Written by Herald-News
The Wolf Point Lions Club is building a 20-foot long replica of the 85-year-old, 1,074-foot Lewis and Clark Bridge for the Wild Horse Stampede/Wolf Point Centennial parade Thursday through Saturday, July 9-11. The Lions float will be one of several showcased floats that will be paraded around Marvin Brookman Stadium during grand entries before rodeo performances. The original three-span truss bridge no longer carries traffic across the Missouri River and has been listed on the National Register of Historic Places for nearly two decades. Lions president Dave Fyfe uses a nail gun to put together pieces of the bridge float Monday, June 22. Gary Johnson, Larry Corns and Roger Wimmer are also pictured. (Photo by John Plestina)
Written by John Plestina
Dean Mahlum gets his face out of his pie plate and raises his hand in victory after a second-place finish in the fourth annual Wolf Point Jaycees Good Neighbor Days in September 1961, in Lewis and Clark Park [now commonly known as Bridge Park], where a record-setting crowd turned out to see the future Roosevelt County Sheriff participate in the contest that this newspaper called a “time-honored ritual” some 54 years ago. Yes, Mahlum got his picture with his face in a pie plate on the front page of The Herald-News. (Photo courtesy of Marvin Presser)
After lying dormant for a few decades, Wolf Point’s Good Neighbor Days will return in mid-July as part of the Centennial celebration during the Wild Horse Stampede.
The resurgence of Good Neighbor Days will be just a part of the four days of celebration that will include three days of parades, three nights of street dances with live music, a PRCA-sanctioned rodeo, carnival, car show, Human Stampede Run/Walk, kids’ stick-horse rodeo, cowboy church and more.
Good Neighbor Days will include a bed race through downtown Wolf Point and a pie eating contest, a long ago favorite for the annual fall event that was held during September in Lewis and Clark Park, now commonly known as Bridge Park.
The bed race, with four-person teams pushing beds on wheels through downtown streets with a fifth team member on the bed wearing pajamas, will be the first held locally in nearly three decades and will be a throwback to Crazy Days, a local celebration held during the 1980s.
Remembered by some local people as Jaycees Good Neighbor Days, the now long defunct Wolf Point Jaycees started Good Neighbor Days as an annual event in 1958. It was held annually for several years.
A story on the front page of The Herald-News on Sept. 7, 1961, touted the fourth annual Good Neighbor Days and called the pie eating contest a “time-honored ritual.”
The opening day of Centennial/Stampede, Wednesday, July 8, will begin with a dinner at 5 p.m. at Marvin Brookman Stadium, followed by the annual KVCK Country Showdown at 7 p.m. The popular talent contest will be held at the Stampede grounds this year after being held in the Wolf Point High School auditorium the last several years.
A dance at the Stampede grounds will follow the Country Showdown with the Colorado-based band Ryan Chrys and the Roughcuts, playing from 9 p.m. until midnight.
Other Stampede and Centennial events will include “The High Plains Drifters,” a local Old West gunfight reenactment group that will put on scripted shows with gunfights on downtown streets.
Written by John Plestina
he Northeast Montana Shrine Circus will be in Wolf Point Tuesday, July 1, for two shows, 2 and 7 p.m.
(Herald-News file photo)
Lions and tigers and elephants and clowns. What more could little kids or big kids want?
The Eastern Montana Shriners are sponsoring the Shrine Circus for its annual visit to Wolf Point for two shows at Marvin Brookman Stadium Wednesday, July 1, at 2 and 7 p.m.
The mesmerizing anticipation of trapeze performers flying through the air, tightrope walkers, trained tigers and elephants, and clowns have people waiting in awe for the circus to come back to Wolf Point.
The annual visit of the Shrine Circus has been a tradition in Wolf Point for more than 50 years.
Jordan World Circus of Las Vegas, Nev., produces the three-ring show and provides the performers and animals.
Featured performers include: aerialist, including the beautiful women of the circus performing “Snow Flakes Web Display” while suspended high above the heads of the spectators; animal trainer Adam Burck with his giant jungle cats; the Jordan Circus Clowns with antics to make the young and old laugh; eloquent ringmaster Ari Steeples; acrobats from China juggling another human being and more; Guiming, the Chinese vase balancer; body contortionists; jugglers; George Hanneford and his performing elephants; and dog and pony shows.
All proceeds from the Wolf Point shows will benefit the projects of the Eastern Montana Shriners.
