The Artist
By James Donahue
I have long forgotten his name, and a search of the web fails to raise it. During my time at South Haven I was invited to attend an art show north of town, in an old farmhouse located close to the Lake Michigan shore, hosted by one of the more interesting men I have met.
This man, who I quickly befriended and featured in various stories, was in the prime of his life yet extremely wealthy. As his story went, he invented a type of silk screen printing while working on his master’s degree at a Michigan university. He patented the process, sold it, and made his fortune by the time he was in his mid-twenties. He chose to settle at South Haven, bought the old farm that included some property, and set about to establish a colony for artists all over the nation to gather and work.
He held several major shows a year, each featuring not only his own work, but the art of many of the artists gathered on the farm. Eventually various small cottages appeared on the grounds where the visiting artists lived and worked. The main house was reserved for the host. The house was in a constant state of change and I realized that both the building and the man were a constantly changing art project.
Every time I entered that house I found that walls that once existed were moved or removed. Rooms appeared and disappeared. The walls were covered in art. Colors were changed. Even the furnishings were changed. The man himself was in constant change of appearance. When I met him on the street, I usually failed to recognize him until he spoke to me. He might be sporting long hair, a full beard and moustache at one time, then shaved and bald the next time I met him. His dress was always different. He moved from trench coats and leather jackets to summer shorts and gala pull-over tops. I used to jokingly call him a chameleon.
Like all young artists types during that era, everyone on the farm lived a free life-style. I recall one day driving into the driveway with glossy photographs to deliver and finding the only person there to be an attractive young woman, lying in the buff on a beach towel in the yard. It was an embarrassing moment. I would have backed away and fled the scene but she casually got up to greet me and accept my gift of photographs. I found myself behaving as if what was happening was quite normal. I declined an invitation to come into the house with her for some coffee and made my exit in as fast and as graceful a manner as I could muster.
My research on line produced the names of several active art galleries in the South Haven area, but none of them showing an address anywhere near the location of that farm as I remember it. It appears that the colony had an effect on the area that has carried on to this day.
By James Donahue
I have long forgotten his name, and a search of the web fails to raise it. During my time at South Haven I was invited to attend an art show north of town, in an old farmhouse located close to the Lake Michigan shore, hosted by one of the more interesting men I have met.
This man, who I quickly befriended and featured in various stories, was in the prime of his life yet extremely wealthy. As his story went, he invented a type of silk screen printing while working on his master’s degree at a Michigan university. He patented the process, sold it, and made his fortune by the time he was in his mid-twenties. He chose to settle at South Haven, bought the old farm that included some property, and set about to establish a colony for artists all over the nation to gather and work.
He held several major shows a year, each featuring not only his own work, but the art of many of the artists gathered on the farm. Eventually various small cottages appeared on the grounds where the visiting artists lived and worked. The main house was reserved for the host. The house was in a constant state of change and I realized that both the building and the man were a constantly changing art project.
Every time I entered that house I found that walls that once existed were moved or removed. Rooms appeared and disappeared. The walls were covered in art. Colors were changed. Even the furnishings were changed. The man himself was in constant change of appearance. When I met him on the street, I usually failed to recognize him until he spoke to me. He might be sporting long hair, a full beard and moustache at one time, then shaved and bald the next time I met him. His dress was always different. He moved from trench coats and leather jackets to summer shorts and gala pull-over tops. I used to jokingly call him a chameleon.
Like all young artists types during that era, everyone on the farm lived a free life-style. I recall one day driving into the driveway with glossy photographs to deliver and finding the only person there to be an attractive young woman, lying in the buff on a beach towel in the yard. It was an embarrassing moment. I would have backed away and fled the scene but she casually got up to greet me and accept my gift of photographs. I found myself behaving as if what was happening was quite normal. I declined an invitation to come into the house with her for some coffee and made my exit in as fast and as graceful a manner as I could muster.
My research on line produced the names of several active art galleries in the South Haven area, but none of them showing an address anywhere near the location of that farm as I remember it. It appears that the colony had an effect on the area that has carried on to this day.