Clyde
Angel (b. 1920-2006)
My father was Clyde Angel, an artist who produced a powerful body of work while fiercely protecting his identity and privacy from the art world until the day he died. His real name was Vernon Clyde Willits. He had been a welder in a small factory called Climax Engines in Clinton, Iowa for 40 years. He was a family man, an avid swimmer, a traveler, and a very curious soul always up for an adventure. In his retirement he took up cross country skiing. He loved books. The local library used to get rid of their old books in a dumpster that sat behind his house. He couldn’t stand to see these books thrown away, so nightly he would sneak over to pull them out. His studio and house were filled with these old discarded library books.
My dad was a product of the Great Depression, a World War ll vet and, like many of his generation, a man of tools and reality. He lived a factory life, usually working 10 hour days, 6 days a week, and paid his bills on time. Whenever he found a little time for himself he was content in making crafty, clever works. These pieces often took the form of visual jokes: nut and bolt figures that appeared to be chasing each other, a depiction of a snow skier’s trail going through a pine tree, or flowers made out of metal pipe. He also busied himself making utilitarian constructions: stainless steel house boats, spiral staircases, porch railings. Family and friends would continually request all sorts of repair jobs and welding projects, all of which he enthusiastically took on. These craft objects and welding projects continued to give him great pride throughout his life, even after his success as Clyde Angel.
He had never taken art lessons, but in the early 1990’s, several years after his retirement, he began to make uniquely strange and powerful artworks out of found objects of steel and other media. He was very prolific but secretive and at times ritualistic in this new form of welding. I first discovered his new direction when I found 3 pieces of his “secret artwork” hidden under a pile of scrap steel I was getting ready to discard. These objects were startling to me and the way in which he made them was bizarre, compared to his normal craft. Through drawings, writings, wall reliefs and sculpture objects, he referenced his past, present and where he thought he was going in a most unusual way. The people he knew, pets he’d had, traumas experienced were all part of his subject matter. While talking to him about this work it became clear to me that it was an essential part of his life. He could no more have stopped this new type of image- making than stop his breathing.
The new artwork gave him great satisfaction but at the same time made him uncomfortable. He felt that he would be ridiculed or perhaps considered an eccentric if he showed it to anyone who was used to his ‘normal’ work. Also, he was personally unsure of where this new inspiration came from; this feeling of “obligation” to make these things puzzled him. In a peculiar way I think he was almost embarrassed by what he was making. He knew the questions would come: Why such a compulsion to create? Why did he go in such a strange direction at this point in his life? Why such wild outlandish figures and writings? Perhaps he didn’t want to know the answers.
Though he intuited that this new work wouldn’t be accepted in his local world, he still had a desire to “get it out there.” I convinced him to let me show his work to some people who could help do this, but he insisted on anonymity. And so he created his new name, “Clyde Angel”; “Clyde” because it was his middle name, but more importantly because Clyde was the name of his father whom he loved dearly and admired greatly. The “Angel” part I’m not so sure of.
Though I tried to convince my dad many times to let me introduce him to the people who admired his work, he refused. This stand that he took didn’t make things easy for those who admired his artwork or represented him. The art world demanded the proper credentials and a face to go with the art. When he refused the uproar it created sometimes overshadowed his artwork. Some, like gallerist Judy Saslow, understood and respected his need to let the artwork speak for itself, “If you want to know me, know me by my art”, he would say.
The idea that all artists, through their art, aspire to leave something behind that will let future generations know they were here, to make a statement about themselves, their experiences, whom they loved, who they were – that’s what he wanted to do. In his stubbornness and wisdom he accomplished creating his artistic identity.
During his lifetime I stayed quiet; I honored my father’s wishes to not reveal his identity to anyone. Now things have changed. When he was alive, we talked with each other every day, oftentimes about art. I don’t have that luxury anymore. In the three years since his death, I’ve done a lot of thinking about the meaning of his life and art, where things should go from here, and what to do with what I know and what was left to me.
Two weeks before he died I took him to the circus. He always loved a good circus. His favorites were the acrobats on the flying trapeze. Once he created a sculpture depicting the Great Wallendas. During this part of the show, I leaned over and told him I thought the acrobats looked like his artwork. He just smiled and kept watching the show.
“I remember flying down the deep inside the wind.” – Clyde Angel
Skip Willits
May 2009 |
