The Michael Garman Museum & Gallery Newsletter
February 28th,  2013 Issue No.10
In This Issue
Watch Michael Garman at Work
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Featured Selection: Reduced Pricing
Adventures of a Vagabond Sculptor: Fatherhood & Craftsmanship
Greetings!  
 
Michael Garman, 1970s
The new edition of Adventures of a Vagabond Sculptor  is here.

 

Each month we share one of Michael Garman's stories, in his own words, describing the adventures and experiences that have inspired his work for the past 50 years.    
Michael Garman, 2012
 
2013 marks Michael Garman's 75th Birthday.  As part of the celebration, throughout 2013 we will be telling the story of the creation of Magic Town--Michael Garman's 3,000 sqare-foot Sculptural Theater.  We begin the story with Michael Garman's arrival to Colorado Springs in 1971.  In this issue, Michael Garman tackles fatherhood and the business of art.  Make sure to maintain your subscription to our Newsletter to get every issue of this story.
Adventures of a Vagabond Sculptor

Watch Michael Garman at Work

Michael Garman sculpting in 2013
Michael Garman sculpting in 2013
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Wheel of Fortune

Wheel of Fortune HP

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Fatherhood & Craftsmanship,
1971
We landed in Colorado Springs in 1971, newly married with a baby on the way.  And dead broke.  So I went right to work, creating a line of western characters.  I figured, it was Colorado and everyone wanted to be a cowboy, right? 
Early Garman Cowboys
           

Nobody was interested.  Store after store, and nothing, not a single bite.  I'd never worried about money before, never given it much thought at all.  I knew how to take care of myself, how to get food, shelter, booze.  All of a sudden I had all these responsibilities - a wife, a baby just weeks away, and I couldn't make a single sale.

 

Panic set in.  With the weight of fatherhood pressing down on my shoulders, I made a rookie mistake.  I lowered my prices.  Ridiculously low.  Too low.  Of course, by undercutting my price, I devalued my work.  I made it look cheap, not putting any value on my own artistic point of view or craftsmanship.  

 

And it was craftsmanship.  I've faced some misconceptions about my work, that because I choose to reproduce it, somehow that means I don't value it. The truth is, I pour my soul into my sculptures.  When I made my one-of-a-kinds back in Dallas, I was sloppy.  I didn't have to look my work in the face every day.  But when I began reproducing each piece, I became more emotionally invested.  I worked harder on each detail because I had to live with the results.  I would have to sell that thing again and again and again. So perfection was no longer a luxury, it was a requirement.   

 

 

Every sculpture begins in the exact same way.  After weeks, even months of thinking it through, I set a piece of clay or sculptor's wax in front of me. My hands feel their way into it, feeling for the life that I know is there.  Limbs start to emerge, the vaguest outline of a human form.  It's not about props or guns or saddles.  It is always, at its core, about finding the human spark and pulling it out.  As I work, I can hear their voices babbling at me, guiding me.  It's not a schizophrenic kind of thing, or maybe it is.  But it's more about feeling the story of a character and letting it take hold.

 

During this initial process, I invent wonderful back stories for each one of my guys.  I'll cluck my tongue, whisper in baby-talk, making all kinds of childish sounds.  From a small lump in my hands a face emerges - deep furrowed brows or the upturn of a lip the moment before a grimace turns into a smile.  I hear his voice telling me who he is: "No, you schmuck. I'm not a fireman.  Just look at me, Garman."  And so he becomes an aviator or a bull rider or a bum.  As soon as the character is complete, the story vanishes.  I'm left in silence. That's how I know he is done.

 

Finally, after I pull out all I have to give to a piece, then I can set the mold.  I put on my layers of latex one at a time, then make a shell out of a casting stone to hold it all in place.  Then I pour the master and let it dry.  When I break open this first mold, I can barely breathe.  This is when perfection matters most, when I will determine if I have honored my work.  Bits of hydrocal chip away as I break open the mold.  Then he stands in front of me - raw, a few ragged edges along the seam.

  

A few steps left, a few decisions that will bring him to life.  To this day I delight in this moment - to be judged by my work alone, to feel the high of getting it right, of knowing that I gave it my everything and I have no regrets.  How many moments like that does a man get?

 

So there I was with my brand new Frontier Series - my beloved little guys.  I traveled all over the Pikes Peak region - from Garden of the Gods to Manitou Springs and every shop in Colorado Springs.  I wasn't picky, just hungry.  5, 10, 20 people said no, but I only needed one to say yes.  Finally, I made a sale, a single shop owner who, most likely, saw the desperation in my eyes and took pity on me.  Eventually I made another sale, then another, but it was rough going there for a while.

 

I dedicated that Frontier Series to my daughter, Kathy.  She was born on April 20th, 1971. This was back before they put expectant fathers in the delivery room with their wives.  Instead, I was a typical dad pacing back and forth, scanning the pile of outdated magazines while I listened to my wife scream holy hell.

 

And then I was a father!   I held this helpless baby in my arms, her eyes wide open and looking up at me - Holy Cow!  What an astounding mix of love and fear!  Before I was married, I was happy to be a drunken ne'er-do-well with nothing but myself to care for. But this tiny bundle with her kicking-out legs, she brought me back to the seriousness of life.  I enjoyed the hell out of being a dad.  First with Kathy and then, less than two years later, we had a son - Mike.  My life took on a completely new focus, a new kind of drive.  For the first time, I had folks depending on me.  My work mattered in a whole new way.