Howard praised in Kansas City
By Donald Hoffman, Kansas City Star Art Critic
Reprinted in the Kingdom Daily News, April 6, 1977
If art has anything at all to do with honest expression—and
of course it does—then Jesse Howard’s painted signs and lettered contraptions
can lay claim to being art. And without apologies, or condescension or that
fearful but prevalent attitude called "camp."
Four years ago or so, at the urging of Dale Eldred, the Kansas
City Art Institute bought a major selection of Howard’s work. Now the collection
is being exhibited, for the first time in Kansas City, at the school’s
Kemper Gallery.
Jesse Howard was born in June 1885, which makes him nearly
92 years old. He was married in 1916 and, as the years went on, became the father
of five children. HE farmed, did odd jobs, and moved around a lot. Around 1953
he retired and took to reading the Bible and making his signs, down on his farm
at Fulton, MO.
Howard’s story has been told in detail by Richard Rhodes,
first in his book called "The Inland Ground" and again in an exhibition
catalogue called "Naives and Visionaries." In the latter, Howard is
described as "the Grandma Moses of print culture"—which striked
me a facile phrase quite beside the mark, because Howard’s authentic and
almost truculent messages are far indeed from hokey nostalgia. Take this sign:
000,000. Nothing. No confidence. No nothing. NO: 000.
Call it depression mental or financial; whatever, there is
a poignant cry deep within a painted "shield" that reads like that.
Howard’s anger is rarely without humor. Here is an excerpt from a letter
he wrote to Herbert W. Hemphill, JR., of New York:
"…All of my writing is truth…Two men were out
here the other day reading my signs. One of the men said he lived in Fulton.
I ask them what they thought of Fulton? Their answer was It stinks. Well it
is too bad. I think the same thing. The town is alright. It is the people…"
Some of his signs are simply observations:
If we are not dodging bullets it is a cinch that we are
dodging the horseless wagon. The automobile…
Sometimes he chooses to enter the political arena:
John F. Kennedy. If I would girk that big fat teat out of
your mouth that you have been nurseing all of your life they cold HEAR you BELLER
and BAWL like a year old WEANED BULL-CALF. You would not need a LOUD speaker
for you could hear YOURSELF…It would be WORSER then the St. Louis National
Slaughter Pen’s.
Or on a more local level:
Sheriff W. A. Bill Dawson. How did you get those holes wore
in the knees of your pants? Bill. O, I did that praying. And those wore in the
seat of your pants? Bill. I did that backsliding.
The cumulative effect of Jesse Howard’s signs has that
strange sort of beauty that comes from naked force visually expressed. There
is also a more quiet beauty to some of his signs, the ones that shift into gold
or green or red lettering for special words. In a more purely aesthetic sense,
the best sign is probably the one that begins, "Then the Lord rained upon
Sodom and upon Gomorrah…"
Howard’s several vehicle-like constructions—conveyances
for more signs—include something like a plow, an airplane weathervane,
a "windmill" affectionately named for the Kansas City Art Institute
and, a real treasure, a little house on wheels. To those who see Howard’s
work as merely the outpourings of a crank (to put it mildly), one must cite
the comparison to the art of David Smith, particularly his series of welded
metal sculptures, on wheels, made in Italy.
Howard has been widely unappreciated by his townsfolk and by
those who even sought to have him committed, so his sense of being an outcast
has a very real basis. One of his manuscript fragments is titled "I HAVE
BEEN":
I have been bawled out, bawled up, held up, held down, hung
up, bulldozed, blackjacked, walked on, cheated, squeezed and mooched: Stuck
for war tax, excess profit tax, state dog and syntax: Liberty bonds, baby bonds,
and the bonds of matrimoney: Red cross, green cross and Double cross…
There is one of his signs that is hinged, to fold in on itself;
the backside says simply:
"If you won't throw me in JAIL I will unfold you the
truth."
The signs tell the story of a man who is old and often alone
and willing again and again to confront the realities of his life and of life
in general:
I was born near Shamrock, Mo.…I wasn't like a kitty
or pup. I have my eyes open..I was born nude. And the first thing I said, Wow-wow-wow.
Two of them. A boy and a girl. So they put clothes on us and here we are today.
