Charles Thysell Interview

Charles Thysell — Exclusive Interview 7/28/2009

I suppose you were born like everyone is – any thing special there?

I was born in 1950 during a snow storm. My father was a small town doctor. When it was time for me to be born, the doctor who was supposed to administer to my mother couldn't make it, so my father stepped in, which is a rare occurrence among doctors. So, both of my parents ushered me into the world. I like the thought of that.

Where were you raised?

I had an enchanted childhood. I was brought up in a small town in northern Minnesota, called Hawley. Hawley was small. You could walk a few blocks in any direction and find yourself in a farmer's field, or in the woods along the banks of the Buffalo River. I had an uncomplicated childhood with a lot of play time and room for invention.

I know you had three sisters; what was that like?

My three older sisters always had an incredible influence on me - good big sisters for a little boy. They grew head-strong as they grew older, but exceedingly liberal with their time and energy, very giving. Always deeply involved with any community they've ever been in. Smart and generous. Smart hearts.

When did you take an interest in art?

As a kid I loved to draw. I crayoned the walls, drew comic books, that sort of thing. A couple of my friends were better at it than I was, so I paid close attention. In second grade I remember having to draw a book of animals. I had trouble making my beaver float. It seemed to be walking on water. There was a boy who was good with a pencil and he showed me how to draw a wavy line through the middle of the animal, length-wise, and erase the part under the line. And sure enough the beaver then looked like he was IN the water. Small miracle. Small but a memorable influence.

How long were you in Hawley?

My family moved to Moorhead when I was ten, and a new world opened up. The twin towns of Moorhead and Fargo were kind of European, looking back at it, in the sense that they were very cultural places for their size and that they had three colleges between them, with all the extras that colleges bring to a community. My father brought me to see Louis Armstrong when I was a kid. He and his band played in a small, hundred year old concert hall on one of the campuses. Very intimate place for that much sound. He brought a lot with him, that guy. My dad loved jazz and now I do.

What compelled you to seek a life in the arts?

I've been fortunate all my life to have had friendships with older, remarkable people. That's where most of my education, on a wide range of subjects, has come from. James O'Rourke is one of these people. He's directed a gallery in Moorhead for the past forty-some years – the best regional art collection in the area, if not the country. I know of nothing else like it. I worked for the man for many years, off and on, starting when I was a boy of sixteen.

The gallery was in an old stucco house, and I remember the first time I walked into that place like it was yesterday. I took one look around and that was it. I'd just opened a door to a whole new future, and I knew it.

A major influence to this day. Great gallery and a great mentor.

And that hooked you on art?

Yes, but the stage had been set before that. The summer prior, my parents and I took a trip to Europe and while there met my mother's relatives in Switzerland, including her cousin, Otto Abt, a painter. That was a big moment for me, and I continue to draw a lot of spirit from his work. He was an accomplished artist. In 1949 he had a two-person exhibition in Basil with Joan Miro. He knew all those guys and he held his own. A good painter worth looking up.

When did you begin your art studies?

I never had much formal training. I attended the Minneapolis School of Art at eighteen, but only lasted a few months. School and I did not agree. Which is odd, because years later I taught art – in schools – and learned a great deal.

The neighborhood of the School of Art was an exciting place to live, however, and I haunted the studios of a lot of good painters, some of them instructors at the school. And there were the cafes, of course, with the usual discussions and arguments. But many evenings I would spend my time frequenting one of the many coffee houses on the “West Bank”, an area close to the U of M. One such coffee house was the Cafe Extempore, and I played my music regularly there, for a time, and traveled to coffee houses at colleges around the region, playing those places as well. Little concerts here and there. I made a little money, wrote a lot of songs, some of which I still like.

Very understandable detour to take for a talented young man. This was the late 60s and early 70s, after all.

Music has played an important part in my life. My mother had a great voice, soprano. Her high notes were clean and open and she loved to sing. She sang around a lot when she was in college, and beyond for a bit, but her professional life as a singer was long over by the time I was born. I still remember her voice around the house, though. She'd always be singing, of humming, or whistling. She had a great spirit and was an encouragement to me.

So why didn’t you continue in music?

There were a lot of choices I might have made differently. I had a lot of options, but circumstances eventually lead me back to painting.

That sounds like an interesting story.

In my mid twenties – this was when I still lived in Minneapolis – I got a call from an old acquaintance asking me to be part of an arts program being developed in Fargo, N.D., my old neighborhood. It was to be a six month project having at its center a dual purpose: to provide working space for artists who would in turn provide instruction for elementary school students. I was asked to head up the painting part of the program and was offered a studio space to develop and work in. I said yes!

