Philip B. Dedrick1921-2001

"Expect a good thing."

2012-12-01T15:16:00.000-08:00

With greatest love- for Bo-Bo

4/17/76

This began as an attempt to archive the memories of a special time and a special man... and soon took me on a journey to Rockford and Freeport Illinois. There I encountered people who still held close in their hearts and thoughts the man known as Philip Dedrick. To say this was a great man his humble nature would never accept. Embraced by friends and students, we knew him as someone unique who enriched our lives on so many different levels... foremost opening our eyes to what was beautiful in the world. Recently I came to understand those delightful, funny, and fascinating art history classes taught by Philip Dedrick propelled us like guided missiles into the studios of the Clark Arts Building to CREATE!

More will follow....... but for now I want to thank those who made this possible and have contributed: Roland & Louise Poska, Tom & Lynn Hartog, Jerry & Pat Hoffman, Andrew Langoussis, Rama Kakarala, Ali Hansen, Chuck Ludeke, Joe Tromiczak, Randi Williams, Bern Sundstedt, Chris Apel Walker, Mary Pryor and a special thank you to Jessica Caddell who is the keeper of the flame: THE PHILIP DEDRICK ART COLLECTION at the Freeport Art Center . It was she who found my 33 year old portrait of 'Bo-Bo' that I had thought lost.

Another rediscovered treasure is the Ludeke painting that was not only a wonderful surprise but an old friend for many accustomed to its place on the wall outside the art history room for years. What inspired Chuck in its creation is something he might share with us in the future; based on a classic it featured period cameos of the existing art faculty as well as a quietly snoozing P.D. that enchanted viewers, especially those who knew its cast of characters. It is an obscure compliment knowing the painting was part of the college art collection that was auctioned off in 2006.

~Daumier's Third Class Carriage~
Circa 1976

"Dear Daddy"

2012-11-29T20:19:00.000-08:00

The Ancient One (my other pet name for him) was born on November 20, 1921 in Broadhead, Wisconsin... on Thomas Street.

Every year I sent a birthday card and some small gift, and every year I made profit on my largesse by receiving a check in return because he realized he had not remembered MY birthday. He told me that as a child he thought the world was just a soft cozy place until his parents gave him his first set of spectacles... then suddenly there were clouds and insect life. As Andrew Langoussis said, never did he know anyone born into a family of such total unconditional love.

His mother kept a meticulous Baby Book and within its pages were not only photographs but written documentation of height, weight (for each of his first ten months!), first words, first gifts of clothing, first Valentine, first birthday card from grandma Bilse, and a blue ribbon he won for a flower raising contest.

'Every grain of gain is noted
Every scratch of the scale so fine-
What's the use when the precious bundle
Far out weighs a rare gold mine'

Also tucked between these pages were thin, yellowed letters from a little boy who clearly adored his father:

'Dear Daddy-

How are you getting along at the factory? I hope you will be getting home next weekend. At school I am tring to play vollia boll but am not so good. Miss Kock wants me to take my bike over to Sheboygan but mother said no! We plan to go fishing this after noon. I miss you so so come home quick. Remember that Gods arms ar always around you and taking care of you. There is a robin building in our pine tree and has some eggs. There hasent much happened this week so I havent much new for you but remember I love you more and more each day.

Your loving son Philip'

He confided to Pat Hoffman that the only time he was truly angry with God was when his father died prematurely of a heart attack.

"It's so beautiful this A.M. sunny and warm."

2012-11-24T20:50:00.000-08:00

Time came in my life when someone I dearly loved had died, and I often reflect back to the phone call I had with P.D. in need of his comfort and wisdom; wondering especially if there was a rule concerning the length of grief. He said he had shed hot tears in his day... yet never thought of his parents' loss... to him they were still very much alive because he dreamt about them all the time.

'Monday Eve.

Dear Philip:

Modern stationary – found this on Dad’s desk and as he’s out tonight I thought I’d help myself. He and Bob Neik (?) are out for dinner at the Freeport Hotel with an Allens salesman (typewriter) so I’m by myself listening to the radio & trying to write you. A one-track mind can’t make much progress, but I’ll finish somehow. Well we got back from Grand Rapids about 2:30 a.m. Saturday and we were plenty tired. I didn’t do anything but eat & sleep & gab but it wore me down – and Dad went to school every day – 8 to 4:30 and had all the driving too. Yesterday, we went down to church & in the P.M. we went over to Polo to watch television. Thought (??) we’d come home early & it was round 12:30 when we got home. I washed this a.m. & this afternoon we went up to Monroe and so now I am just glad to sit & try to get a letter off to my sweet boy. Your letter was waiting for us and we sat down & read it. Yours was surely an interesting trip and I should think it was a pretty hard one. Did it come up to your expectations? And was it really cold while you were out? Oh dearie, you won’t get any pictures for a little while – with all that posing & smiling & what have you, the darn film was imperfect and they didn’t print them – and Pa & I will have to pose all over & that’s more work than house cleaning. And did you write – (name illegible) said Saturday eve – she hadn’t heard from you. I’m glad you were pleased with your Easter box. It wasn’t much but you know we think of you. I’ve been listening to the return of our soldiers and I’m so happy for them & their families – I can’t understand why so few are being returned tho & I wonder what will happen to those who aren’t so lucky.

Tuesday A.M.

Well, I just got that far when Dad came so off we went to bed. It’s 9:30 and I’m sitting downtown while Dad is out paying our bills & etc. and we’re on our way to Dixon & I don’t know where else. The main thing is we’re going. I weighed Sunday and tip the scales at 140# so it must agree with me. It’s so beautiful this A.M. sunny and warm. I should be house cleaning but you know me – go – go. Dad wrote Aunt Roxa (?) about (illegible) going over there in about three weeks – leave here Wednesday & back Monday. They seem to be very anxious & I know we’ll see the country – more go-go. Roberta has been sick – seems to suffer from asthma. Poor kid. Laddie’s wife’s mother passed on in Texas and they went down – so Ag Roderick told us yesterday. Well I could write more but I want to mail this before we leave town. Hope we receive a letter from you today. We love you so very much.

Mother.'

"Looking forward to your visits."

2012-11-23T21:05:00.000-08:00

Even the teacher had a valued teacher. P.D. recalled a time when Merl Blackwood, his high school art teacher, brought a Mondrian to the class and asked why it was a piece worthy of an expensive frame.

"I remember thinking it looked like tile from a bathroom. This was before Mondrian was in the Art Institute, before he was accepted as a great artist. But I kept looking at it and reading about Mondrian and his ideas. I ingested it until I understood. Students have to be cannibals. They must ingest what came before until it becomes a part of them."

Merl was still sending his student Christmas cards in the mid-1990s. Wood block prints on heavy paper stock. One was enscribed "Looking forward to your visits, Merl."

Mr. Blackwood died in 1998 at the age 101. His Dioramas are currently on display at the Stephenson County Historical Museum in Freeport Illinois. He (along with principal L.A. Fulweider) found funds to cover the walls in the Freeport High School with fine reproductions of masters, from Monet to...yes... Mondrian.

Merl & P.D.

"Princess Yogurty"?

