Memories from the artist

A collection of stories from over the years.

A Spectacular Scene on a Trip to Monterrey, Mexico

On the outskirts of Monterrey, I saw this great sight- so strange and beautiful that I cannot remember with certainty whether I really saw it or if it was a daydream. I was standing in a grassy field at the bottom of a hilly valley. Nothing else was in sight but the sky and grass-covered low hills. Suddenly appeared a dark brown little goat jumping and prancing, left and right. Then a black goat appeared. They seemed to have emerged directly out of the ground. They were not there before. Then over the hill, emerged a trickle of white sheep and then another and yet another. It reminded me of a shepherdess, pouring milk out of a large narrow-mouthed jug as in ancient times. As soon as the milk touched the ground, it turned into white sheep moving like white milk in trickles and puddles down the valley. Then more and more appeared until, in only a few moments, the valley floor was buried under white sheep roaming down the hills like a flood of milk. They filled the valley. When they ended, a shepherd appeared in a long, dark cloak, holding his long staff, and he walked forward through the sheep folds. It was as if I was transported in time to a page of the Bible- to the time of my forefathers.

Feature 2

Opa’s Friends

My drives in search of landscape material often ended at narrow, rocky roads, wild grass and fields. I found there relics of abandoned tractors and one time a complete but badly rusted etching press, much too big and heavy to take home. At these lonely spots where the road would end there was wild grass, and scruffy  stunted trees. “End spaces” as I thought of them. It was in quiet moments that I came upon them. On at least two or three occasions, I encountered elderly men walking on their grassy farmland. These elderly men, I learned, were children when my grandfather encountered them. As I wandered around, a strong feeling would come over me. I felt a part of me had been here, some presence, as if before I was born. Is there such a thing as pre-natal memory? Perhaps, my grandfather Jacob had peddled his goods here from his mule-drawn wagon. He would go from farm to farm, spending the night at a farmer’s house and leaving early the next morning. He did this for twelve years until he had enough money and credit to purchase the Ludwig Building, which became “Jacob Smith and Son Clothing Store”.  It was open in New Braunfels, Texas for seventy-five years. Perhaps they had met long ago when they were children.  I introduced myself “I am Maurice Schmidt. My grandfather was Jacob Schmidt. Did you know him?”  The eyes of the old man lit up like lanterns. His face broadened as his eyes widened. Yes, he had met and known Opa. We talked only a short time. This scene took place two times- maybe three, each with a different elderly man. One of the men still lived in the limestone house his father built, and he invited me in. He was a child when he met my grandfather. He quickly walked downstairs. When he came up, he held a bottle of his homemade wine. We had a fine time! Another man was closing a tremendously long wooden gate. Dragging it across the arc of his field. As soon as he heard me say the name, his old eyes lit up with memory. He indeed knew Opa. “When I was a boy, he used to tell us stories.”  This old man must have been one of those who boarded Opa when he ended his day on the road. Several of the elderly folks I met still had items purchased from Opa’s wagon. This was a time before automobiles, electric lights, radios, telephones, television, and much else that man did without.  What a mystical and mysterious world.

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Story of San Miguel de Allende Drawings

In the summer of 1957, I took a Fresco Mural Painting class as well as courses in sculpture and printmaking at the Institute of Art at San Miguel De Allende, Mexico. There I was introduced to traditional Fresco Painting by a very fine artist, muralist and painter, James Pinto. He had mastered the ancient fresco tradition and worked with the great 20th century Mexican muralists Jose Clemente Orozco, Diego Rivera, David Alfaro, and Sequeiros, whom he knew personally.  James Pinto was a fine artist and teacher whom I shall always remember.

            Mr. Pinto’s speech was low key but it sparkled with his knowledge and the personal history he knew of from the golden years of the fiery 20th century Mexican Mural Movement and its colorful artists. A great artist and patient teacher, Mr. Pinto’s counsel and memory of the art of Mexico was and remains a deep influence on my art. At that time, figurative art had been almost abandoned in the United States art schools as being old fashioned, un-modern, and even politically incorrect. But political trends did not interest me. I was always inspired by western arts’ hundreds of years of expressive art through study of the human form as the prime vehicle for the expression of all aspects of life. The greatest art of much of our history bears this out.

Mr. Demuth

On my bicycle, I rode to his studio. Mr. Demuth would be working on his own paintings so I could watch. He was easy going and a great story teller! There was nothing pretentious or autocratic about him.  A local artist and antique dealer, he had what I think are the primary attributes of a great teacher- the ability to point out all aspects of art without any intimidation of his students. I felt at home there in his studio. The mixed aromas of linseed oil, turpentine, and oil paint were and remain intoxicating. During breaks, he would show me through his art magazines full of great art. He, wisely, pointed out to me not to worry about photographic exactitude, but to cultivate a free and bold manner of expression. From him and his mentorship, I learned about cubism and modern art, as well as, old master artists. The basic principles are always the same. A great teacher becomes like a parent, a kindly guiding light. This is my memory of Werner Demuth.

These three oil paintings on canvas panels were painted from 1949-1956. At this time, 1949, I often signed my paintings “Mauri Schmidt”, a name given to me by my early and greatly encouraging teacher, Werner Demuth.  My mother (of blessed memory) had wanted me to get good art lessons. Mr. Demuth was the best of mentors and he had a number of students- most of them forced by their parents into art, and not very dedicated. For myself, it was heaven! His antique shop was full of “things” to paint, lit with a sky light and full of easels. It was my first introduction to a professional art studio- what they call in the art world, “an Atelier”. It was then, I knew I would want to be an artist. A wonderful teacher.

San Antonio

My years in San Antonio, Texas became a deep and permanent influence in my life. I had grown up there, but was finally on my own, the sole master of my life. As children, my brother, Baruch, and I had our first synagogue and holy days services in the old red brick, Moorish-designed synagogue at the corner of Main and Quincy Streets. The service was in a large square room facing front and back with stained glass windows on each side facing east and west.

I enjoyed watching the light change in the windows- strong in the morning, a deeper and deeper gold in the afternoon, later more purple and strong brindle- hued browns in late afternoon, and then purple shades of evening. I can still visualize these early images of a kaleidoscope of colors. On Yom Kippur, we spent the entire day in the synagogue. There were breaks but the totality was the experience of one entire day from morning until night- until three stars shone in the sky. Then the service began its end and symbolically the heavens slowly shut their windows.