Written by Herald-News
Wolf Point Elks Lodge No. 1764 continues the makeover of the 65-year-old Elks Club building with a new paint job on the sides of the building. There have also been interior renovations. The Wolf Point lodge will host the Montana State Elks Association summer convention in July, one week after the combined Wild Horse Stampede and Wolf Point Centennial Celebration. Elks trustee and past exalted ruler Gene Pronto (top) spray paints the side of the building from a basket on a lift truck. Elk Dewey Zimmerman (bottom) operates the crane while Gene Pronto paints. Garrett Pronto (center, left) paints the side of the Elks building. Dalton Pronto (center, right) also assisted with the project. (Photos by John Plestina)
Written by Alan Kesselheim
Floyd Tennyson “Tenny” DeWitt points to his “Flight To Fantasy” sculpture of a Pegasus in his studio in Bozeman, which he said has nothing to do with a horse. (Photo by John Plestina)
(Editor’s Note: This story about renowned artist Floyd “Tenny” DeWitt, who is originally from Wolf Point, was featured in the spring 2015 issue of Montana Quarterly. We are reprinting it with permission.)
Floyd DeWitt is not a man or artist you come to know, as much as a man and artist you experience. Like weather.
As with a storm, DeWitt is unpredictable, powerful, fitful, intimidating, challenging and very real. Also, like a storm, and despite the apparent chaos of forces, he adheres to certain patterns and rhythms, themes that keep surfacing out of the mix, clear and fundamental. And it is that mixture of chaos and pattern that emerges, powerful as a microburst, in his art.
DeWitt doesn’t stick to the topic in conversation. He refuses a linear discussion, but instead veers off into stories and memories, reveals the epiphanies that stand clear in his life. He quotes Aristotle, Frost, Hesse, Twain, leaps decades, confounds chronology, employs metaphor.
“If I could tell you what it is I do,” he blurts out, “I wouldn’t have to do it!
“How a kid from Roosevelt County, Montana came to be the artist I am?” he shrugs, smiles.
“I have a kind of passion,” he goes on. “That makes me difficult for some reason. I’ve always been different, kind of an oddball, and there is a price to pay for that. It took me many years to understand. I remember even when I was a kid in Wolf Point, I was asked to leave the Cub Scout pack because I wasn’t going to fit in. The den leader talked to my mother and told her it wasn’t a good idea.
“Same thing happened in the army,” he says. “I was the one nobody urged to re-enlist.”
Now entering his eighties, DeWitt is perhaps the oldest working sculptor in Montana. His house, outside of Bozeman, is full of his work. Horses everywhere. Headless horses and horse heads, riders on horseback, a stunning rendition of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, a piece DeWitt calls “Weightlessness”. His studio is crammed with sketches, busts, nudes, a figure of a symphony conductor, his father’s old barber chair, a full-sized ewe called “Mother of the Ram,” a bust of his daughter he has been working on for thirty years.
“Maybe I don’t want to finish her, because then I’d have to let her go,” he says.
“My parents were hard-working people,” DeWitt says. “My mother was a nurse. My father was a full-time barber. I went to school. I smoked cigarettes and got into mischief. I found magazines lying around and started copying the pictures. I liked the Indians around home, mostly because they liked horses. It was all really about learning to be a man. By the way, I finally gave up on that,” he says with a laugh. “I got handy at drawing, started doing some landscapes, little studies, playing around with ideas. Like I said, I was an oddball.”
He leaps again. “You have to open the envelope of who you are,” DeWitt rounds his aged hand around his coffee cup. “Find out who you are, find your way to God, whatever you decide that is.”
After growing up in Wolf Point, DeWitt enlisted in the Army, traveled to Europe. “There was no compatibility between me and the military,” he says. “But I was in Europe and that opened my eyes. Europe is full of epiphany. The air is thick with it. You put your hand on an ancient stone bridge and think about all the other hands that have rested there. That’s something.”
DeWitt remembers visiting St. Peter’s Cathedral one time on leave. “I was walking around and not thinking much of the art. I was a young fool looking for Charlie Russell or Frederic Remington in the face of all that great stuff. There was a door marked ‘Do Not Enter’. Of course that was just an invitation and I walked right in. It was an alcove full of hedges, patterned in a maze. There were monks strolling around in robes, meditating. I sat on a bench. Gregorian Chants were playing. No one bothered me. I’d never heard anything like it, never been anywhere like that. It was a revelation. Talk about magic!”
One of the themes that surfaces again and again out of the confusion of DeWitt’s life is the edict to study nature, not copy nature. “Study nature,” he emphasizes, “not copy it. Do you see what I mean?” he leans in, intensity emanating like heat.
Somewhere in that distinction is the leap of abstraction, the quality that separates DeWitt’s work from the cliché of wildlife sculpture outside of bank buildings. That unnamable element that marries the true experience of observation, the synthesis of emotion and humanity and contemplation, and then expresses something fresh and authentic in a piece of art.