2012-11-22T22:35:00.000-08:00

1940's class at the school of The Art Institute of Chicago... featuring Joan Mitchell, one of the era's few female painters to gain critical and public acclaim as a leader in abstract painting... Louis Ritman, teacher and famed Chicago artist... Herbert Katzman, painter & sculptor...

Gladys Adair, Recorder, May 29, 1948

'I have known Philip since 1940... in personality he is so gracious and sincere that others immediately feel at ease. His unselfishness, happy outlook and even disposition have won him many friends who appreciate his delightful wit and humor, which never approaches the course or unkind.'

'Fine student-somewhat talkative' -Miskovsy, 1941, 'Fair draftsman'- Fabian, 1942, 'Splendid student in every respect'- Van Papelendam, 1942, 'Excellent student- intelligent'- Philbeck, 1942, 'Exceptionally perfect student in every respect... always dependable... altruistic- never thinks of himself'- Van Papelendum, 1945, 'Philip Dedrick was student of mine for two years... much creative ability... sensitive in feeling and color... excellent draftsman... well liked and makes and keeps friends... he will do well as an artist and teacher'- Louis Ritman, 'Philip Dedrick was graduated with a four year diploma in Drawing, Painting and Illustration on June 1946... his student record is excelent... has shown a great interest in painting techniques, especialy egg tempera... I believe he would be successful in college teaching'- Hubert Rop, Dean, School of the Art Institute.

Courtesy of Freeport Art Center

Faculty Honorable Mention 1941-1942
Class Honorable Mention Figure Drawing 1941-1942
Class Honorable Mention Still LIfe Painting 1941-1942
Class Honorable Mention Advanced Still Life Painting 1944-1945
Class Honorable Mention Etching 1945-1946
Faculty Honorable Mention 1945-1946
Class Honorable Mention Egg Tempora 1945-1946
Anna Louise Raymond Foreign Travel Fellowship 1946

"Moving Day"

2012-11-21T07:49:00.000-08:00

Philip Dedrick immediately began a career at Rockford College in 1948, back when it was a girls school including the staff: Amidst all those ladies. "I thought I was going to be a painter," he once told me. During this period he pursued a Masters of Arts degree, focusing on art history, at the University of New Mexico. He also studied under D.V. Thompson at the Courtauld Institute in London.

In 1850 the Brooklyn Institute introduced sparrows into the new world; eight pairs.

In 1955 Rockford College introduced male students; number of pairs unreported.

Then in 1964 the college moved to the new campus on State Street and its sparkling jewel that was the Clark Arts Building.

You can't move everything out of nine buildings, as Rockford College did on August 15, without problems. P.D. was puzzled over one. His problem was the giant statue of a Greek athlete which had been on the third floor of Adams Hall as long as anyone remembers. "I'm not sure how they got him up here in the first place," said Dedrick, who planned to ask the college committee for special consideration of the statue moving project. "He doesn't dismantle." The art studio on the new campus would never be the same without the statue, P.D. said. "We would like to have him out there. He has always been a favorite model for beginning drawing students- gives them confidence because he never moves a muscle."

Forty-five years later, and much worse for the wear, the sculpture stands patient as ever. Evidently special consideration was sawing his arms and waist through as a solution to transport. Possibly when the college is nothing more than an ancient ruin he will remain as testament to the glory days.

"A single pebble..."

2012-11-20T11:39:00.000-08:00

(click letter to enlarge)

'It is said that if you move a single pebble on the beach, you set up a different pattern, and everything in the world is changed. It can also be said that love can change the future, if it is deep enough, true enough, and selfless enough. It can prevent a war, prohibit a plague, keep the whole world... whole.'

The Man Who Was Never Born
by Andrew Lawrence
The Outer Limits, October 28 1963

"Curious incident of the dog..."

2012-11-19T17:54:00.000-08:00

The arts were not limited on the new campus. P.D. and Mr. Adair also added their exceptional talents to the college chapel along with alumnae art contribution. In my day this was not an 'advertised' fact... but I remember visting the Dedrick lithographs as well as the batik banners and altar pieces. Apparently for more than fifteen years all have gone missing.... the absence unexplained. One hopes an investigation will result in locating these treasures from the past that represent artistic achievement in the celebration of multiple faiths.

Gregory: "Is there any other point to which you would wish to draw my attention?"
Holmes: "To the curious incident of the dog in the night-time."
Gregory: "The dog did nothing in the night."
Holmes: "That was the curious incident."

Silver Blaze/ The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

"Wings are so terribly hard to dry..."

2012-11-18T09:24:00.000-08:00

~Travis Dreaming~

Robert John Guttke

I applied to Rockford College and was informed I would have to present my portfolio before being accepted. This I dimly remember: Standing on the green, rolling lawns of the campus, surrounded by trees, these beautiful buildings, and near to the art building with my art work (lots of scratch board drawings; a technique I greatly enjoyed) from a junior college under my arm. I was all alone. It was a sunny spring day yet I felt I had just climbed aboard the Mary Celeste. A single figure came down a side walk; a funny little man with narrow shoulders, grey hair tucked under a barre, dressed in a dark wool suit and clutching books reverently to his chest. But most startling were his spectacles with lenses that appeared to be three inches thick. He smiled at me and said hello.

I thought he was very strange .

Then thought wouldn't it be ironic if this was the man I was here to see?

It was.

I nervously presented my art to this kind and gentle man. Was he British? He didn't talk like anyone I had met before. His hands moved elegantly, like butterflies, with his every word. He put me instantly at ease. Then came the forever unforgettable moment. "What do you wish to achieve with your art?" he asked, very seriously. "Absolute perfection," I shot back, very flippantly. He tilted his head a bit, looked over those impossible glasses, and smiled a little dimpling smile. "Remember," he said, "Wings are so terribly hard to dry."

I started classes at Rockford College in the Fall of 1973. Philip Dedrick was my teacher and my mentor for three years and after graduation he remained my friend & family for twenty-six years.

~Fallen Angel~

Odilon Redon

"If you can't make it good, make it big."

2012-11-17T06:07:00.000-08:00

"Phil!" I use to hear him bellow from out of his office above the ceramics lab; a ceramics lab startling pristine in its cleanliness which reflected Arthur Adair's strict discipline from his Navy experience. Chair of the department my first year at Rockford, he picked on me endlessly in his gruff manner and I enjoyed it greatly, sensing "a form of endearment". With sleeves rolled up past his mighty forearms he would demonstrate making a clay pot on the wheel that impressed to no end. Then the last fifteen minutes of class were always devoted to making the lab 'ship shape'. You could have eaten off the floor.

Unable to 'throw a pot' for my life, I was content to explore hand building and always worked the human figure into my work until functunal pieces disappeared entirely. Mr. Adair called them: "Guttke's nudie pots! You you should put 'em in a box with a hole and sell five cent peeps!" The pearls of wisdom just rolled from this man, and I thought the world of him. He said, "Don't fall in love with your pots," refering to the perclivity of things to crack or blow up. He presented a grotesque goblet I had fashioned to the class, saying, "If you can't make it good, make it big." When he retired that year, which saddened me greatly, I stood back feeling I wasn't qualified to add to his farewell book when he suddenly yelled, "Guttke, get over here and sign this!"

'I enjoy teaching very much," he once said. "I'm interested in my own creative work, of course, but I am not often moved to exhibit. Many artists teach from economic necessity and consider it drudgery. This can be detrimental to teaching.'