Ettie and Jessie Earnest. I im what I im I have worked hard, I have made my
living in the way that GOD intended me to do. That is by the sweat of the face…I
do not fear what man shall do unto me…
A few of Howard’s signs are particularly plaintive. One
is on a long boards and is roughly lettered:
What is a man to do? And what can a man do? When his family
will not pull with him.
And finally:
75 years of hard labor is a might long time, and 50 years
of disappointment is a long long time.
Free thought, free speech and
Jesse Howard
By Kate Link
Kingdom Daily News, October 12, 1980
His work as folk artist has been put in art museums, but
to many people in Fulton, he's just a crazy old man with junk in his yard.
It is an unseasonably warm October day. On the southwest edge
of Fulton, an old man spies a car pulling up outside his house and hobbles over
to greet his visitors.
"Come in, come in," he shouts in a garbled voice.
"Come on up here an look at my signs. There's not another
man in Fulton or the state of Missouri who paints signs like me. You'll never
see another man just like me. Come on."
Meet Jesse Howard. Age 95. A sign painter. A junk collector.
One of Callaway’s self-proclaimed, resident philosophers. A man who has
made a career out of mouthing off.
"I'm a Bible student," he'll tell you right off.
"I know the Bible from A to Z. You know, a man come by here the other day
from the oldest city in the world. Jerusalem. Everybodys heard of old man Howard,"
he says.
Old man Howard is telling the truth. He is a folk celebrity,
of sorts. He has been written about in magazines and newspapers across the country.
He has had his "art" on exhibition at the Kansas City Art Institute.
Folks from all over stop by to be preached at by Jesse. And to gawk at him.
And all this, just because of a few signs.
"I've been up on this old hill 36 long years. I'm a folk
artist. I've got a daughter who is a real artist. She draws pictures. But I
just do this," he says, gesturing with a turn of his head to the clutter
behind him.
The place looks like a junkyard. Forgotten tires and refrigerators,
broken wagons and rusted farm tools are scattered about. Ten small rickety buildings
are spread out over the eight acres Jesse owns.
Everywhere you look there are signs. They are hung on gates
and fences, propped against the many buildings, nailed to anything that doesn't
move. Although of different sizes, all the signs look the same. Arrow-straight
black letters painted on a background of white.
The signs proclaim Jesse’s opinions on everything from
lawyers and judges to free speech, Fulton and the state of the world. Most of
his signs quote Biblical passages.
"Free thought and free speech by Jesse Howard," the
signs begin. Space is not spared Letters press together like the squares on
a checkerboard individual words hug each other to become one single, monstrous,
runaway word. Crude paintings of a pointing finger occasionally direct the readers
eye to a certain word or passage.
Jesse paints all the signs himself. "Nobody helps me.
Pretty darn good for a 95-year-old man," he brags, the toothless mouth
turning up in a smile.
He is dressed in the standard Jesse Howard uniform – faded
denim overalls, blue shirt, bleached white denim cap, work boots, a crumpled
bandana drooping form a back pocket. The shirtsleeves stay up with the help
of elastic bands. There are holds in the tops of his boots.
His cane -- the handle of a shovel – props him up while
he talks. The weather face is spotted with age marks. A light gray stubble covers
the chin. "I can't hear so well anymore," he says.
But bring on a willing victim and Jesse puts on a show. Today
he is visited by Fulton resident Barbara Digh, who has brought some of her out-of-town
friends.
"Jesse, JESSE!" she shouts at the old man. "These
are my friends, Robert and Vera Ross from North Carolina."
"Come on in," Jesse yells. "You'll never see
another man like me. Every word I'm telling you is the Gods truth."
The Rosses from North Carolina are mum while taking in Jesse’s
habitat. "They are just going to be in town for a few hours and I wanted
to introduce them to Jesse, "Digh explains.
"Come on up here an look at my shed," Jesse yells.
The group heads toward a dilapidated old building. "I've lived for 36 long
years on hell’s eight acres," he tells his audience. The little building
is Jesse’s painting shed. Inside, stacks of finished signs wait to be displayed.
A long table on wheels serves as his workbench.
Jesse picks up a hammer and hits an anvil and a cast iron pot
lid in a little rhythmic beat. The toothless grin stretches across the face.
