Snell Interview

A HUM -V would never fit down Don Snell's driveway. "I'm a tree-hugger" he says. "We didn't cut down any trees when we put in the drive." I navigate the narrow gravel path to his home. Snell is convinced that most modern Americans will pay for lives of excess, the insane desire to make the big bigger and the fast faster. I feel guilty in my mini-van and wish I were driving a hybrid.

"A tease. Before we go into the house, just take a peek," says Ruth Roberts, Snell's partner, as she opens the door to the gallery.

I could try to describe the paintings, but will instead invite you to look at his galleries and leave you to your own perceptions. I will however, attempt to describe the gallery. Every wall is covered with paintings of faces and scenes from imagined lives, many with notations that reflect Snell's strong views on politics, human nature, life, love, sex. Leaning against the walls are paintings, 4-5 deep in some places.

I try not to regret the impossibility of seeing the entire collection, and instead concentrate on absorbing those in view. It breaks my heart a little that they are not all displayed somewhere for everyone's enjoyment, although I know much of his work can be found in private and public settings. Here is a link to some of Snell's purchase prizes and private collections as well as other biographical information.

Later I find out that there is a back room with more paintings as well as a stash in the actual studio. I feel a sense of panic that even if I stay all day, I will not get to see them all.

Luckily, Ruth burns me some CDs filled with his creations. It was not easy to narrow down the selection for inclusion in the on-line galleries.

Ruth and Don built their home in Georgetown, Texas, twenty-six years ago. Inside the home, everything has a function, everything has a place. Snell tells me he has never needed much in the way of material goods, never fell into the trap of commercialism or the physical and is blessed to have been allowed by society to be what he is, an artist. This philosophy is reflected in his home. There are amenities but not excess, there is simplicity in form and beauty. Some of the wooden walls are not painted from what I recall, but of course paintings cover every one. Not just Snell's work but some from his third wife, Jan, as well as many other artist-friends.

We move to the dining room table. "Snell has fallen in love with Aurora, here" says Ruth, as she caresses the bronze statue's smooth curves. I would ask for more details, but Snell is ready for something else and I am a virgin interviewer with little idea of what I am doing. This guy has been interviewed by John Aielli for godssake, what do I know? I am anxious to listen and he is anxious to read me a poem about the entire city of Lubbock all coming down with Irritable Bowel Syndrome. He has to pause several times in order to laugh at his own imagery. An 85 year-old-boy still laughing at potty humor. I love it. He jokes that it is a real shitty poem. I ponder with him why Lubbock is the butt of so many jokes and stories. He tells me that he's heard Lubbock is a good place to be from and we leave it at that.

snall

Like me, Snell is not a native Texan. He was born and raised in South Dakota by parents who had neither the time nor inclination to include the arts in his upbringing. It was not until his junior year at University of Texas that he discovered his talent and desire to become an artist. With his stories, he takes me back 75 years, travelling from bus to train to train to bus, all the way back to his grandparent's farm. I did not write down the stops, but he still remembers them all: Sioux City, Sioux Falls and all of the others, all the way to the family farm for hard work.

Paraphrasing him: You didn't say 'I love you' all the time back then! Children were needed! They felt a part of the family because what they did was important. It was hard work, but the best time of my life. Kids don't get that anymore. Parents struggle to show love by buying things instead of making kids a part of it.

I shift in my chair, thinking of the 100 Pokemon cards I just won in an eBay auction. I ease my conscious by reminding myself of all of the chores my boys do for the family and promise myself to make them feel useful not just loved. I scratch down a few notes, worried I will not be able to remember the details of how he worked inside the grain silo or how the co-op of farmers and families worked together and took care of each other. We are paying, he tells me, we are paying for the loss of these connections.

He is making me homesick for my own family farm in Pennsylvania. He reads another poem from his chapbook. A fine poem that you can read here.

Later, they walk me out to the studio. "Oh good, flowers!" exclaims Ruth, standing before a huge vase of flowers drying on an unstretched canvas stapled to the wall.

"Are you going to leave the vase all swooshed like that?" she makes horizontal movements with her hands. "Mmmmhumm, yes, yes," he answers.

"What if he had said no?" I ask.

"Well then I would have tried to talk him out of it."

snell

"What me worry?" version of George Bush is one of the many items pinned to his wall. His palette consists of fresh paint squeezed on top of many layers that have long before dried. It reminds me of an archeological site. I am not sure why I am drawn to this image, to these layers left behind as a history of years of previous creations. Of all of the beautiful artwork in the studio, I snap a picture of the palette and think I will regret not taking more photos. And I do.

He starts by putting paint on canvas and watching what develops. I do not bother to ask him about the meaning of his work; he has told me already that it is up to me. So the two guys floating above the graves of famous artists are what I want them to be. I think I want them to be the spirits of the artists buried there playing practical jokes on the other dead guys, or maybe us. They certainly look mischievous.

Forty years ago, Snell wrote a post-apocalyptic play called "The Cat's Meow." I don't think it will ruin the ending to say that there is no cat. It seems to fit into Snell's philosophy on art criticism: Find your own damn cat if you want one, don't ask me to show it to you. He has rewritten the play eight times in longhand (and each time, Ruth has typed it.) This time, he is finished. I ask him how he knows it really is finished this time and he tells me it is just time. He then refers to the Camus character who keeps rewriting a paragraph in a novel over and over again, obsessing with making it perfect.

"I am pretty sure that was in The Plague. The first sentence in one of character's novel….something about a lady riding sorrel mare down some fancy path." I answer.

When I am home a quick Google search "Camus sorrel mare" brings me to Slate's reference: "Joseph Grand can't progress beyond writing and rewriting ad infinitum a single sentence: 'One fine morning in the month of May an elegant young horsewoman might have been seen riding a handsome sorrel mare along the flowery avenues of the Bois de Boulogne.'" I am a bit surprised that I had remembered the reference, that not every one of my neurons had drowned in maternal hormones or withered in years of academic neglect.

I want to have more time to write this article. I want to write about how Snell decided to join the air force after he realized there was too much walking in the infantry and how he found the only air conditioned job in Panama City. I want to tell his piece of the unwritten history of New Orleans. But I cannot, not now. I just found out I am already two centimeters dilated, and I have this feeling I am not going to make it three weeks to my due date. It is time to finish with hopes I have inspired a reader or two to check out this amazing artist for themselves. Go on now, you know you want to. Click the links. Take some time to get to know this man, and if you like what you see, let him know. Here is his homepage with contact information: www.donsnell.com

Mannequin Envy Home

Galleries / Artist makes a statement

Interview

current - submissions - archives - contact us