined. Then who? Ben pointed to a reclusive ruddy redhead in
the back, a representative from Virginia; Thomas Jefferson. He was the artist whose time had come.
Ideal to actual.
On this day, in Jefferson City, Missouri another defiant fist rose. It was a day of birth.
Ideal to actual.
Begin all things at the beginning. I first met him when I was in fourth grade. He entered the classroom resembling the peddlers of old more than a teacher. In front of him he pushed a well organized but well worn cart. Though the supplies seemed ready to burst asunder at the slightest movement, Wally was the consummate alchemist. He strove to light the passion of expression within his students. Well trained hands deftly moved beginning the controlled explosion known only as Wally Linebarger. Against the beige wells of the classroom, Wally embodied the colors he sought to express. For a teacher, Wally was a man who exuded the passion of compassion.
If any artist did, I could see Wally starting with a black canvass. A setting of controlled chaos would wait while Wally shouted forth life with a myriad of brilliant pastels. Fevered movements manic in desperation to emplace and capture dreams and visions. Conjuring from the colors the ability not to capture life, Wally strove to vibrantly exude an unbridled fervor. Variance in thickness of paint, in breath of the breath of his stroke, the experimental twist, a subtle inclusion, diffusion of design, the rhythm of the seen movement in the dance of the colors; any and everything would be used by Wally to express his visions.
Upon first glance, his work spoke, though the communication affected audiences differently. The briefest of glances might cause the some viewer to see only delusional scribbling, whereas others might find an empathic beauty. Tossed on the vibrant sea present sometimes subtle, sometimes suffocating, some might become lost in the power of his work. His art did speak, even if one dismissed, they would later hear its subtle whisper.
Ideal to actual.
As an artist, Wally did not limit himself in mediums. Beyond building up the Art Department from nothing, Wally feverishly produced the demands of his muses. Though his strength lay in painting, he did not hesitate to follow his muses in music, and in the crafting the lumps of clay his students were, into fine women and men. His art room provided a sanctum were the students knew they were accepted, blemishes and all. As this of course was during those lovely teenage years where every blemish was felt to be a gaping wound obvious to all, Wally’s counsel allowed a safe place to heal… to regenerate. But beyond being a place for regeneration, Wally also used this time to draw the toxins of spirit. Just as in his art, he carefully and expertly reinforced the spirit of his lambs so that they could survive the world of wolves that is High School. As Wally continued to work there, and I continued to take classes, Wally was on the periphery of my High school scholarship.
Ideal to actual.
The first two years, my friendship with Wally Linebarger was limited. Not on purpose mind you, I just wasn’t in any of his art classes. I wasn’t an ‘art person.’ I would see their work and displays. I remember being amazed . His students work was as different as the artists that created them. The striking multilayered of Brent Johnson’s work, the lensed perfection of Don Relyea, the demanding design of Jonathan Ingram, the precision of Jon Buell, the incorporation of multiplicity of times and topics in O.J.’s work, or even the subtle soft curve of Melissa Twomey’s ink; all was glorious works made by impassioned artists. Passion bequeathed by Wally. Me and the misfit group of merry pranksters who defied cliques were only able to observe.
During my junior year I was the lead in our schools first musical: Fiddler on the Roof. Quick to recognize my talent, I was readily given the position after an audition. Wally was a whirlwind that gave all his energy to see the play come to a success. Some students, such as Dawn Brothers worked exhaustively to construct the sets while the fingers of David Fandrich graced his violin. Wally did not hesitate to help wherever needed to breath passion into the play. Unceasingly he gave his energy to the cast and crew when they were beset by fatigue and exhaustion. Was he successful? On opening night not an eye was dry as Leslie Williams and I came to Goldie and Tevye’s simplistic conclusion that “…after twenty-five years, it’s nice to know.” The musical was such a success… they had to do another one the next year. Wally did not hesitate to accept another labor of love.
Ideal to actual.
I graduated . The lessons, especially on how to inspire people remained. The care, nurturing, and excitement I try to bring to my students today in helping them to achieve their best took root.
Ideal to actual.
Then came the announcement. Wally was homosexual. As I was off at college, I knew none of this. Though he had never been involved with a student, the reaction of a school in the early 90s was typical.
Named heretic, madman, walls were built to keep him out. God bless academia. A lovely environ where it is discovered all too quickly that true friends stab you from the front. The expelled gulag took his passion elsewhere. Professionally, he continued to strive to make the ideal actual. New art was created. New schools benefited and then let him go. New schools were created. New schools floundered. Socially, like some kids who become inebriated with the liberation of going off to college, Wally made movements with consequences dire. Just as the revolutionary forefathers, everything was slowly stripped away. As Thomas Pain observed in The American Crisis, the summer soldier became the winter soldier. Like the American army at Valley Forge, his winter quarters were held in Jefferson City.
Ideal to actual.
But his Winter Quarters are over. He will still have many battles ahead of him. Professionally his legacy is carried on. His daughters excel at their careers. Many of his former students have found incredible and profitable outlets for utilizing their skills at art. Skills that were ingrained, and an eye given to see the new by Wally Linebarger. As for Wally he has a room set aside. The easel sits, supplies are set, his hands eagerly await while he listens: he listens for the paint to speak to him. Waiting for the moment.
Ideal to actual.