His visitors listen entranced.
"I wrote to ‘Real People’ about him," Digh
says when the maestro ceases. "I hope they respond or they might really
miss something," she says, turning toward the old man.
"I built all these buildings myself," Jesse tells
the group. "I had no help whatsoever. You know, I was forced to go into
the carpenters union because I wouldn't drink and gamble with those hellcats.
"Nobody likes me in this town. They don't like me because
I'm telling the truth on them. Fulton is a regular thief and devils den. And
I'm telling you the Gods truth," Jesse says, his voice getting higher and
louder.
"Who do you think will be our next president?" Digh
asks him.
"Well, (Ronald) Reagan. You know we've got a governor
here who doesn't know the Holy Bible from the funny papers," Jesse responds.
The group saunters over to another building closer to the road
where Jesse has everybody sign his guest book. "Print your name in big
letters and make a comment," he directs.
"I'm going to write that you are one of Gods chosen men,"
shouts Robert Ross.
"What’s your advice to live until you're 95?"
asks Digh.
The old man ponders the question a quick second.
"Stay at home and tend to your own business, " he
says. His visitors burst into laughter.
On the way to their car, Barbara Digh tells Jesse her friends
would like something to remember him by. He picks up a piece of slate and writes
his name and the date on it.
While he writes, Vera Ross opens her monogrammed purse, takes
out her wallet and extracts a dollar bill. She gives it to him as he hands here
his autograph. Jesse looks down at the dollar in his hand. There is a moment
of uncomfortable silence.
"Well, good luck to you everywhere that you go,"
he calls after them. "You know, sometimes I'll go a month before anyone
stops by," he says.
He has lived in the Kingdom all his life. Born in Shamrock,
Jesse had a twin sister whose name he can't quite recall. "But oh, I had
a wonderful mother and father. Father mad molasses. They're all gone now. Almost
my whole family is buried at the Unity Baptist Church over there," he says,
pointing nowhere in particular.
Across the street from the shacks where Jesse paints and builds,
he shares a small white house with Maud, his wife of some 60 years. Maud keeps
to the house while Jesse spends his days waiting for visitors, painting a new
sign or re-touching an old one.
"She's a wonderful woman, " he says of Maud, "I
can't tell you why she never comes across the road with me. We had five children,
but they've all turned against me. I don't know why. None of my folks hardly
come to see me at all."
But a lot of other folks stop by. A few years back, some people
dropped by and told Jesse they wanted to purchase a bunch of his signs. They
handed him a check for $1,500, packed up his work and held a Jesse Howard exhibition
at the Kansas City Art Institute.
"That was the greatest day of my life," Jesse recalls.
"They came and got me, hauled me up to Kansas City and above the door were
a big sign: WELCOME JESSE." At a reception in his honor, Jesse says he
offered a little prayer for the occasion.
"Oh Lord, look down upon us with almighty twist and send
us potatoes as big as your fist," Jesse recites and howls with laughter.
The warmth of the mid-morning sun has forced Jesse inside one
of his sheds where he sits and philosophizes on the state of the world.
He thinks things are a hell of a mess. Why? "Because of
people, people, PEOPLE! You know, when God made man and woman, he regretted
it. You know why? Because man turned around and was so ornery.
Things have just gotten rotten. All these killings and stealings.
It's foretold in the Bible what will happen. You know that nuke plant? Where
do you think they got the permit to build that harmful thing? It come through
those crooked courts.
"If we had more people like old man Howard, it would be
a better world," he says, giving a sharp laugh, his cloudy blue eyes wide.
He is stumped when asked why he paints signs. But only momentarily.
"I can't speak what I want to sometimes," he says. So he speaks on
signs.
Four dusty guest books lie on a table in his shed. They are
inked full of signatures and comments from the hundreds of visitors who have
made the pilgrimage to Jesse’s place over the years.
"You inspire me, Jesse," goes one comment.
"I like a man who speaks his mind. God bless you,"
another states.
"Keep on telling the truth," goes another.
"You'll never see another man just like me," old
man Howard insists. "And I'm telling you the Gods truth."