Clark Arts had the finest and most modern type of kiln developed to date by ceramic engineers. Yet Arthur Adair also designed gallery exhibits and theatrical productions and taught painting. "I don't stress the how of painting. Thus, I give few demonstrations. I feel every student must discover his own technique... this is often a painful experience.. but this is where the learning begins. If they are willing to bring order from this confusion, they begin to learn.'

He left Rockford to open his own studio in Taos, New Mexico. P.D. told me that often Georgia O'Keefe would stop by and visit with him. Letters from Mr. Adair to P.D. mentioned the Clay and Fiber Shop, shared in family activities, encouraged visits, passed greetings on to 'the Rockford College Gang' and ended with love from him and his wife.

The facade of Colman Library remains adorned with Mr. Adair's extraordinary ceramic plaques which represent a wide variey of cultures from around the world: Egyptian, Tibetan, Celtic, American Indian, East Indian, Mayan, Hebrew, Mesopotamian and many more.

This brusque, talented, good natured man with a wife, daughters and grand-children was lost in the early 90's when that great heart unexpectedly stopped.

~My First Nudie Pot~
Robert John Guttke

"Next slide please..."

2012-11-16T08:52:00.000-08:00

Philip Dedrick said it was love at first sight when he set eyes on the most famous piece of Egyptian statuary, the 3,300 year old bust of Queen Nefertiti; exalting the beauty of 'maidens' with long, swan like necks and then lowered his voice in sympathy to those cursed with short stubby ones. This was quite an unexpected start of a fusty art history class, but P.D.'s classes were always anything but that. He said he reluctantly took on the task. "It began against my better judgement... too concerned with dates and dull facts... but once started it made me examine and verbalize my convictions."

With knowledge of religion, history and a proclivity for visiting nearly every museum in the world (and restaurants in their vicinity) he enthralled us with stories of art & artists that went beyond just memorizing dates. He would wax poetical over Giotto's Mary on her way to deliver the 'jewel' from her body that would become the Christ. Tell us how many nuns Fra Philipo Lipi was living with at the time he painted (3). How a baroque painting of the "rather corpulent" Sabine women hoisted on top of the horses would have been an easier task if the positions were reversed. How abstract artist Franz Marc's pacifist nature and love of animals ended as he stood still on the battlefield of Verdun and was killed. Refusing comment on Michelangelo's sexuality since he frowned on psychoanalyzing someone dead for over 400 years. Relating the story of unrequitted love that Botticelli felt for the beautiful Simonetta Vespucci who was betrothed to Giuliano De Medici... she eventually succumbing to a fever as the handsome Giuliano was murdered at the bronze doors created by Lorenzo Ghiberti.

I don't recall what brought up the topic, but P.D. reflected to a time in his childhood when he drew and colored mermaids & mermen. Then cut them free of the paper and placed them in a hole filled with water. Innocently watching in horror as these paper creations dissolved. My mouth widened in astonishment because I had done exactly the same thing!

John Walter Waterhouse
A Mermaid

Anecdotes for these classes are endless. The noon hour class meant everyone missed out on lunch, and P.D. would go on & on about a Dutch still life with its succulent fruits that glittered with moisture until someone in class screamed, "STOP IT!" How many times did an image appear on the wall that he studied for a few seconds then said, "Next slide please. One must not speak ill of the dead." His formal pronunciation of Van Gogh (does ANYONE really know this man's name?) caused soft grumbles of outrage when it finally dawned who he was talking about- followed by the loud swell of angry erasers. He had planned to skip Bernini but I liked the artist so volunteered to do the lecture. Thus I waxed poetic while he sat in the front. "Take me to a vomitorium," I heard mumbled loudly. When discussing Pluto's fingers pressed into the stone flesh of Persephone there came another loud and snide, "Yes, count each and every finger!"

Sculptures of the perfidious Gian Lorenzo Bernini

Then came the time when he rushed late into class, the lights already out, hurrying down the steps to the front and his head collided with one of the wooden student projects on the wall. As he spoke the blood cascaded down his face. The class was petrified. With no hesitation I jumped from behind the carrel, grabbed his arm, and lead him out and into the mens room where I washed away the blood. "I don't even have a headache," he said indignantly, confirming his strong Christian Scientist faith. "Fine," I shot back, "But you're grossing everyone out!" Class continued.

Venus & Mars
(aka: Simonetta & Giuliano)
by Sandro Botticelli

"Ice cream... you scream..."

2012-11-15T20:19:00.000-08:00

P.D. was my advisor my first year, a danger in itself since on occasion he'd sign you up for a class that didn't count toward your degree... but as he often said, "Suffering is good for the young." Always loving English History I took a class that unexpectedly turned out dry as dust and fast became tantamount to the dotted line around Anne Boelyn's neck. In a panic about grades and my scholarship I turned for help and ended up at P.D.'s apartment. His solution? Everything would be fine and he gave me a bowl of vanilla ice cream. I passed the class (by the skin of my teeth) and my scholarship was only slightly reduced.

This was the beginning of many visits off campus to his tiny apartment that had a ceiling to floor Langoussis painting, tiny cacti in the messy kitchen (opening the refrigerator was like opening the door of a tomb, some items fermenting since Calvin Coolidge had been in office), silk screen curtains of British grave rubbings, lots of that nasty primitive art work and fabrics that we never saw eye-to-eye on, and one singular aberration that sent chills down the spine and recoils of terror: his little cat Poobah. Named after The Grand High All Everything from Gilbert & Sullivan's Mikado and a gift (!) from Roland Poska... though I often assumed she was the dark emissary of Lucifer.

~The Dream~ (detail)
Henri Rousseau

There was always ice cream, popcorn, tea, and strange food items. I warned everyone I brought over to bring a napkin and beware of the cat. Those who ignored me ended up 'chipmunking away' in their mouths something bizarre for the sake of politeness only to have a spitting fest once outside the door. Others wiggled a finger or cooed sweetly to Poobah only to be rewarded with ferocious paw strikes and a hiss like a water hose. "Oh, look," P.D. smiled as he gently stroked the vile creature in his lap, "Poobah is letting out a little air." One time a fellow art student stood and held out a piece of string to play. I sat back, arms folded, and warned, "No good will come of that!" And Poobah leapt into the air and hooked a claw into his thumb, and dangled merrily like a Christmas tree ornament. The blood made me think of a water sprinkler. And when you are visiting a Christian Scientist you are hard pressed for any typical medical solutions including Band-Aids.

I stayed in Rockford one summer while P.D. went on a trip and in a moment of mental instability offered to baby sit the furry fiend. She snuck out of the apartment and hid in a wood pile where I reached and grabbed: it was like shoving my hand into an oscillating fan. I held her by the scruffy little neck while crimson trailed along my arm and dripped from my elbow. Weeks later I told him I would stop being a vegetarian for five minutes if he would allow me to EAT that animal.

"Fishy Whale Press."

2012-11-14T11:51:00.000-08:00

"We were fitting our studio in Clark Arts Center and asked Roland Poska to design our graphic arts studio," Philip Dedrick said. "He created our Lithography facility, helped find our great press, found a great collection of litho stones in Buffalo at no cost... he also found a Washington Press and type as well, so that we are able to do all types of Intaglio, litho and relief processes and to set and print type and make paper."