“We lack humility,” he says, reflecting on current trends in art. “There is none of that in most gallery art. There is no humility in university art schools. So much art, now, is crass commercialism. And the rich people buying art have no appreciation or understanding of it.”
On the center of DeWitt’s dining room table sits a sculpture of a baseball pitcher, caught in the crescendo of a windup, a figure about to explode, tension like the sizzling air before a lightning bolt.
“I was sitting in a bar in Livingston,” DeWitt remembers. “Just me and the bartender. There was a baseball game on, but on the other channel the news was showing troops marching into Iraq. We started arguing about which channel to watch. Finally we struck a compromise – three minutes of baseball to one minute of news.
“This piece came out of that moment. I’ve never pitched a baseball in my life. But that’s me. I became that pitcher. That’s the terror and tension of humanity. That’s the appalling realization that watching baseball was more interesting than men going to war.”
DeWitt starts to sketch the lines of the pitcher with his hands in the air, following the flow of the piece, connecting elements, noting how the light falls here and there, leading the eye, how it all adds up to unity.
“It’s not a conscious process,” he says, looking at the figure. “You begin with humility. You go out and observe, come back with material. And then there’s the magic of that synthesis coming out.
“I can’t stop. It’s in me. It has to come out.”
“Read Frost’s poem, that’s my life in a nutshell,” DeWitt says. In the poem, “The Road Not Taken”, Frost wrote, “Two roads diverged in a wood, and I – I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.”
For DeWitt, that road started with time back home in Wolf Point, working as a cop, breaking horses, drawing landscapes, seeking.
“After the army, and ever since, it’s been a swamp of confusion and enlightenment all jumbled up,” DeWitt says.
“I look at it as a series of rebirths. I was reborn when I came back from Europe. Then I went to the Minneapolis School of Art, and was reborn. From there I got a scholarship to the Royal Academy of Fine Art in Holland, an offshoot of the Beaux Arts Academy tradition in France. Reborn again.”
In Holland, where DeWitt spent six years studying, and several subsequent decades working as an artist, his art is showcased in European museums and private collections, owned by members of the Danish royal family, and has been installed in public monuments. When DeWitt first arrived in Europe, one of the first instructions he received was the life-changing edict to study nature, not copy it.
For DeWitt, the challenge, the magic, is to truly inhabit a subject, to get at its essence. His “Mother of the Ram” was provoked by a visit to a ranch in Paradise Valley. “This ewe, a really defenseless creature, was standing there, so defiant, so protective, so unequivocal. She was nature standing up for itself.”
“We all have access to the same visual experience,” DeWitt emphasizes. “An artist like Van Gogh had the ability to express that experience like a poet does. Frost said that he wrote poetry that was hard to get rid of. I guess that’s what I try to do.”
DeWitt tends to sleep until mid-day. He has a cup or two of strong coffee, something to eat, and gets to work some time in the afternoon. Then he works late into the night, often after midnight.
“I am a great consumer of time,” he admits. Much of that time is spent mulling, looking, getting at feelings, moving around through the clutter of pieces in the studio, losing himself.
“People think I’m difficult,” he says. “They say I’m complicated and hard to understand. Really, all of my work is just a big thank you. My pieces are eulogies, statements of gratitude to nature. That’s all.
“A lot of it is subliminal,” DeWitt says. “Changing perspective, working with the masses, balance, seeing where the light falls.”
As he talks he points to the details of pieces, how a shoulder leads to the torso, how lines and shapes reinforce each other, how a complex mass of running horses all rests on four points, everything building toward unity.
He notices a sculpture of a yoga instructor he is working on. “It feels like her,” he says. “I call that the music of a piece.
“I did a bust of Gustav Mahler once,” he said. “I didn’t know anything about him. I started listening to The Titan to get a sense of him. Mahler didn’t particularly like that piece. To tell the truth, I didn’t much like it either. But I listened to it, non-stop, for 14 hours a day. Again and again. I got so I could smell Mahler’s armpits.
“You don’t really know when you’re done. You just decide you’ve finally done all you can. At the same time, you can ruin a piece in fifteen minutes if you go too far. It’s a helluva tough thing.”
Late afternoon, the light gray, DeWitt stands in front of the nearly life-sized symphony conductor, a work in progress that began with a study of Bozeman conductor, Matthew Savery. “This isn’t Matthew any more,” he says. “You can make it Matthew if you want, but it’s not.” He looks up and down the figure, the upward surge from the tiptoe stance to the bent wrists, full of the tension of the symphonic moment about to burst forth. You can almost hear the rising music, like a wave about to crash.
“You see?” he says.