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| Category: General Experiences |
Date published: November 28, 2004 |
"New Jersey's best kept secret," the headline in the Asbury Park Press read. And what was this secret? Probably, the best sculptor to live since Michael Angelo.
http://www.sculptor.org/Sculptors/ByName/DonaldDeLue.htm
http://www.sorabji.com/_/Statue/DSCN3535
http://www.sorabji.com/_/Statue/DSCN4094
http://www.gdg.org/monmen.html
I read the name, Donald DeLue. It meant nothing to me, just an old man of 89 years of age. However, I did say to my artist son that perhaps this old man could help him in some way, but he had better hurry. Well, he didn't hurry. In fact, two years passed before Mr. DeLue was thought of again. It was 1988, that meant Mr. DeLue would be 91 years old, if still alive.
"Did you keep the article of that old sculptor?" I asked my son.
He walked to his bedroom and came out carrying the now crumpled newspaper article. Rick's sculpting had reached a halted stage by this time with many pieces of art carved from clay. At the time, my son created his sculptures using self-hardening clay.
"Leonardo, New Jersey," the place of Donald DeLue's residence, the article read.
I called information for the phone number.
A woman answered who identified herself as his housekeeper. I spoke my request. Could my son and I visit with Mr. DeLue and bring along a few of my son's works. We were told Mr. DeLue had recently come out of the hospital and might not feel up to having company. She would call back on Sunday. She volunteered the information that the museum had been out to collect the remainder of his sculptures and remove them from his studio/home. I agreed to call back on Sunday.
We attended church, and afterwards, I made the call, but no answer. Disappointed, my son changed out of his church clothes and went over to a friend's. I, now dressed in blue jeans, sat rocking my four- month- old grandson. Thoughts ran throughout my mind. I recalled a brother of a now famous singer who waited outside the studio of a record producer until he walked out the door. The man handed the producer a tape of his sister's singing and begged for him to listen to it. The rest is history.
I got up from the rocker and placed my grandson in his bed. "I have to go somewhere," I said to one of my daughters. "You'll have to watch the baby."
Quickly, I dressed back into my church clothes before carrying two of my son's sculptures to the car. I had no idea where I was going. New Jersey was new to me. I had moved there from Wisconsin four years before and could barely find my way around still. North Jersey, forget it, but that didn't stop me. I was off to a location unknown by me.
After getting lost several times, I finally found Leonardo, New Jersey, and the home and studio of Donald DeLue. I knocked and the housekeeper answered the door. I explained that I was the woman who had called the day before and could I please come in to see Mr. DeLue. She told me to wait a minute and turned away. She returned and I was allowed to enter.
"I brought along two of my son's sculptures," I said, "may I bring them in?"
She hesitated, then said I could.
I found Mr. DeLue seating in a chair near a bed. Intravenous tubes sticking out from his side.
The room was huge and plain with his studio connected. No fancies, or decorative trimmings. His bed, twin sized, stood unmade.
Mr. DeLue looked upon my son's sculptures and his attention went immediately to the one of Jesus Christ carrying His cross. I learned Mr. DeLue had studied in France the works of Michael Angelo and this piece reminder him of him. Donald DeLue worked with one- hundred-year-old clay he brought back from France, extremely oily clay. He then examined the other piece, a sculpture of a man dressed in winter garb sitting before an open fire. His attention went to the hands.
"If he's going to make hands...they have to look like hands," was his critique. I wanted to tell him that they didn't look like hands because they were covered in heavy gloves, but I said nothing.
To the housekeeper's horror, Mr. DeLue, dragging the pole that held the intravenous tubes, led me down one step into his studio.
"You're not well," she protested, as he ignored.
It was the ceiling of the studio that especially caught my attention. It was extremely high with a trapdoor on the ceiling with large chains attached. I was told they were for lifting and lowering the monumental sized sculptures in and out of the studio. A monumental sized sculpture of George Washington stood in the corner, one the museum had not yet removed. On a small table lay the beginnings of a new piece still in the clay stage and several sculpting tools lay beside it. I was later told by the housekeeper that they would be sculpted "As Is" to show the beginning of Mr. DeLue's last creation.
To my surprise and extreme pleasure, Mr. DeLue agreed to keep my son's two sculptures with him for two weeks to show one of his fellow sculptors. I was given permission to bring my son when I returned to pick up the pieces.
At this time, I was still ignorant of Mr. DeLue's notoriety.
* * *
Two weeks passed. My son Rick and I headed back to Leonardo.
I can only describe this visit as "Touching" and "Eye Opening."
My son sat holding the 91 old Mr. DeLue's hand while they talked...or should I say, my son listened. At one point my son asked Mr. DeLue if he could come by and talk with him now and then. Mr. DeLue said that he could.
Meanwhile, I stood with the housekeeper as she pulled picture after picture of Mr. DeLue's sculptures from a filing cabinet and told me where each one was located. I stood speechless. Had I known this man was famous, I doubt I would have had the courage to look him up the way I did.
I had been told during the phone conversation two weeks before that Mr. DeLue's mind will sometimes wander and her begins to speak in French. We witnessed it that day. At one point, the housekeeper pulled two of the same picture from the filing cabinet.
"May I have one of the duplicates?" Rick asked.
To his delight, Mr. DeLue shook his head yes.
Still holding onto his hand, my son asked if he would autograph the picture for him.
Mr. DeLue held the pen the housekeeper handed to him in his hand and began to write.
"Donald," and then... scribbling.
I placed my hand on Mr. DeLue's shoulder.
"Are you trying to write DeLue?" I asked, and began to spell it for him.
He began to speak in French. At that point, my son thanked him and said we had better go. The housekeeper led us to where my son's sculptures were and we left.
I said earlier that Mr. DeLue was going to get in touch with a fellow sculptor on behalf of my son and he did, Mr. Kilpatrick, the man's name. We headed to see him. Mr. DeLue hired this sculpture to oversee the casting in bronze of some of Donald DeLue's sculptures at the foundry. Mr. Kilpatrick was not only a sculptor, but a commercial artist who worked in New York City as well. He gave my son some valuable advice. "Cease sculpting for an entire year and draw, draw, draw. Find books of nudes and study the human body and when you begin to sculpt again, create from the inside out. Learn every bone and muscle in the body and sculpt the clay with them in mind. Pose in front of a mirror, placing your own body in the stance of your sculpture. Pay attention to your muscles and the way your body lays."
My son took this man's advice and saw his sculpting improve tremendously.
* * *
"Sculptor Donald DeLue dead at age 91," the Asbury Park Press reported.
Rick never did get that second visit. He was honored to have gotten the first.
Me...well, I'm just a mother caught between mice and men... with more nerve than the both of them.
"THANK YOU FOR THE MEMORIES, DONALD DELUE."
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