Roland originally came to Rockford College as a history major, then switched to art. With an MFA from Cranbrook Academy, he taught at Rockford, became head of Printmaking at Layton School of Art in Milwaukee, co-founded a new school called the Milwaukee Institute of Art & Design, and in 1961 began Fishy Whale Press: a studio that attracted artists from around the country with its lithography stones, printmaking equipment and papermill: "Where prehaps some of the finest stone litho printing since Toulouse-Lautrec is coming."

Enigmatically enough, it was at Fishy Whale that I first exhibited my early sculpture when at Rockford College; no doubt having something to do with P.D.'s influence.

Back then I remember meeting this imposing figure that had to be eighteen feet tall, touring his equally imposing facility in Milwaukee, and witness to a variety of artists' works on the wall. Eventually word came that a woman's coat had caught on one of my sculptures and dashed it to the floor- just as she dashed out the door ("Never fall in love with your pots").

~The statue that was~
Robert John Guttke

"Hot Chef's Soup."

2012-11-11T09:28:00.000-08:00

“Phil! That’s me!” the woman in the front row of the art history room exclaimed in astonishment. There on the wall was the Palio horse race in Siena and she was part of the crowd scene, photographed by Philip Dedrick some years before. It wasn’t the coincidence that surprised P.D. as much as the woman up until that moment had always regarded him as “Mr. Dedrick, this…” or “Mr. Dedrick, that..”

Things happened in that room. Chuck Ludeke at the projector inserted a slide that suddenly illuminated the wall with an image of myself cradling in my arms a peculiar sculpture done by a fellow art student. This evoked a quick and pithy comment by P.D. about my parenting skills.

Naturally we were expected to remember all the dates, the periods, the movements, the dynasties, and take closer scrutiny of Marcel Duchamp’s cubist painting of ‘Nude Descending a Staircase’ when the subject was revealed to be male (!). Everyone lugged along the massive, grey book ‘History of Italian Renaissance' when not using it as a door stop… but few investigated its pages until THE FINAL came up.

We had to write a paper, the topic passing approval first, but anyone who received an ‘A’ did not have to take THE FINAL... which lead to much groveling throughout the land for those with 'A-' or 'B+' papers. Rama even confronted P.D. in his office, decked out in sari and sporting boxing gloves to complain about her 'A-' paper. P.D. recoiled in laughter, “Please, just don’t hit me!” Obviously she did have an earlier success, her favorite professor's praise pure poetry... yet one ponders whether her appreciation for Masaccio had anything to do with his subjects dressing in similar flowing garments?

~The Tribute Money~
Masaccio aka 'Slovenly Tom'

One ‘B+' paper tried to bribe him with a plate of home baked brownies, I remember, hoping to appeal to his reknown culinary desires. It was a miserable, funny, failure. That year a book called ‘The Art of Walt Disney’ was published and a girl tried to hoodwink him into this being a topic for her paper, and he snapped, “There is no such thing!”

For most it meant hours reviewing slides, taking notes and MEMORIZED LIKE WE NEVER MEMORIZED BEFORE. Years and years later, possibly to P.D.’s disappointment, I revealed a word association technique developed by Bill Bruning that got us through the test. Every image was broken down into something easier to store away: the one that I have never forgot was Hatshepsut. She ruled as Pharaoh, her images often sported a male beard, and (for reasons still arcane) after she died her step-son had nearly all carvings and statues obliterated of the queen we knew as Hot Chef’s Soup.

Hatshepsut at Karnak

"What is Art... blah, blah, blah."

2012-11-09T11:44:00.000-08:00

~Satan's Council~

Gustave Dore

We were naughty children… and Philip Dedrick seldom chided and mostly chuckled, as if he knew this was part of either growing up or being little creative devils. Chuck Ludeke sent anonymous letters to the Dean claiming P.D. was practicing voodoo (everyone knew who wrote them), he painted the Greek athlete figure orange (then spent countless hours scrapping it off), barricaded P.D.’s office with drawing benches, and masterfully created a ‘ready-made’ piece of art for a class- its story left P.D. rocking back and forth with peels of laughter. A psychology teacher entered the strangely dark lecture hall forcing him to feel about the myriad of switches to turn on the lights. Then he stood at the podium gazing at his fingers mysteriously blackened with charcoal and making whining noises, of which Bo-Bo did a perfect nasal impersonation. A charcoaled sheet of paper with slits had been taped over the light switches, which later Chuck retrieved (now streaked with finger marks) as his ‘ready-made’ art project.

We were required in our senior year to take ‘Aesthetics Class’; imagine a room filled with know it all art majors and a philosophy teacher who hadn’t taught the course before. The man loved to illustrate on the black board.

We stole his chalk.

He would turn from the black board after pathetically using his fingertip dipped in chalk dust just in time to witness a flock of paper airplanes gliding softly down from either side of the room as we gazed forward with innocent, sweet cherubim (we learned the word in art history) faces. We'd create ‘divine-corpses’ (I believe that P.D. said it was a concept of the Da-Da art period)- paper was folded into quarters and someone would first draw a head, then another the body, then thighs, and finally shins & feet. Unfolded the results were rude and hysterically funny which caused bursts of laughter- the teacher thought we were reacting to him and took heated umbrage. Taking off my socks I’d do a puppet show for Rama seated at my side. She’d hiss, “You bad boy!” and hit me. I would pretend sneeze then grab her sari to wipe my nose and get hit again. When asked a question by the teacher I tried to answer while (unbeknownst to him) Ellen on my opposite side had pulled my leg in her lap and was freely running fingers along its length. I had tears in my eyes, grimacing with restrained laughter, and the long suffering teacher grew furious with my sputtering response.

The text book for the class was authored by someone named Cunningham, and we forever took issue with its concept of art VS craft and just what was art. Its basic concept: ART had to be perceived in order to be ART. Then one glorious afternoon Gretchen asked in her southern belle twang of a voice, “But what about Beethoven’s 9th? Wasn’t he deaf when he wrote it?” It is perhaps inappropriate to say, but watching a PHD completely shatter as his philosophical rug is pulled out beneath him is a beautiful thing.

The day of The Final arrived to find every inch of the wall length black board covered with nonsensical and riotously funny diagrams, much like a deranged family tree, which connected Socrates to Plato to Sarte to rutabagas to parsnips, etc. Another Ludeke creation. The majority of us shrugged off our barely passing grade. Mr. Dedrick tisked that we nearly destroyed the philosophy teacher who swore never to teach that class again, the "poor man," he added with a sweet cherubim face.

“Making art now means working in the face of uncertainty; it means living with doubt and contradiction, doing something no one much cares whether you do, and for which there may be neither audience or Reward.”

Art & Fear
Bayles & Orland

"Separate ways..."

2012-11-08T13:33:00.000-08:00

~Birthday Card~

Roland Ginzel

'Dear Philip,
Well dear friend- It's been a few years since my visit to Rockford and the great Morning spent with you at the pancake house and then the "Clock Museum"- I often think about that. I guess as we get older our thoughts often take us back in time- mine certainly do. My days- in classes at the Art Institute- were so happy and care free and my meeting with our "group" was so important to me in forming a determination to make ART my life's work. The earliest & best recollections I have are you & Walter Boyer & Vera Berdich & Arthur Ginzel etc & Miss Van & egg tempera.

