A SOUTHWESTERN HERITAGE

BY PETER HURD COPYRIGHT, 1953, BY PETER HURD Among the first things I remember as a child in New Mexico was the sound of the old Eclipse windmill on my father's farm. Its metallic cough and the rhythmic tug of rods and pipes were a sort of lullaby familiar to any plains-born child of that period. I can remember watching it by the hour through a window from where I lay in my iron bed; its wooden slatted wheel was occasionally still but more often it made a spinning blur against the brilliant sky. And later when my brother and I were old enough to have the run of the farm we would shut off the mill, using the windlass below, and climb up the big wooden tower to perch on the platform forty feet above the ground. From this height a new and wonderful world spread out on all sides below us. To the north lay the town of Roswell, which was almost hidden in the summer by the dense foliage of the cottonwoods that lined its streets. In certain lights there was visible the silver gleam of one or more of the three spring-fed rivers that meandered serenely to the Pecos ten miles eastward. They looked like pale ribbons in a formalized pattern of curves as they crossed an irrigated farming country before becoming lost in the thick cottonwood bosque of the Pecos. Across the Pecos, pink and lavender bluffs rose abruptly from the river and beyond these a great prairie land stretched to the Caprock and on to the Texas line. And in the other directions also lay the plains, flat and limitless, broken only by the looming cobalt blue face of Capitan Mountain to the west. Five miles to the south we could see the South Spring ranch where John Chisum had built his headquarters fifty years earlier and set up a practically boundless cattle domain. To the north above the tree tops were the yellow brick towers and walls of New Mexico Military Institute. Beyond the town and the adjacent farm land we could see in the middle distance a dozen or more ranch houses each surmounted by a windmill which, with its accompanying water tanks, gave assurance of survival to the inhabitants and to a few forlorn trees. So it seemed to us as we gazed out from our windmill tower that our farm lay at the exact center of a fabulous and exciting world; and though there were rivers and bosques and farm land and distant sierras it was primarily a world of plains, for the plains were the dominating feature, extending in all directions to form a complete rim with the sky or be lost in the shimmering infinity of a mirage. Later, I think it must have been in about 1913, we were given burros and then, after conquering in part at least the perversity and deep resentment of our mounts, we set out to explore some of the world of which we had dreamed from the windmill tower and occasionally glimpsed from the back seat of a mountain hack. This now long-forgotten vehicle served the family for years. It was drawn by a team

LITHOGRAPH FROM THE COLLECTION OF PAUL HORGAN

In telling these experiences I have tried to give a glimpse into the background which has been so important to me as a painter. Certainly at an early age I realized there was for me something very special about this land where I was born. Although I had at the time little by which to make comparison, I knew somehow that in the country west of the Pecos there existed a certain magic. Here the distances reached out in new dimensions and the light fell with a constant and amazing variety of effect. Here too the earth seemed to reveal its own anatomy in an ever-fascinating statement of geologic history. Driving around the countryside in our shining new Model-T (the mountain hack was gone forever by then), my father would point out evidences of upheaval and inundation that had occurred in the dim past before all was set and irrevocable; and he would explain how the eroding forces of rain and frost and wind were continuing to alter the earth's face. On these trips we would all help in the search for new material for his collection of fossils, mineral specimens and Indian artifacts. In those days my father's idea of the best of vacations was to take hip boots, a fly rod and camp outfit and head for the white, riffled water of some remote mountain stream. We probably covered a large part of the state, following unmarked roads whose deep ruts, filled most of the time with a fine dust would become chocolate-colored quagmires in the rainy season. Somehow, the delight in fishing escaped me but I was dedicated to exploring and these expeditions were always full of high excitement for me.

Drawing and painting were very little a part of my life at that time although I went through periods of intensive reading and still have treasured on my shelves three childhood volumes of the Scribner's series illustrated by N. C. Wyeth-prized gifts of Eastern relatives. We were far too busy living new adventures to be concerned with art of any sort except on those rare days when illness or weather kept us indoors and the bedroom floor would be strewn with our lurid watercolors. It certainly never occurred to me that I would one day settle on painting as my life's work. I thought of myself at times as becoming a rancher; again, somewhat impractically, as a research scientist but most consistently I planned to be a soldier. That, I thought, was the life for me: adventure, travel, finally perhaps glory and even renown. This was the period of the Mexican Revolutions with their resultant border troubles and for a time the romance of the military enslaved my imagination. From those days when my brother and I commanded an army of neighborhood youngsters in long stockings and knee breeches it seemed no time until I found myself with a Senatorial appointment, headed for West Point.

