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GUNS, GOLD and the ARTIST The story of Maria J. Smith I was born in the Netherlands at the beginning of World War II. Not an auspicious beginning, but thanks to
my parents' tremendous sacrifices I survived. We all suffered from severe malnutrition and it gave me a disease
called ricketts, characterized by bowed legs.  Since there were no toys during the war, my parents gave me a pencil and newspapers to play with. So, as soon as I was able to hold a pencil and make a mark with it, I began drawing on newspapers. After the war I was given colored pencils and "real" drawing paper (plain paper with no news print on it!). I was delighted and began to learn about color. I drew faces, landscapes with windmills, and ballet dancers to my heart's content.  My father always held up the Dutch Masters Rembrandt and Vermeer
as exemplifying THE standard of excellence in art. So, I started copying Old Master paintings in colored pencil - intent
on becoming a great artist like Rembrandt or Vermeer. I also drew portraits. I was very interested in people's faces.
When I was about ten years old, I drew a portrait of Queen Juliana and mailed it to the palace not far from where I lived.
Subsequently, I received a thank-you note on official place stationary, bearing the Royal Seal in red wax on the envelope. I remember that
I hid in the house for three days, away from my friends, and when I re-appeared I told them I had been at the palace to play
with the princesses. I showed them the Royal envelope addressed to me to prove it (minus the contents, of course).
They believed it - and I never told them differently. When I was fourteen, my parents gave me a small paintbox with little tubes
of oil paint and a tiny canvas board. From that moment on oil paints became my medium of choice. I decided that if Rembrandt
and Vermeer could become Masters using oil paint, then I could as well They were, after all, just Dutch people who painted.
Now, some 50 years later, I am of the same opinion (and still working on it). In 1958 my parents and I immigrated to the United States. I had just
turned 17 and that same year I got my first paid commission for an oil portrait. That did it - there was no stopping me then.
In the mid-60's, after I had been a free lance artist for several years, I figured out an innovative way to get commissions
for portraits of people and animals. This led to
innumerable portrait commissions (and subsequently for other subjects as well) that are now in private collections in the
Netherlands, Canada, England, Mexico, Canada, Australia and throughout the United States. While living in Pasadena, California a friend and I co-founded the Robinson
School of Fine Art. This was in the late 60's and we were bothe soloists with the Southern California Ballet Company
at the time. My first teaching experiences (drawing, oil painting and classical ballet) were at the Robinson School of Fine
Art. It was a wonderful, carefree time. Later, I met and narried my first husband and the mid-70's we took off to
the Sierra Nevada nountains to become gold miners. A big change from the conveniences of city living to a remote cabin in
the mountains with only a small wood stove for heat, the nearest neighbor more than a mile away and no doctor witin a hundres
miles. This
move to the mountains became a 15-year adventure of the extreme kind. After a rough start, we eventually had an operating
commercial gold mine. However, in the process I discovered that my husband suffered from a manic depressive disorder
that was worsening over time. I was always getting us out of trouble he got us into. It seemed he liked hobnobbing with
local "free spirits" and other nefarious characters with names like "Larry the Tree" and "Dirty Bob",
who lived in the woods under a plastic tarp, and were attracted to gold like flies to honey. Out of necessity, I
learned to drive a big dumptruck, operate a backhoe, run the processing plant, and separate fine placer gold (gold dust) from
the black sand concentrates. I dug ditches and glued what felt like miles of PVC pipe between the three large settling ponds.
In spite of all this, I never stopped painting and in my spare time I also learned how to bake bread and make jams and jellies
from the local wild plums, elderberries and chokecherries. I learned to cut, split and stack firewood and build a good fire.
Ah, the country life! I lived through 6 ft. snowfalls in the winter and learned to spot huge timber rattles in the summer.
I learned about governmental rules and regulations, and in the process became an expert in mining law, real estate law, and
property tax law - and I learned about the ways of the world. As the only woman in commercial mining I had to deal with thieves,
drug dealers, sophisticated swindlers and "promoters", even the European Mafia (who made us an offer we "couldn't
refuse", but which I refused anyway - my husband being too initimidated to say say"no") and the seemingly inevitable
crooked law enforcement personnel, government employees, lawyers and judges. I my efforts to avoid becoming embroiled
in illegal situations, I began to get death threats because I exposed swindlers trying to involve our gold mine in a multi-million
dollar investment "deal". No wonder, this unprepossessing woman cost them millions! I remember one night my
husband was in a shoot-out with drug dealers who were taking shortcuts through our property to get to the neighboring mine.
The Mafia ended up buying that propert instead of ours, probably for money laundering purposes. I remember the son of
the mine owner who sold his mine to the Mafia refused to leave the property and kept living in a small cabin on the mountain.