~Rock River~

Ellen Lanyon

It's too bad in a way that all of us went separate ways... but I do think we all bonded that our friendship survived the distance and remains today. Now Roland will be celebrating his 80th birthday with an exhibit in Chicago. I wish you could be there. (We) spent Christmas in London and visited every museum... and thought of you often- it was a lark. I've become the computer user that I thought impossible. But the hand written message is still the best. I hope it conveys my true affection for you.

-Love, Ellen'
4/4/2001

P.D. at Roland Ginzel & Ellen Lanyon's wedding

"Subi dura a rudibus..."

2012-11-07T09:34:00.000-08:00

~ Two pencils & pen and ink: circa 1976~

Robert Guttke

I was called into the office of one of the Deans. During Easter vacation an empty dorm room was found with my photographic studio lights, backdrop and- the most damning -a book on anatomy and two contact sheets of nudes. It was a two part affair, I dimly remember, first being heatedly chastised for a crime then later having my anatomy book and contact sheets returned by a somewhat chagrined Dean.

Mr. Dedrick and the chair of the department had rushed immediately to my aid. “After all, this is what we are here for, to allow a student to explore the arts,” P.D. told me later, rather amused by the whole incident.

~Dave~
Robert Guttke

The quavering Dean then stated this was much the same as visitors passing through the science building who unexpectedly viewed animals being dissected (a fallacious comparison that caused me atypical, tongue biting).

P.D. said, “Not everyone should study art, though everyone should have contact with it. Not alone because of the irreplaceable pleasures it affords, but because it is the one thing that actually endures, It abolishes time… gives insights into the finest aspirations of men.”

Months later when my senior show of drawings, sculptures and photographs were on exhibit; I was coming down the side walk and saw the Dean approach me from the art building. “You are going to go some place some day, young man,” he told me and kept walking. It is a compliment that I value to this day.

“This is why I like teaching at a small college,” P.D. said. “The individual approach is possible, and I have the opportunity to see students grow in their own rights… I attempt to develop the strengths while restraining the habits which hinder progress.”

Possibly this applied to a Dean as well.

~Pen & Ink~
Robert Guttke

"Mr. Lissauer."

2012-11-06T07:14:00.000-08:00

~For the great Day of Wrath is come; and who shall be able to stand?~

Philip Bilse Dedrick

Over the years P.D. and I shared in many likes and dislikes. We hated Mahler (the man just never knew when to stop). We admired the surrealist French painter Odilon Redon. We laughed over Monty Python. Vehemently disliked Minnesota’s corny Prairie Home Companion. Wept together at the film Powder. And absolutely adored and loved Mrs. Peel from The Avengers.

But the one thing we were never destined to share was his passion for “That ugly primitive art,” as I always called it. Naturally in return I suffered the slings and arrows for my “sad ignorance” with a barrage of merry aspersions to my gentle person.

How many took notice that the two story Clark Arts Building had a three story stairwell which occupied a New Guinea totem (‘an ancestor figure in the form of a house post’)- one of only two that exist in the world, I have been told. “It arrived in the largest box I have ever seen in my life,” P.D. stated, explaining further, “The stairwell was built around it.”

His office and apartment were cluttered (putting it mildly) with much the same: grassy masks, weapons, textiles and carved figures of Oceanic and Pre-Columbian Art. This ‘affliction’ was shared by many friends in Rockford who also collected such artifacts, most provided by a unique dealer from Australia that I had met only once: Mr. Lissauer.

As Andrew Langoussis often said, "That man should have a movie made of his life."

(Hermann) Mark Lissauer and his mother survived the Nazi concentration camp Bergen Belsen, later joining his father in Australia. In 1959 he began collecting artifacts from tribal cultures in New Guinea, then on to Nepal, India, China, and Indonesia.

His first encounter with P.D. was over 35 years ago through the Beloit College Museum. “The first meeting did not divulge his deep humanity and profound erudition,” Mr. Lissauer said, “(but) on my twice yearly meetings in Rockford I learned to enjoy and appreciate his friendship and kindness… he gave me one of his ‘world view’ prints as well as a small painting.” Now going on 87 years of age, Mr. Lissauer is trying to establish a website for his large stock of material… and continues to travel, collect, and sell.

Meanwhile the myriad of work collected by P.D. now resides at the obscure Freeport Art Museum in Illinois… the museum claiming its “tribal holdings are second only to those of the Field Museum in Chicago,” which comes as no surprise due to the largesse of a single art professor whose reach went far round the world.

"Phil... osophy."

2012-11-04T11:43:00.000-08:00

Once when P.D. was searching the mayhem of his office ("I could fill a vacuum.") for a book, he came up empty and said rather placidly, "Oh well, it must be one of those that didn't find its way back." Doesn't that bother you, I asked, when you lend someone something? "No," he replied, "I did the right thing. It's a matter of someone else to do the same."

It was an early example in how well contained this man was. He refused to get angry because it was self destructive. "Being shocked," he distained with half lidded eyes, "takes too much energy." A negative thing has no weight, he told me often. Forgiveness is the greatest gift: to yourself. Guilt is a wasted emotion. Worrying about the future is counter productive, "Let the future take care of itself." Living in the moment is the most anyone could do. And in affairs of the heart that were going wildly & tearfully wrong he offered me the best wisdom: "You must enjoy pain more than I do."

Nor was he a passive wimp. I was hysterical with laughter when he related how he took a telemarketing woman to task for having the audacity to call him by his Christian name when they hadn't been properly introduced... and the time he finally allowed door-to-door evangelists into his home and were laid low by a man of extreme Faith, knew the Bible by heart, believed in a Loving God... and, to boot, even taught Sunday school! The door knockers couldn't stagger out fast enough.

P.D. concentrated on the good he saw in people, but he wasn't oblivious. When I complained (as I am wont to do... occasionally) about his fellow faculty he would acknowledge "Yes, he can be a bit of a martinet," or brush aside with his typical cackle, "... and that skunk of a toupee that he wears!" It was harmony he desired... though I do remember a growl over the phone, "Sometimes YOU make me so mad!" Well to be fair, I could claim the same. He was a notorious Re-Gift-Giver! Chris Apel happily announcing to me, "Phil just gave me this wonderful album of music called 'A Medieval Christmas'."

My teeth were grinding when I exploded, "I GAVE THAT TO HIM!" (and contend it remains The Finest recording of its kind). He was forever fobbing off unread novels, partially nibbled foodstuffs, and even clothing that could only possibly fit him. It was so annoying.

Still have a book of his I forgot to return.

"Courtyard Action."

2012-11-03T09:22:00.000-07:00

The core of the Clark Arts Building was the beautiful courtyard. You would circle the various art studios and glance out upon the trees (one of which, legend says, the facility was built around upon the request of a college benefactor... Mr. Dedrick wistfully remarking, "More money has been spent on keeping that tree alive." ), the flowering shrubs, the delicate Dogwood with its paper white blossoms in the Spring, the marvelous ceramic sculpture of Saint George & the Dragon (now in ruin and absent of George), and a large abstract sculpture/fountain. It was only on rare occasions- such as gallery openings or theatre premieres that anyone saw the water jetting out the top since, as P.D. shook his head and lamented, "They failed to engineer it to recycle the water."

