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In today's e-mail there was a notice that NKU's Steely Library is unveiling a newly-acquired sculpture on January 23rd. The sculpture is "Stegowagenvolkssaurus" (or "Stego" for short) by the Cincinnati sculptor Pat Renick, who died in 2007. Stego is an actual VW beetle body incorporated into the body of a fiberglass Stegosaurus. It's a huge, monumental sculpture, 12 foot tall and 20 feet long. It's an impressive piece of art, speaking to obsolescence and (in Pat Renick's usual long foresight) our insane dependence on fossil fuels.
I know the piece. When I was a college student back in the early 1970s, I was in a few of Pat Renick's classes, and I spent a bit of time (and, if I remember correctly, so did Denise) in the tented garage of her house on Probasco Street in Clifton, sanding the fiberglass that would become Stego, bringing in clay, or helping her (along with a whole team of her sculptor class students) move some of the parts into position. Now, three and a half decades after, Stego will be residing at the university where I work.
Strange.
I -- as most of her students did -- truly admired and genuinely liked Pat Renick though I wasn't one of her best or most dedicated students. She was an incredible artist, a force of nature, a fantastic (and relentless) teacher. She was eccentric and quirky (you rarely encountered Pat without a hat), but always willing to talk to you about art or life in general.
And it was Laura Chapman, Pat's partner and also a teacher in the Art Education department, who is at least partially responsible for the road I've taken. She was (at least briefly) my advisor, and in one meeting with her, I showed her some of the writing I'd been doing. That led into a conversation about what I wanted to do and what was important to me. I admitted to her, in the course of our talk, that honestly, being an art teacher or even doing my own art came in a distant third behind music and writing. She wondered (not surprisingly) why I was an Art Ed major, in that case. I didn't really have a good answer to that, other than the fact that I'd already switched majors once (I'd started in Graphic Design), I was already a senior and in my fifth year of college, and that spending a couple more years there because I was switching course yet again didn't appeal to me.
Dr. Chapman was unimpressed by that (while I easily called Pat Renick "Pat", for some reason Laura was usually "Dr. Chapman" for me). "You should do what you're passionate about," she told me firmly. "You really won't be happy doing anything else."
That conversation always stuck with me, niggling at the back of my mind. Yes, I graduated with a BFA (which we always referred to as the Big Fucking Artist degree) in Art Education. Yes, I made a really half-hearted and unenthusiastic attempt to find a position at one of the local schools teaching art. But the band was going well at that point, I was beginning to send out my first science fiction stories, and (as Laura had suggested) that was what I wanted to do at the time.
So I did. And I kept writing, also, because that was also what I was really driven to do. I went back and visited Pat once or twice in the months after graduation, but -- as is all too common -- lost touch with her and Laura far too quickly.
Which leads me to now: still writing. Still playing music. And (finally) teaching. But not art. Writing.
I'll have to go see Stego. And as I look at it, I'll remember seeing the nascent Stego in Pat's garage, and I'll remember her and Laura, and how strange and persistent the connections in life can be.
I know the piece. When I was a college student back in the early 1970s, I was in a few of Pat Renick's classes, and I spent a bit of time (and, if I remember correctly, so did Denise) in the tented garage of her house on Probasco Street in Clifton, sanding the fiberglass that would become Stego, bringing in clay, or helping her (along with a whole team of her sculptor class students) move some of the parts into position. Now, three and a half decades after, Stego will be residing at the university where I work.
Strange.
I -- as most of her students did -- truly admired and genuinely liked Pat Renick though I wasn't one of her best or most dedicated students. She was an incredible artist, a force of nature, a fantastic (and relentless) teacher. She was eccentric and quirky (you rarely encountered Pat without a hat), but always willing to talk to you about art or life in general.
And it was Laura Chapman, Pat's partner and also a teacher in the Art Education department, who is at least partially responsible for the road I've taken. She was (at least briefly) my advisor, and in one meeting with her, I showed her some of the writing I'd been doing. That led into a conversation about what I wanted to do and what was important to me. I admitted to her, in the course of our talk, that honestly, being an art teacher or even doing my own art came in a distant third behind music and writing. She wondered (not surprisingly) why I was an Art Ed major, in that case. I didn't really have a good answer to that, other than the fact that I'd already switched majors once (I'd started in Graphic Design), I was already a senior and in my fifth year of college, and that spending a couple more years there because I was switching course yet again didn't appeal to me.
Dr. Chapman was unimpressed by that (while I easily called Pat Renick "Pat", for some reason Laura was usually "Dr. Chapman" for me). "You should do what you're passionate about," she told me firmly. "You really won't be happy doing anything else."
That conversation always stuck with me, niggling at the back of my mind. Yes, I graduated with a BFA (which we always referred to as the Big Fucking Artist degree) in Art Education. Yes, I made a really half-hearted and unenthusiastic attempt to find a position at one of the local schools teaching art. But the band was going well at that point, I was beginning to send out my first science fiction stories, and (as Laura had suggested) that was what I wanted to do at the time.
So I did. And I kept writing, also, because that was also what I was really driven to do. I went back and visited Pat once or twice in the months after graduation, but -- as is all too common -- lost touch with her and Laura far too quickly.
Which leads me to now: still writing. Still playing music. And (finally) teaching. But not art. Writing.
I'll have to go see Stego. And as I look at it, I'll remember seeing the nascent Stego in Pat's garage, and I'll remember her and Laura, and how strange and persistent the connections in life can be.
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