III

Life at West Point was deeply engrossing, highly ordered, austere and dedicated. It was an experience that did me enormous benefit. The fervent esprit of the Cadet Corps, the complete devotion to their motto "Duty, Honor, Country" made a profound impression on me. Of all the schools I attended I was most influenced by and am still most devoted to West Point. This even though I did not graduate. I found the curriculum extremely difficult, for at seventeen I was lacking in the mental maturity to keep abreast of mathematics, which has ever been a wilderness to me. Moreover, a new and compelling interest had entered my life: I had bought a box of oil colors and now practically all my spare time was spent working away at painting. Free hand drawing and painting had long since been dropped from the curriculum but in my color box was a booklet on painting. In it the anonymous author gave hints on the proper way to paint trees and stones, water, houses, etc., even suggesting mixtures for the representing of the full moon (flake white with a dash of naples yellow); the night sky (indigo blue plus vandyke brown plus some white). To say that the resulting labors were crude and without distinction would be a great understatement-but I was ensnared-my enthusiasm was unbounded and from that time to this, painting has been my life.

In June of 1923 after two full years at the Military Academy I resigned to begin seriously the study of painting. I had received the reluctant consent of my father, who, most understandably, was amazed and disturbed at my sudden decision to abandon a career I had apparently set my heart on in order to take up one for which I had shown not the least aptitude or talent.

As I write this I am sitting on a grassy, willow-shaded river bank at our ranch near San Patricio. It is again June but thirty years have flown by since I stood my last parade at West Point. Much of what happened to me during these intervening years is due, I know now, to a lucky incident: this, and it happened by the sheerest luck, was my meeting with the late N. C. Wyeth a few months after leaving West Point. Mr. Wyeth, soon after we met, generously allowed me to become his private pupil. His influence on me was immediate and has remained continuous. As he was a very demanding, extremely serious teacher so also he was a most understanding one. Beside the actual instruction in painting at his studio in Chadds Ford, Pennsylvania, with his guidance I came to know many of the great works of literature and music as well as of painting. It was a wonderfully productive, happy existence and for six years I lived in Chadds Ford working under his direction.

I worked at landscape and still life painting in oil, figure study and imaginative compositions in charcoal. In later years I moved from oil technique to egg tempera and water color. Egg tempera, the medium of the Renaissance painters, as collectors and artists know, consists of egg, usually the yolk alone, ground with artists' pigments and applied with water as a diluent to a chalk and glue coated panel. Once a week the tiny composition glass of three or four members would gather in the great studio on a hillside overlooking the Brandywine valley for an evening of the most inspiring criticism and discussion I have ever known. For the N. Č. Wyeth who created the colorful romantic illustrations and murals was a very different man from the one known by his few intimates. To casual acquaintances he was buoyant, extremely articulate and possessed of a broad and often ribald sense of humor. But there were rich depths to his nature and he pondered constantly the philosophy of art and out of his musings produced original and nonconformist ideas to toss around among his pupils or apply in his personal painting. He realized that in art truth is a growing, changing factor as man progresses. There was always a yeasty atmosphere wherever his influence penetrated for he was never above deep self-probing and self-questioning. Although the demands of his clients were continuous he was an incessant worker and managed to keep his personal works constantly in progress. These had little in common with his popular and excellent illustrations; often as not they would be executed in some experimental style for above all else he wanted to grow and continue to grow as long as he lived. Mr. and Mrs. Wyeth and their five children were a happy and resolutely industrious family who received me with unquestioning affection as one of themselves. Mrs. Wyeth, who presided over their house with the deft efficiency and gracious good taste of her Pennsylvania Dutch ancestry, saw to it that I never lacked for nourishing food through indifference or absorption in my work. My quarters were in a big white-washed barn on a farm less than a mile from the Wyeths'. A part of the barn had been turned into a studio by Mr. Wyeth twenty-five years before when he was painting his memorable illustrations for Treasure Island. Here I slept, cooked my meals and worked. Work began early in the day. The custom was for Mr. Wyeth to stop in each morning about 8:30 as he went to the village to get the mail. He would review my progress and criticize my work, sometimes staying to give what he called a "working criticism" which consisted of his actually working on my canvas. These occasional "working criticisms" were not only most intensive and valuable instruction as such but were a vital part of my economy for my only means of livelihood at the time was taking the overflow of illustrative commissions which Mr. Wyeth could not do himself. The client was told by Mr. Wyeth that he had a pupil who would produce a professional result under his direction and the fee went to me for my living necessities. I would discuss the subject and composition with Mr. Wyeth before beginning it, then carry out his daily criticism until finally we felt an impasse had been reached and he would take over for a last magical transformation when all my muddling steps would disappear under his brush. All the time I studied with him he never allowed any of his pupils to pay a penny of tuition.