One day he was rushed to the hospital with a bullet in his head. After that he chose to stay away. Stuff like
this was not unusual. It was all part and parcel of the gold mining scene.  In spite of our exciting lifestyle, I continued portraits and other subject matter, and also managed a small local art gallery. I sold nearly every painting I made and taught drawing and painting there as well. As time went on, my husband began to exhibit signs of dangerous behavior. I pleaded with him to seek medical help. He refused. He'd get into a horrendous rage at the drop of a hat, and it as impossible to trell what was going to set him off. After three months of sleeping with my clothes on (perhaps 2 hours a night), ready for instant emergency departure, I became so exhausted from sleep deprivation that the moment I stopped moving I would fall asleep. Several times I nearly drove off a cliff and realized this could not go on. Shortly afterwards, my husband had an especially bad episode. On a dark and stormy night (it really was! - pitch black outside and large limbs were snapping off of 125 ft. Douglas firs like matchsticks), he unholstered his ever-present 45 loaded with hollow points and went out into the night to kill the foreman of the mining operation. He shouted that the foreman had stolen some of his gold nuggets (which he had, actually) and that was a "killing offense" (an often-used phrase in those days). I couldn't believe that it would come to this - there I was, seriously considering how I was supposed to deal with a dead body! This was more than I could handle. Lucky for the foreman, he was out that evening. But then, my husband began jumping up and down, screaming and waving his gun around in my face, saying he was going to kill me, himself, and everybody who worked on our mine. This went on the whole night. It was a very long night. Drawing on my inner resources, I managed to stay calm and waited it out. After he exhausted himself and fell asleep, I got my important papers, a few clothes, $600 and left. I walked away from well over a million dollars in equipment, a profitable placer mining operation, and $8 million in proven reserves. I had lost everything, but I was alive. My life in the wild, wild West was over. Somewhat. My husband continued to refuse to seek medical treatment for his condition and that eventuallyled to my divorcing him. This was extremely dangerous, given that there was only one road in and one road out to get to County Courthouse, and my husband had begun stalking me. It turned out that in his mind, he owned me (just like his gold) and nobody was going to take his property away from him - that was a "killing offence". I lived in my car and kept on the move. To make a long story short, although I lost everything, was being stalked by a dangerous, armed man, had to live like a fugitive and was always looking over my shoulder, I has survived. Two years later I married my second husband and went to Alaska with him. With a new husband and a new name in a far away state, I finally began to feel safe. I had successfully disappeared. My life was normal again and I was back painting and loved living anong the wildlife in Alaska. For 10 years, life was good. Then, my second husband died suddenly from a massive brain hemorrhage. Literally overnoght I was left with no income income. Now, at age 57 it was survival time once again. I had lost everything for the second time. He passes away on September first and in mid-October th e Christmas art and craft fairs would be in full swing. Since I had a bad back from my mining days (I was in pain 24/7 and couldn'r stand for more than 10 or 15 minutes) and had no marketable skills, getting a job was not an option. I mashaked my inner resources once again and painted spme sample portraits, made up a price list. bought a folding table and within 6 weeks I was doing all the shows I possibly could. By Christmas I had enough portrait commissions to keep me busy fro 6-8 months. It took a lot of self-discipline, but I painted 10-12 hours a day and listened to Books-on-Tape to help me ge through. I trained myself to maintain focus for all those hours and to paint efficiently. I found a small one-room apartment over a mechanic's garage, moved in with some folding chairs and a folding table for furniture, and started teaching in the kitchen. I painted portraits, Alaskan scenery and wildlife, and entered local art shows. For the first time in my life I was afull-time artist. It might have been a bit late in life and under difficult circumstances, but I was living my dream. I loved it. One of my students became a good friend. She was going through through a nasty divorce and asked to come live with her so she would have to be alone in the big house. Safety in numbers and all that. I had only a few possessions, so I rented a room form her and we got along fine. I continued teaching, this time i my friend's kitchen and, began giving art classes at thelocal Senior center. I was never without a portrait commission, my non-portrait paintings were selling well, and I was giving workshops at the Kenai Peninsula College. Life as a working artist was good and getting better. However, Alaska winters are something else. South Central Alaska is sub-arctic, endowing us with 7 monyhs of snow and ice, 2 months of mud (spring and fall), and 3 months of summer enhanced by a million tourists all traveling on one road and the world's largest mosquitoes (lovingly referred to as the Alaska State Bird). My friend fell on some ice, broke several ribs, a collar bone and punctured her lung. By then I was 60 years old and thought it would be only a matter of time when my turn would come. In the meantime, my friend's divorce had been settled and the house we lived i n was sold. She said: "I don't know about you, but I am getting out of Alaska." I asked: "Where will you go?" She siad "I want to go back to the town I was raised in - Eden, Idaho. There is nothing there - justa quiet one-horse town of 350 people, mostly retired farm workers, two bars and one gas station. It is a land of spuds and dairy farms." I said: "I'm a Dutch girl, I love cows, potatoes and peace and quiet - sounds good to me", even though I hardley know where Idaho was, let alone