Kingdom Daily Sun-Gazette - November 22, 1983
It took an angry response to vandals in the 1940s to launch
a career, and for 40 years Jesse Ernest Howard has published his thoughts on
the town, his family and the world the best way he knew how: through colorful,
hand-lettered signs. But that career ended Monday when Howard, 98, died at his
home on the Old Jefferson City Rd. in Fulton.
He was born June 4, 1885 in Shamrock. He was a twin, the tenth
and youngest child of Lawson Thomas and Martha Elizabeth Hunt Howard. He was
married July 23, 1916 to Maude Susie Linton at the Linton home south of Calwood.
Howard attended Hazeldale and Pugh schools in Callaway, and
as a young man, he headed west for work on the railroad and various farms. For
two-and-a-half years, Howard traveled, picking up what jobs he could find. As
a transient worker, Howard went to North Dakota, California and Montana before
he returned to Missouri. He moved to his present home in 1944.
He moved from his home north of Fulton to Old Jefferson City
Road. The property consisted of 20 acres, and he named it "Sorehead Hill."
By the 1950s Howard was becoming well-known in Fulton and the county as a sign-painter.
His signs, which sometimes admonished politicians, commented
on the times and quoted scripture. "Some people's minds is set in concrete
and permely mixed. I deal with people like that most every day," said one
of his most famous signs.
His comments were incorporated into various constructions and
assemblies made out of such things as old corn planters, tricycles and a dog-sized
cart fashioned out of wood. He used materials on hand - pieces of colored glass,
marbles, metal, leather (show soles), window shades and wood - as a medium for
his signs.
It wasn't until the last 20 years, however, that Howards work
began to attract the attention of the world outside of Callaway County. In 1969,
Richard Rhodes devoted a chapter of his book, The Inland Ground, to Howard
and his works. In the 1970s, the Kansas City Art Institute bought nearly 100
of his signs and constructions.
Through the years, the institute's collection has been loaned
for exhibits in Minneapolis and St. Louis. The most recent showing in September
was held at the Fine Arts Gallery at the University of Missouri in Columbia.
Howard has been dubbed a "grass-roots artist," "native
and visionary artist," "folk artist", "primitive artist",
"and an "idiosyncratic artist."
Commenting on a 1977 exhibition of Howards works in St. Louis,
a Post-Dispatch reviewer wrote, "The objects leave an impression
of their author as a self-taught rural American eccentric with an uncommon gift
for combining common shapes, materials, and language into works of forceful
expression."
Jesse and Maude Linton Howard had five children. Leo Thomas
Howard died in 1964. Those surviving include Carl Howard, Torance California;
Mrs. J.B. (Jewell) Crump, Fulton, Mrs.Felix (Pearl) Horton, Prescott Valley,
Arizona, and Mrs. Frank (Ruby) Honer, Mayer, Arizona.
Other survivors include 13 grandchildren and 15 great-grandchildren.
He was preceded in death by nine brothers and a sister, Etta Myrtle.
Funeral services will be at 2 p.m. Wednesday in the Browning
-Debo Chapel with the Reverend Milan Bourland officiating. Burial will be in
Callaway Memorial Gardens. Visitation will be today from 7-9 p.m. at the funeral
home.
June 6, 1989
Bulldozers on Monday cleared the nine-acre tract where Jesse
Howard, known as the "Old Sign Painter," did his work. Jesse became
known nationally and internationally for his folk art, mostly signs painted
on boards, commenting on human foibles and sculptures made of materials many
would term trash.
Carl Howard, Jesse's youngest son, said a favorite project
of his father's was converting old fans and pumps into colorful windmills.
Carl is having the land on Old Sign Painter Road, a name inspired
by Jesse, cleared in preparation for sale. Howard said the old weathered, wooden
buildings, once ten in all, have become eyesores in a jungle that has sprouted
since his father died in 1983. The buildings have become hazards that he wants
to do away with before one of them collapses.
Carl said his father kept the nine acres mowed and all the
buildings in top shape. He said the land hasn't been touched during all the
five years since Jesse's death.
There is no sentimental value in the buildings now, Carl said.
"Without the man here, the buildings don't really mean that much,"
Carl said.
Carl said all of his father's work has been removed from the
buildings and will find new homes with the families of Jesse's five children.