continuous he was an incessant worker and managed to keep his personal works constantly in progress. These had little in common with his popular and excellent illustrations; often as not they would be executed in some experimental style for above all else he wanted to grow and continue to grow as long as he lived. Mr. and Mrs. Wyeth and their five children were a happy and resolutely industrious family who received me with unquestioning affection as one of themselves. Mrs. Wyeth, who presided over their house with the deft efficiency and gracious good taste of her Pennsylvania Dutch ancestry, saw to it that I never lacked for nourishing food through indifference or absorption in my work. My quarters were in a big white-washed barn on a farm less than a mile from the Wyeths'. A part of the barn had been turned into a studio by Mr. Wyeth twenty-five years before when he was painting his memorable illustrations for Treasure Island. Here I slept, cooked my meals and worked. Work began early in the day. The custom was for Mr. Wyeth to stop in each morning about 8:30 as he went to the village to get the mail. He would review my progress and criticize my work, sometimes staying to give what he called a "working criticism" which consisted of his actually working on my canvas. These occasional "working criticisms" were not only most intensive and valuable instruction as such but were a vital part of my economy for my only means of livelihood at the time was taking the overflow of illustrative commissions which Mr. Wyeth could not do himself. The client was told by Mr. Wyeth that he had a pupil who would produce a professional result under his direction and the fee went to me for my living necessities. I would discuss the subject and composition with Mr. Wyeth before beginning it, then carry out his daily criticism until finally we felt an impasse had been reached and he would take over for a last magical transformation when all my muddling steps would disappear under his brush. All the time I studied with him he never allowed any of his pupils to pay a penny of tuition.

IV

One of his other students was his own brilliant daughter Henriette, whom I married in 1929. Our careers have developed side by side and throughout we have relied on each other for stimulation and criticism in our work. Her gifts in portraiture and still life painting are supported by a rich general culture, and her honesty as a critic is given authority by unerring taste and instinct in matters of art. Almost daily we review each other's works in progress and this practice we have found enormously valuable through the years.

Until our return to New Mexico in the thirties we lived in a farm house near Chadds Ford. Of our three chil-dren, Peter and Carol were born in Pennsylvania and spent most of their early years there. Michael, the youngest, was born here.

Implicit in the first part of this article are the causes for my return to the Southwest so when the depression years reduced my Eastern market it seemed as good a time as any to make the change. Moreover, I had been given my first mural commission which was a frieze in fresco-secco in a recently completed building at the New Mexico Military Institute. The transition was slow and difficult requiring long separations from my family. The small ranch I had found and bought needed an enormous amount of work for neither of its two old adobe houses was more than barely habitable when I bought it in 1934. It was not until 1939, with the arrival of a big furniture van containing all our household goods, that the entire family was finally settled permanently in New Mexico.

Since then the changes have been steady and considerable. The ranch house has been expanded to enclose a patio, and Henriette and I each have a studio. The ranch itself consists of some five hundred acres of range land which we own and seven hundred more which we use by an agreement with a neighbor. In addition to this there are twenty-five acres of cultivated land. This is irrigated by the Rio Ruidoso and is devoted to permanent pasture and commercial orchard. We run our small herd of Angus cattle on the range land during the dormant season and keep them and our saddle horses on the permanent pasture during the five months of growing season.

No artist is inwardly satisfied or happy except perhaps during those rare and exalted moments when in a state of temporary equilibrium he considers with pleasure some work he has lately completed. Neither contentment nor satisfaction belongs to us for there are constantly stirring within us forebodings born of a realization of the passing of time, of the inevitable falling short of a self-set mark. In times of despair we feel the harassing dread of attaining finally only to the mediocre. In times of confidence as when a work in progress seems to be moving well there is a wonderful excitement attendant upon the effort and unexplored horizons widen before us. To acquire any taint of complacency or to look upon success as anything but fortuitous would seem to me to surrender all hope of growth.

I am constantly asked what I think of contemporary trends in art, particularly the abstract in painting. Artists have always mirrored their times and though confusion and doubts have existed in past epochs-never until now has the entire world known such a period of universal uncertainty and confusion of ideals. It seems to me no wonder that many painters of today have turned to strange new symbolisms in which the objective world is ignored to express these besetting and perplexing times. But even in the most confused periods there must be those artists who by temperament and special interests are drawn to an objective approach to order and serenity.

For me, with my training and background of interests it would be futile as well as false to myself to venture into abstract painting. I know that for me the sources of painting must ever be shadow and light, textures, space, the crossplay of reflections on forms in movement. It is here in the Southwest that I find in greatest abundance and variety these sources. The trends and vogues in art mean next to nothing to me for I am deeply convinced that a painter is either a man of imagination and originality with something valid to impart or he is not. The school to which he belongs or the style of painting he employs is completely irrelevant to his stature as an artist.