Many of my models were from the various sports teams and I had some small influence in guiding them to take their elective requirements in the art department. In fact Jeff Cloninger, captain of the basket ball team, excelled in ceramics to a point that the instructor all but begged him to change majors. It saddens me when talent doesn't have the opportunity to thrive, but paths in life are chosen or destined. Jeff stuck with majoring in business.

Late one night P.D. was part of a conspiracy and unlocked the building and the courtyard. I can say with certainty that Joe Tromiczak, captain of the soccer team, is the only student who can lay claim to being photographed sprawled naked across the failed fountain.

As I set up my lights, I glanced over my shoulder to see our venerable professor chatting matter-of-factly with this unclothed figure of a beautiful young man. The moment remains forever in my mind as innocent and "absolutely delightful", as P.D. would say.

Posing in the courtyard was Rama Vupalapati's opportunity as well. She had just entered the art building when Bo-Bo pounced upon her with a request to model the college collection of Middle Eastern Garments. "You'd be smashing," she remembers him saying, and of course she agreed. It was all for insurance purposes evidently, and Rama slipped into one piece after another and was requested to express herself as if doing an Indian dance. It was the start and, sadly, the end of her modeling career... a pity to think she might have become a star in Bollywood.

My most special recollection of the courtyard was occasionally spotting Ali Hansen... in winter months her solo prints left behind in the snow... as she went about a self appointed job... collecting and tenderly burying the little birds that had found misfortune against the surrounding windows that reflected the sky above.

~The First Swallows~
Juozas Mikenas
Vilnius, Lithuania

"King Bo-Bo!"

2012-11-01T12:52:00.000-07:00

~Litho Artist Proof~
Philip Bilse Dedrick
Courtesy of Ali Hansen

The print studio was never going to be my strong suit. Even P.D. remarked that its indirect process didn't agree with me. Which was his polite way of saying not to take second semester class.

I have one disastrous etching buried deep in my college portfolio. But I did have a mild success with one lithograph. Excited enough to desire P.D.'s approbation I rushed around the art department seeking him out. He was deep in conversation with a group of 'adults' but that didn't stand in my way of making noises, clearing my throat, jumping up & down, gesturing and tugging on his sleeve. I was being a brat. I suddenly yelled, and to this day can not say how the name popped into my head, "Bo-Bo, I need you!"

Immediately, and rather frighteningly, he whirled round on me. I thought: this is it, I have finally broken that gentle Edwardian veneer and peace of mind and was about to get blasted for my rudeness. He widened his arms and yelled back, "That's KING BO-BO, to you!" It was the name I called him for 30 years. Never once 'Phil' or 'Philip'.

Occasionally I would address him as 'The Ancient One' which I had lifted from the Dr. Strange comic books, being the sage mentor of the titular hero it seemed appropriate. Never ever did he question these appellations.

During that class I passed along a dripping etched plate for his inspection when he cried out as it clanged to the floor. He smiled in his cherubic fashion saying, "It hasn't been the first time I was handed a hot plate." Meaning I had forgotten to wash off the acid.

We also indulged in making paper in this ominous machine you had to climb up stairs to throw in old fabrics, like virgins offered unto a vulcano but with more practical results. "Two of my old suits found their way into that machine," he remembered fondly. Fondly I remember tossing Ali Hansen into that machine. The mulching was not activated, thus you could still find her hunched over a litho stone oblivious to the world and doodling away.

~Litho~
Ali Hansen

"Be careful about reckless, rampant doodling," Bo-Bo once observed, it being the first artistic exercise he could recall. "It could lead to becoming an artist or a professor of Art."

~Christmas Weavil, for Ray Yoshida, circa 1949~
Philip Bilse Dedrick

Naturally others excelled in printing making, as this beautiful & remarkably detailed etching by Bill Bruning shows.

~Artist's Proof, 1974~
Bill Bruning

As well as printing making I took photography that semester.

Between acid washes and photo chemicals I spent Christmas break watching my fingernails yellow and drop off.

"Andrew Langoussis..."

2012-10-20T08:49:00.000-07:00

I distinctly remember not distinctly remembering when I first met Andrew, but he was always a constant topic of conversation with P.D., and Andrew's ceiling to floor 'Bone Zipper' painting in P.D.'s apartment was completely mesmerizing. "I was especially touched when Andrew gave me that," P.D. said, "since it came at a time when Andrew was struggling financially."

But I do recall an exhibit in the college art gallery that featured Andrew's other paintings, pastels, and especially his dynamic self portrait- as well as the marvelous eight foot tall, four-sided work that looked as if there were figures pressing out from the other side of the canvas. All this incredible figurative work for which I was starved since I had spent my time in the art department being told "the human figure is dead." P.D. explained that Andrew had suffered much the same while in grad school.

A student at Rockford College, Andrew took a painting course from P.D. as an elective. "Dedrick's teaching imparted 'insight', not just sight'," Andrew explained. He changed his major from chemistry to art in his final year. He received his graduate degree at Cranbrook Academy in Michigan and faced familiar head winds. Andrew recalls he was, "The only student working without masking tape: the quintessential tool for hard edged abstractionists." He confided his angst with P.D. who replied, "Why would you want to paint like everybody else?"

Andrew returned to Rockford where he taught at high schools and community colleges, as well as night school at R.C. We would run into one another on occasion and I regretted never having him as my teacher. His work instilled me with wonder and great envy. As the years passed he joined the faculty full time and eventually became the head of the department. I know of no other case where student achieved chairman, and carried a full class load at the same time!

Over the years Bo-Bo would tell me not only of Andrew's continued creativity, but the warehouse he converted into a studio: well impressed by his industry and unflagging energy in constructing what is... well... a college art department. The top floor with its giant sky light a painting studio and beautiful gallery of work and the floor beneath an industrial playground of wood working machines, metal casting material and where he constructs 'architectural fragments'- distressed surfaces with broken edges lined with twisted rebar.

These have become his new canvas. His paintings are sculpture, his sculpture are paintings. He incorporates classical images from past frescoes with the modern figure.

Michelangelo would be proud... as would Philip Dedrick... Andrew's teacher, mentor, and friend who, I rightly believe, he still misses very much.

P.D. & Andrew
Photo by Randi Williams

"The Apel of My Eye...."

2012-10-19T16:47:00.000-07:00

... is how P.D. often referred with great affection to my fellow figurative artist and my long time friend Chris Apel. She had thought to study at the Art Institute of Chicago until she saw what was the beauty of the Clark Arts Building and immediately changed her mind. Always bedizened with a multitude of rings and bracelets she never took ceramics (all that messy clay, you know?). But I managed to remove the jewelry... and more. Chris also modeled for the art classes and to this day I call her 'My First Naked Lady'.

~Ellen & Chris~

Robert Guttke

One time P.D. inspected my sketch book and chuckled, "I would recognize that nose anywhere," and yet I had drawn so much more!

Occasionally I'd pass through the drawing studio as she posed on the dais and just matter-of-factly say, "Hi, Chris," which startled the students nervously huddled behind their sketch books. I recall a time when she had felt faint and drifted down like the petal of a flower. The class didn't move an inch. Seemingly apoplectic. I brought her water which brought her back to her (bare) feet and the class relaxed. Another curious incident was an elderly dentist friend of P.D.'s who took it upon himself to sit at the back and observe the 'class'. I took it upon myself, especially for the model's sake, to tell Mr. Dedrick that his friend's appreciation for art was... shall we say... dubious? Thus in the parlance of dentistry: the man was extracted.

