Every Saturday, we’ll be posting a new illustration by David Lester. The Mecca Normal guitarist is visually documenting people, places and events from his band’s 29-year run, with text by vocalist Jean Smith.
Selwyn Pullan, a photographer whose work was recently published in a book on West Coast architecture, phoned my father over Christmas. Evidently, he normally does. They are friends, my father and Selwyn, since the late 1950s, when my father, an art director at Lovick’s, a Vancouver ad agency, used Selwyn for ad campaigns. One of which won Selwyn an award, my father told me on Christmas day, while we were both up early, standing in the kitchen talking about the pair of speakers Selwyn built for my parents.
I happened to see Selwyn’s book online back in the fall, while I was looking for photos of the house I grew up in.
Now 90, Vancouver-born Selwyn went to the Art Center in Los Angeles as a young man, where he was a student of Ansel Adams. After the war, he was offered a job at Life magazine, but as a Canadian, he was limited to work in Canada.
Our house was designed by Fred Hollingsworth, who was influenced by Frank Lloyd Wright (who offered him employment in 1951). The photos in the book are during the time when the Clarks lived there.
My parents changed a lot of things. They painted most of the cedar walls off-white, took out various details such as the very Frank Lloyd Wright light boxes (seen in the dining room). Hollingsworth (who lived not more than five minutes away) came to the house at one point and suggested that my parents move rather than continue to change (destroy) his work. That didn’t happen until 1984 or so.
My father tells a story about what I told them when they wanted to paint my bedroom walls, something about remaining true to the architect’s vision. I mean, I myself had, in a fit of rage, etched “I HATE GOD” with a lead pencil into the wall beside my bed, but even as I did it, I realized that it was wrong. Hating god wasn’t wrong, but defiling another artist’s work was. Subsequent to the first five letters, I lessened the pressure, digging less emphatically into the wood, but I finished the sentence. I would love to go back and see what they did with that spot on the wall. I remember doing it. Lots going on in that moment. Recognizing rage and impulsivity. Hating god for whatever reason; I think it had to do with my mother having cancer, but, at the same time I was thinking that I couldn’t actually hate god, because I did not believe in god. I felt the initial eruption and creation—action—and that immediately resulted in conflict. Shame for having lost control and for the destruction and fear; this was going to be seen and get me into trouble. I don’t think anyone ever mentioned it to me. It was right beside my bed, under the light by which I was reading a lot of James Baldwin, at about age 10 or 11. I think my parents were very pre-occupied, or maybe they saw it and decided not to address it. I don’t know. Maybe they didn’t see it. Maybe I should ask them.
“Vacant Night Sky,” from Sitting On Snaps (Matador, 1995; Smarten UP!, 2009) (download):