It was a great idea that really took off, receiving a lot of attention and funding. Very experimental. We combined pottery and painting, photography and sculpture all under the same roof, which happened to be an unused basement in an elementary school building. It became a springboard for other arts as well – dance, poetry. A lot of creative people got involved. I remember a chef giving a fantastic cooking demonstration once. Which we ate.

Everything was art. Exciting times in Fargo. Don't laugh. You could see the whole world from there.

This was all in the non-profit end of things, a world unto itself, especially in the arts. The NEA was looking to fund more rural art programs, and we were there. The project lasted well over six months. I was involved in one way or another for ten years. It was a lot of work and I loved it. I worked with an endless stream of good artists, taught hundreds of hours with hundreds of kids, and generally learned more in those ten years about life and art than I could ever have imagined at a university.

I met my wife, Kathie, during those years, while involved with a childrens theater company. I was writing songs and skits, and she was there to dance. We had mimes and musicians and jugglers and so on, and traveled from town to town. A lot of fun. Another story.

Later on, Kathie started a Modern Dance Company, and I helped, to a great extent. She was a wonderful choreographer and a great partner.

Where did the painting come in?

Through all of these years I had been at work painting, finally reaching a point where I decided to paint, period. Nothing else. If I was going to eat, then I'd have to paint pictures and sell them. I returned to Minneapolis – I think it was 1987 – with a few pieces of furniture and a head full of ideas.

How did you become known?

I had a lot of help, and I was lucky when it came to personal connections. O'Rourke had introduced me to Fritz Sholder, an established painter from the south west, and he looked at my work and soon invited me to Scottsdale for one of his openings. I found a gallery there to represent me, and that, in turn, led to a gallery in Santa Fe…and in a round-about way, in 1990, to New Orleans with Angela King. Sholder was very influential at the beginning of my professional painting career. That was twenty-some years ago, many shows ago. Much art and a lot of life.

Now you are doing a joint show with Margarita Sikorskaia. Are you aware that she calls you her mentor?

Really?! I'm honored. In truth I can't hold a candle to that painter.

She told us the story of a conversation you two had when you first met. What is your version?

Right. I asked her, what do you do? She said, I'm an artist. I asked, When's the last time you painted? She said, not just lately. I said, you're not a painter if you don't paint.

And she was of another opinion?

Yes, well, I was full of it. But then, I'd met a lot of "artists" around. As it turned out, she was indeed an artist – and is. Rita [Margarita] has influenced me as much as anyone has. She brought something rich to my life, which brought more life to my art.

We collaborated for many years on the same pieces – making paintings together. Rare in today’s world – though not uncommon in times past. She continues to be my touch-stone, and best critic. And her art is glorious, very personal and celebratory. She's in the middle of it. She takes what we mistake for common, and reveals what it truly is.

What kind of work have you done for the show?

I've gone back to former work and brought it forward, re-examining particular methods I've used – sort of a divine step to reach back and go forward with the things that were and are still important to me. The still lifes and landscapes in this show are based on a series of rather complex drawings I did a number of years ago. And they in their turn were influenced by a group of paintings I had done even earlier.

There is a certain continuity to this. No doubt there will be work in this show that will contribute to new sparks in future pieces. And so it goes....

Looking at it in a larger context – still life, portraiture and landscape have long traditions, and what I've just spoken of personally, can also be said to happen generally, over generations. Art is an on-going communication between artists over time, and where one leaves off another begins.
What do you want your viewers to get from your work?

I think that people today are looking for value in their lives and appreciating the simple things that have value. We are all together. We are all in the same boat now and feeling for each other. We are poorer but don’t necessarily live poorer. People are finding value in their own backyards, doing things together. There is more appreciation of the best things in life – your partner, your friends, your children, your pets, your home, your garden.

My wish is to coax people into identifying with simple things. I don’t do a lot of splash. It isn't going to jump out at you. My work is just there. Inviting, I hope, but not the kind of thing you have to struggle with to have that ‘aha’. The ‘aha’ is right there. At hand. Understood.

We are affected by art, and I want to pull a few more people into the eye of the storm where it is quiet. It’s ok to be buffeted by the wind; that’s going to happen in life and some good can come of it. But I want the pieces in this show to be very homely, simple, and close by.

I am guessing that you have some company in the eye of the storm?

Yes. Two old friends of mine. A five year old boy named Ilya, and a six year old girl named Charlie, who are forever rearranging my heart and teaching me everything!

Thank you, Charles Thysell.