Chris' senior show was notable for what was excluded as well as included. She created a marvelous tongue-in-cheek photographic series: a young girl whose attire slid off bit by bit until the final frame revealed only a pile of clothes- and beneath this, matching frame for frame, was a banana suffering the same fate until the final image was just the peel. This celebration of the female form and fruit, alas, was taken down.

~Drawing/1973~
Chris Apel

No one, however, took issue with the masterpiece of her exhibit: the blue paper drawing of the figure of a young man gently dreaming. The story goes that Peter Graves, a member of the swim team, would drop by, drop his clothes, drop across the bed, and drop off to sleep... while Chris was busy with graphite and white pencil. Comatose models are always the best. More than thirty years later the results remain breathtaking.

Today Chris continues drawing, painting and accepts portrait commissions.

~Paintings by Chris Apel~

Over the years P.D. would visit Chris and her husband Robert Walker, also a graduate of Rockford College, when they lived for a year in Australia and often at their home in the nation's capitol. To say he thought the world of these two people is an understatement, his voice always lighting up when I mentioned I had just had conversation with Chris and The Vile Husband (as I 'fondly' dubbed him).

Hearing from Pat Hoffman, it was Chris who called and told me about Bo-Bo's failing health and to hurry down to Rockford. During my last days with him, while he dozed in his chair, I discovered what must have been every postcard the Walkers had sent P.D. during their world travels. He kept them all.

'Dear Bob,

I'm so grateful to be able to sponsor your trip to Rockford to see Phil. It was so important for you to spend some quality time with him and to meet a number of his care-giving friends- to ascertain for yourself the quality of his care, and I hope- give you some peace of mind over his situation.

Death is a merciless task master- never waiting for a convenient time... We should all be blessed to have a myriad of friends taking care for us in time of need. Philip certainly touched countless lives- truly making a difference to so many of us. Thank yous are never enough. I feel bad that I am not able to see him and talk to him in solace- (though) I much prefer remembering him as he was. So I am certain it is true with you also- Phil is ALWAYS with me... his professional self at museums, the patient teacher standing next to me at my easel, the courtly gestures, the witticisms and his rapier sharp mimicry of those he was annoyed with. What a great man. And that greatness will always be there as long as one- even just one -of his students or friends remains living to remember and honor him.

Chris'

May 17, 2001

~Chris Apel (with braces on her teeth)

& some guy, 1973~

Photo by Philip Bilse Dedrick

"Senior Seminar 1976 aka Krakatoa 1883."

2012-10-18T10:37:00.000-07:00

Often I would get a special pass from Mr. Dedrick to stay late in art building; sometimes until early morning I would be all alone without even a radio to break the silence. Occasionally the security guards would sit and watch for a while, fascinated I think by what I was doing in clay.

One of those quiet nights I was struggling with a piece that would eventually be the Egyptian god Horus, when surprised by Dave Bloomquist's sudden appearance. He had graduated the year before, co-captain of the swim team, and had modeled for me in front of the camera and for sketches. Physically he was a stunning example of mankind at its best; and as his fellow teammate Peter Graves described him, "A gentle giant."

Dave had a terrible cold that night. We chatted and I complained I was not getting this figure's anatomy correct. Volunteering, Dave went to the drawing studio and took off his clothes so I could do a quick sketch for better reference- though freezing and repeatedly blowing his nose. Sadly the statue was destined for doom since I stupidly glazed it- and glazing pooled over the details whereas staining in red-iron-oxide always proved the better result. Yet still, more than thirty years later, I have not forgotten the kindness of that 'gentle giant'.

Always locked away in my memory is the instance when I first saw the classmates who became my art. Art Dessureau in the empty gym, also from the swim team, wearing just a Speedo and shooting hoops. Elaine Nofsinger standing with a group of people in the hallway of my dorm- and in my eyes resembling Diana Rigg of 'The Avengers' with whom I had fallen in love back in 1968. Joe Tromiczak, bearded and hairy-chested, bent over while helping to look for someone's lost contact lens in the grass. Tom Pritchard, skin bronzed and blonde hair nearly bleached white by the sun, escourted into my room by his teammate Art (bless that swim team) and after brief conversion he shrugged and said, "Sure, I'll do it." Little Mahmood, an Iranian wrestler and the only model in my lifetime who could twist to reveal his butt AND bellybutton at the same time. Petite Pat Forester from the dance department with those gorgeous, almond shaped eyes and long hair that fell straight down to the small of her back. Lisa, a lovely girl I met in the litho studio (a townie student whose last name I never knew) that resembled a Renaissance Madonna- her face appeared in so many of my drawings. And all the others...

Senior Seminar was a required independant study course. Gathered together we sat on the carpeted floor of the gallery to present works in progress. I set out a number of my drawings for inspection. I had learned from fellow art major Bill Bruning the benefit of working with various pencils, a gum eraser, and tissue for smoothing & blending on litho paper- a departure from my signature scratchboards.

~Pencil Drawing, 1974-
Bill Bruning

Timothy Mather whose position as chair of the department and ceramics instructor at R.C. was a brief two years, spoke the words that will never leave me: "Why do you work with perfect bodies? I remember the day when my waist size was smaller than my inseam. What is the difference between what you're doing and what appears in Playboy or Playgirl magazine?"

I stood in shock. My agony Promethean. My anger off the the Richter scale. The sun turned black & the stars winked out one by one. I waved my hand over my seated classmates like a scythe slicing tense air and bellowed, "You can talk to the rest of these sheep like that but you do not talk like that to me!" I do not know the record for gathering up drawings and storming out of a room but whatever it was, I broke it. Later I cornered Mather outside his office and growled, "You did that on purpose, didn't you? Just to create controversy and stir up conversation at my expense!" He stared at me for a while, then silently nodded in agreement. I hurried to Mr. Dedrick with the earnest hope he would have the ceramics instructor killed (after all, his office was filled with New Guinea war clubs and equal lethal primitive paraphernalia).

Bo-Bo told me later of his exchange with a teacher who did not understand me any more than I understood him. In his calm fashion he explained to Mather that I might just possibly be the next--- and here I forget the name, but it was a French artist of the Art Nouveau period. I didn't see the connection, but did see the familiar smile and faint amusement: the ultimate diplomat at work using his superior knowledge of art history to smooth over hurt feelings and homicidal desire- and as always his unwavering support for me.

I refused to ever attend that Senior Seminar course again. I received an -A- in the class.

~Drawing, 1976-
Robert Guttke
The Philip Bilse Dedrick Collection
Freeport Art Museum

"The Illustrated Dedrick."

2012-10-17T11:00:00.000-07:00

Student artist "unknown"...

*********

'Phil possessed a great sense of humour, which he inherited from his mother, a close friend of my husband's mother. We lived with Kenny's folks for a while with our parakeet, Casey. Casey had the run of the house. When Phil stopped by one evening, Casey settled on his head. Phil, fully aware of how funny it looked, continued visiting without mention of the bird.