Eden. But I loved that name - it inevitably conjured up visions of the Garden of Eden. We packed up, rented a huge moving truck and drove 400 miles to that little one-horse town surrounded by spuds and cows. When I got to Eden, Idaho, I thought: "What's the matter with me? I must be a glutton for punishment because here I am having to start all over again - from nothing and on a shoestring. I am in a place I have never been before, I know no one here". But, on the other hand, I realized that there was nothing to fear, because "I've been there and done that" and I've had lota of experience dealing with challenges! At the age of 60, I still had the health and energy of a 30-year old (my back "fixed itself" during a Tai Chi class in Alaska). I needed to start teaching and painting again. I needed to take my art to where the people were in order to connect with some prospective students and collectors. I discovered that during late spring, summer and fall there was a Farmer's Market being held every Saturday "in town". "Town" was the big city (relatively speaking) of twin Falls, with a popi[ulation of about 36,000 people. By all accounts still a small town. I did some research in the area. I found there was no such thing as an art gallery in Twin Falls, perhaps evidencing a general lack of interest in the finer things inlife, like original art. My friend, who said she wanted to be an artist, too, confirmed this by saying: "I know these people here. They're great farmers, but there is no way you can anybody interested in buyin art or taking painting lessons". Undismayed, and having already done so-called impossible things quite a few times in my life, I once again set out to do my thing. I rented a space at the Farmer's Market (I was the only non-produce person there) and religiously went every Saturday, rain or shaine (Often over 100 degrees!) or wind. This high desert area is know for its impressive windgusts. I displayed and sold note cards and matted reproductions of my paintings, talked with people and di painting demonstrations. This drew a lot of attantion and I even got on television. Surprise! I actually found quite a few people who were interested in lessons. I asked them for their contact information and I also gotmy first commission in Idaho for a large still life from the Farmer's Market that wasn't supposed to succeed. The next problem was to find a place where I could teach. My house was a very small one bedroom situation and I had my 91 year-old mother come to live with me two months after I arrived in Idaho in 2001. I gave her the one bedroom. I had promised her years ago that I would not let her get put into an old people's home. I keep my promises. She really needed peace and quiet. I stayed home for one year and painted in the kitchen, having set myself the goal of learning whatever the Masters knew, because that that lack of understanding was evident in my work. I studied books and thought a lot. I began to see that I did not know how to paint the nature and beauty of light. Little by little I finally "got a handle on it". I painted and paonted and I wrote and self-published a book about Intuitive Thinking for artists, selling to my students and other artists in the area. The book is now in collection of the Soldotna Public Library in Soldotna, Alaska. Anyway, try as I might, I couldn't find a place I could afford to rent for art lessons. So, back I went to giving painting lessons in my kitchen. (Am I seeing a pattern her?) It was now 2002. After a while, I got too many students coming and going through the house - the commotion was upsetting my mother. So, back I went to try and find a location in Twin Falls. After knocking on many doors I found a Senior Center that would rent me space for painting lessons, provided my use of the place did not interferewith the Center's activities. Ths was great. I also held art shows there, sold my art, and was getting more students through the Senior Center. However, after a while I had so many classes that I was unable to dance around the Seniors' activities anymore. This began to be very restrictive. I could not find anything I could afford (again!). However, having gained an understanding of how things work in life, I knew that if I had a real need for space, then the right thing would come along. All I had to do was keep my eyes and ears open for that opportunity. It came just two weeks later. By this time it was 2003 and my mother was 93 and I was laready 62 - but still going strong with an apparently in exhaustible supply of energy. I looked through the classifieds in the local newspaper but all the commercial spaces were much too expensive. One day, I noticed an ad offering business space for lease. It was a little too expensive for me but the ad had a website listed. On a lark I looked it up and, lo and behold, it showed a good-sized room that was already set up as a classroom. I called for a appointment, looked at it and while it certainly wasn't perfect, I culd make it work. The rent was just right, too. I signed the lease and paid for a year in advance. So, in 2003 this became The Artist's Atelier, which has acquired a reputation as the best atelier in Idaho where artists can get quality tradition art instruction in Classical and Contemporary Realism in Oil Painting and Drawing as an Art Form. I am fortunate to have students who are serious about studying art, and they come as far away as 130 miles (one way) to study me. I am honored and thrilled to be able to provide this service and truly enjoy sharing what I have learned with these artists. My workshops have proved to be very popular, and in September of this year (2008) I will be starting a new long-term program for those who aspire to be professionals and/or want to achieve excellence in their chosen discipline. The new program is an authentic 19th Century Atelier Training Program for painters using the Charles Bargue Cours de Dessin (drawing course) followed by 10 levels of academic training in oil painting. All is well that ends well, isn't that true? How wonderful life is.....  |
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Maria J. Smith An Ordinary Name - Extraordinary Art ---o0o---
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