Tom Smith

Tell us a little about your background.

My father, Thomas G. Smith, was an accomplished architect on the Jersey shore—a former student of legendary Ludwig Mies van der Rohe. Early in my father’s career, his older brother, sculptor Tony Smith, fostered many important clients: Giorgio Cavallon, Robert Motherwell, and Fritz Bultman, to name a few. This meant that every kid in our family, no matter what age, was expected to become proficient in running the ammonia-smelly “Diazo” Blue printer at a moment’s notice!

My Spanish mother, Graziella Valenti Smith, had something of a secret-agent accent in our small New Jersey town. She had unlimited energy and creativity. At age seventeen, while studying at The Royal Academy of Fine Arts of San Fernando Museum (Madrid), she painted a still life that I use for my vineyard wine label today. During her childhood, household friends included Salvador Dalí, Andres Segovia, and José Iturbi. Later in life, my mother studied for many years with artist Mel Leipzig, who gave her the confidence to paint again after a 40-year hiatus. As a result, the public was able to see her paintings in numerous exhibitions.

During my youth, our home was often overrun by architects, artists, musicians, and writers. The Smith door was always open. Homemade bread, good wine, and simmering arroz con pollo were abundant. Kurt Vonnegut wrote in A Man Without A Country, “I am from a family of artists… It has not been a rebellion. It’s as though I had taken over the family Esso station.”

I can relate.

When did you know you were an artist?

That’s hard to say, but as a young child, I had a favorite book—Giacometti: Sculptures, by Raoul-Jean Moulin. It was part of the Little Library of Art series and pocket-sized—perfect for a boy lucky enough to have parents who supported his interests.

I have three surviving drawings from 1963, when I was four years old. They depict the intentions of a child who felt a need to, and had the facility to, fully describe what he was seeing by capturing images from varying angles. The drawings show:

• Yankee Stadium, sketched from the “cheap seats” (what, to an architect, is called a plan view)
• a geodesic jungle gym dome, drawn from the backyard of a famous architect (elevation view)
• and the giant chandelier at the “Old Met” opera house (39^th) in New York City, while fidgeting through four acts of “Aida” (perspective view).

Suffering from extreme nearsightedness, far away objects were always a blur to me. So drawing concepts from my mind and then building things with my hands helped me better understand our complex world.

I actually first imagined myself as an inventor of sorts, not as an artist.

The Sisters of Mercy, who commandeered our Catholic school, did not see that esoteric side of me. They rebuked my off-kilter drawings with a rubberstamp angel, replete with hovering halo, imploring me to “Try Harder.”

As it turns out, I have spent my life trying harder, and I thoroughly enjoy what I do.

Was there a pivotal moment for you?

Unter der Linden is my self-proclaimed break-out project as a sculptor.

In August 1984, I made a study model using a small Juniper sprig. One end of the stick was secured to a wooden base. An eye screw was fastened in the center of that base. From the eye screw, eight thread segments, equally spaced, reached up to the juniper branch to pull it downwards to create an arch.

It looked like half a bicycle wheel and spokes.

Three months later, I found the perfect living tree to create a large-scale artwork from my model.  A deciduous linden tree (Tilia cordata) towered over the entrance to my parents’ property. One particular limb spanned 18 feet by 12 feet high, in a near perfect arch. This was the one.

Ten feet from the trunk, I poured a circular concrete footing to fasten an eye bolt anchor. With two-foot spacing, I ran 170 feet of rope up and down the tree limb to the ground anchor. LED lights were fastened to the rope segments.

When completed, the final sculpture looked from afar as though the tree limb was under high tension. In reality, the nylon line was slack!

The installation took 12 hours. From start to finish. I was thrilled in creating my first large-scale, site-specific, outdoor sculpture. I have always admired the transformative, monumental sculptures of Richard Serra, Alexander Calder, Jean Dubuffet, Bernar Venet, Isamu Noguchi, Christo, and Tony Smith, to name a few.

With Unter der Linden, I personally set the bar for achieving high expectations on future projects. It was well-planned and humbly elegant—my earliest contribution to the art world.

Our next-door-neighbor, Mr. Maloney, simply wondered, “Tom, what is wrong with your tree?”

What is your favorite medium?

In college, I gravitated toward bronze casting and welding mild steel. Oxy-acetylene gas and electric arc welding were my go-to combination for creating sculpture.

These days, found objects in Nature provide me with an abundance of material. All I need is a pair of shears. Also, I cultivate what I call “art crops,” grown in my garden and vineyard for specific projects.

Indeed, this has been a fixation of mine since childhood. I cannot shake it. With the utmost respect, my son, Andrew, astutely calls my fascination with these nature-borne materials a “Stickness.”

Calvin Trillin sums up what, I think, is the opinion of many people, when he wrote “… Certain found objects were meant to remain lost!”

I strongly object.

Can you describe your process?

I have non-stop ideas competing for recognition in my head.

With any painting/sculpture project, I start with a written idea or a quick sketch. From a small, “reminder” sketch, I often make a larger, more descriptive rendering. For sculptures, I go a step further and make a scale model, then move on to a 1:1 artwork.

For works on paper, I’ll use any available medium until I feel comfortable with what I see—pencil, pen, watercolor, block print…I’ve even drawn with shoe polish paste.

When I paint, I use acrylics. I don’t usually blend colors but, rather, select factory colors to fill-in-the-blanks from what I see in my mind. Like an architectural drawing, I superimpose layers of paint/information to compose a final work.

In most cases, I see the finished artwork in my mind before I start.

I keep meticulous records, because I suspect that down the road, I will not remember when I did anything! So, I always date and initial the idea/drawing—a habit my father taught me from the architectural practice. I also keep track of time/material for each project; knowing how I spend my time validates my efforts. All of these things might seem counter-creative, but they take only a few minutes.

Is there anything else you’d like us to know about your work?

Much of my body of work—sculptures, paintings, works on paper—remains generally unknown and not yet experienced by the public.

I’d like to focus next on finding a venue to exhibit approximately 30 maquettes, displayed on custom pedestals along with relevant drawings. This assemblage of experimental work will invite viewers to engage in the wonders of our natural environment.

Ultimately, I see most of my work as large-scale public installments.