While I was studying for my degree at Rockford College night school, Phil substituted one evening for my drawing teacher. When Phil came to my desk while viewing the student's drawings, I said, "Don't get mad, Phil." Without hesitation, Phil replied, "I spent all my vitriol on my morning class."

There will never be again a Phil Dedrick.

Valeria Wiegand'

October 1927- March 2009

Freeport, Illinois

"Our Fairy Princess."

2012-10-15T13:54:00.000-07:00

"When I look at her," a fellow student said so many years ago, "I always think of a fairy princess." I believe that is exactly what we all saw when delighting in Ellen Powell's company. The masses of long, curling golden locks, the blue eyes, the rosy cheeks and red lips.... and of course the all encompassing smile and bursting laugh sounding somewhere between a foghorn and a train crash. When the rest of us starved during the noon art history class, Ellen brought along a prepared lunch. I always said the girl could eat Cleveland and never gain a pound. When Mr. Dedrick was witty in class and we all chuckled, often there would be a ten second delay before that laugh erupted out of the darkness. Ellen had finally got the joke. She wasn't frequently in the art studios, happy to work on her illustrations in her dorm room with her pet mouse secretly stashed in the closet. Her fashion style was unique; a mens hat, suspenders, a flannel shirt tied high above her waist and baggy pants.

Her art was whimsical... I remember a water color series about the adventures of "Peter the Pea", I believe, that would make any curmudgeon smile. Naturally I made her part of my art... photographs and drawings... but only portraits, mind you. When requesting more, all I got in return was that honking laugh that knocked me backwards three feet.

I had a photography assignment to tell a story... so of course I enlisted the aid of my 'regulars' to model for me. This rather charming photo essay became part of my senior show as well.

Ellen and I talked when Mr. Dedrick became ill. She was very concerned about me... how I was dealing with the situation. Later she wrote to Pat Hoffman, "My friend Bob called to let me know our Philip Dedrick is ailing. I am so sad to hear of his declining health and wish him the best."

In the passing years Mr. Dedrick would tell me all about Ellen's successful greeting cards as well as the half dozen books she had illustrated. Her work appeared in more than 300 stores and repeatedly commissioned by The National Wildlife Foundation.

"Do you know," P.D. said to me with true amazement, "that every Christmas I get a card from her, she has never forgotten me." Like so many others there was a special bond between student and her professor.

~Joe & Ellen 1976~
Photos by Robert Guttke

"At Precisely The Right Time."

2012-10-14T19:35:00.000-07:00

"We were there at precisely the right time," so Alice Hansen told me recently, reflecting upon our years at Rockford College.

Randi Williams had written me, "Who would have imagined it would be a privileged time… I only wish I had been more wide awake working the slide projector in Art History so I could have fully appreciated the beauty those Coke bottle-bottom glasses enabled Philip Dedrick to see."

~Randi & Mr. Adair~

I think back to sitting in his apartment reading exam papers out loud to make it easier on his eyes. Discussing my growing appreciation for classical music, P.D. saying he had been in the audience in England while Sir Adrian Boult conducted the music of Ralph Vaughan Williams. That he had met the mystery writer Josephine Tey. Telling stories (doing all the voices) from old radio shows. His fascination for Edith Sitwell’s eccentric musical forays. His annoying habit of leaving you stranded in the living room for what seemed countless hours while he spoke on the phone in the kitchen which always (unfortunately) rang.

Donna McClusky dragged a prop chair from the drawing studio into ceramics and sat knitting to keep me company late into the night while I finished my first really grand sculpture: St. Michael battling the dragon at the end of the world (when completed I sighed to myself, thinking, I could die now).

Lou Petritz discovered a baree in the snow, washed it, happily wore it until I told him who it belonged to. Returning it to the proper owner, Lou would afterward refer to P.D. laughingly as “The Grey Fox”.

~P.D. & Friends Circa 1949~

Befriending Lou's mother who let me stay with her during holidays... eventually bringing this lovely and sweet woman into the Dedrick circle and enjoying many meals together with Mrs. Petriz addressing him cordially as "The Professor."

~Judy Petritz~
Photo courtesy of Anthony Louis Petritz

Mr. Dedrick cursing, “Oh Juno!” His fluttering gestures of pleasure accompanied by, “Absolutely delightful!” When things went wrong his lips would turn down and he’d mutter, “It was positively grim,” or widen his hands in exasperation saying, “It was a complete swivet!”

By 1976 it was coming to an end. Graduation was ahead as was my senior show. The glass cases and walls of Clark Arts' second floor promenade would display my work and I had planned a surprise for Bo-Bo... not knowing that he would in return surprise me.

I had come to Rockford with a proclivity in creating scratch-board drawings… I learned about pencils… discovered how to make sculpture in clay (that did not blow up in the firing), had developed some small ability with photography- mostly for reference to my other work, and found a bevy of willing youngsters ready to be immortalized. I learned the value of knowing about the art that came before me... not just names and dates... but the motivations, the philosophies, the struggles, and the wounds to the soul that drove mankind to create.

My exhibit opened and my classmates who modeled for me, suddenly shy, lurked behind pillars or in the shadows. When P.D. came through the door he looked around and announced, “This is very much like the college year book… except no one is wearing any clothes.”

Elaine Nofsinger who modeled for me was there… as was her mother. This made me very nervous because I had been informed that mom did NOT approve of her daughter’s association with the arts, so to speak. But knock me over with the biggest feather when it turned out that she actually purchased a nude of her daughter- it was framed behind glass and displayed at the family home for years, so I was told. Elaine said recently, amused, “You could spot it on the wall just behind group family photos.” Art Dessureau emailed that one of my nudes of him had also been framed behind glass on the wall for over twenty years.

My portrait of Bo-Bo waited for him. I had been approached by many requesting its purchase but planned all along that it would belong to my art professor. I stood a slight distance away as he slowly approached the pencil drawing and watched as he bent in close. After a minute or two he said, “My stars! I always thought I looked more like Tony Curtis!”

Inspecting the rest of my work he paused for a while in front of another portrait: a rather unrefined and hastily completed pencil study. He knew the history behind the subject, and the heartache. Standing at my side, eyes resting on the drawing, P.D. observed quietly and perspicaciously, “This is as much a portrait of you…”

Soon classes would come to an end. The studios would be cleaned. Sketch books retrieved. Drawers and lockers emptied. I was headed for Minneapolis where I would learn to be an adult… and follow my path... the only path I was meant to follow. I would not be alone. In one manner or another Philip Dedrick would be there. I would continue to learn about life from this man in the years to come. "What do you do when you find yourself repeating the same mistakes over and over again?" I had asked. He answered, "I tip my hat and say 'Hello old friend'".

Earlier, while still a student, I received a late night phone call in my dorm room. Bo-Bo had just begun to wear contact lenses and had lost one in his eye. I’ll be right over, I said, but he refused this offer and instead came to me. With a nervous finger I poked about a single eye, making me feel like I was in a science fiction film, as I told him. Afterward we strolled across the campus together. A damp misty night with the dark broken only by halos of yellow lamp lights. I don’t remember the conversation but abruptly he linked his arm with mine and time melted away. We were like two Edwardian gentlemen taking in the midnight air. He insisted on leaving me at the college gate, returning to his apartment on his own. I stood and watched for a long time, watched him grow smaller, dimmer, and finally disappear into the grainy dark.