Junkyard birds strut their stuff at PainePosted: Aug. 24, 2002
Oshkosh - With a snappy blue ascot cradling his deeply tanned throat and a wide brimmed "Sacred Feather" panama hat shading his fleshy, well-creased face, Thomas O. Every might be a tropical explorer or a Southwestern rancher. Instead, under the nom de sculpture "Dr. Evermor," he's a self-styled "demolition man" - a ham-fisted wrecking-yard operator turned full-time artist in the vein of such Wisconsin-bred immortals as Fred Smith, Mary Nohl and Nick Engelbert. Strong and stocky, witty and laconic, determined but just a tad defensive, Dr. Evermor is almost singlehandedly keeping alive the Dairy State tradition of industry and eccentricity, as expressed through elaborately constructed outdoor environments.
Right now - through Sept. 15 - this self-taught, but far from naive confector of three-dimensional metallic collages is showing 47 of his pieces in the front and rear gardens of the Paine Art Center and Gardens, 1410 Algoma Blvd. The theme, this time around, is the bird - but a bird that will never take wing. Rather, it's a bird fashioned out of brass knobs, copper floats and pieces of a power buzz saw - a bird that charms through its delicacy and strength, its vigor and whimsy. The all-over effect is a bizarre, precedent-setting juxtaposition of styles: artworks assembled out of bits of rusting junk adding lightness and grace to a landscape dominated by lovingly tended gardens and a grand Tudor Revival-style mansion. The contrast between English decorum and Yankee spontaneity isn't lost on Evermor, who enjoys telling journalists that he's "a saver from the word 'go.' " An "old Englishman," he loves "the sight of men making things." Clearly, he abhors phoniness. For its part, the Paine professes to be delighted by this fanciful assault on finely manicured turf and expensively groomed pathways. Aaron Sherer, the museum's newly arrived executive director, says he's impressed by the fact that Evermor's perky birds "seem to live here." Connie Pirner, director of marketing, sees the preening flock as vital to the museum's image. It's important, she believes, to show this kind of populist stuff since "we're trying to dispel the idea that the Paine is pretentious, snooty and highbrow." Evermor couldn't be more delighted by the role his winged creations are playing in the democratization of the Paine. His own persona is far from stuffy. Born Thomas O. Every in 1938, he is best known for the Forevertron, a massive 400-ton compilation of junk and dreams that he hopes will some day be erected atop the compressor house of the Badger Army Ammunition Plant, on Highway 12 between Baraboo and Prairie du Sac. Every adopted the moniker Dr. Evermor in 1983 when, having retired from the junk and salvage business, he began to build the Forevertron in a sculpture park across the highway from the Badger Ordnance Works. Today, he presides over a sprawling universe of some 10,000 finished works, all confected out of the peculiar fruits of his salvage business. Always, he says, he is driven by the realization that he has "a big pile of stuff" he has to get rid of. Obviously, eccentricity goes with the territory. He trucks his output around in a battered Chevy Silverado that he has encircled with a protective perimeter of welded steel bumpers. He's thrilled by the fact that one of his forbears, Henry Every, was a pirate. Still, there's a touch of wistful naivete in his makeup. He leaves the keys in his truck no matter where it's parked. ("Who'd take an old heap like this?") He speaks openly about the importance of positive thinking. Most revealing, he infuses even the humblest examples of his handiwork with a potent charge of psychic energy - a lovely bit of lyricism that belies their modest origins. The present show - curated by Laurie Carson, who chairs the Paine's exhibitions committee - is a good example of Dr. Evermor's transformative touch. The birds that populate the Paine's gardens and greensward are neither the largest nor the most complex of the good doctor's efforts. But they pose and strut, swagger and entreat with a confidence and verve that brings them endearingly to life. There's a Madagascar bird, all Bette Davis eyes (made out of brass bedposts) and junk heap bravado. The Peacock Bird spreads tail feathers assembled out of castoff musical instruments and boasts a skeleton that started out in life as a power buzz saw. "Trofea," described as a leaping lizard, stands on legs built out of power shafts. A flock of spring-necked "Fire Birds" incorporates vintage sprinklers manufactured at a Beloit factory. Typically, Evermor minimizes his conceptual contribution to all this impromptu elegance, insisting instead that he is merely trying to keep up with the recyclable detritus produced by a heedless, and wasteful, world. Nor does he make sketches or build models in preparation for future projects. "Hell, no!" he exclaims, indignation oozing freely from every 65-year-old pore. "I just go for it! I build. I don't screw around!" And he means it.
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What:
Dr. Evermor's bird sculptures