Benny Broadfoot
Cheryl Unruh
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
SUMMER IS ALL about kindergarten colors: red poppies, yellow daylilies, green grass, blue sky, white puffy clouds.
In autumn, the palette shifts and those pure colors become a little muddy.
These days, as pastures run wild with broomweed and goldenrod, fields taking on that dusty yellow hue, I think of Benny Broadfoot, my high school art teacher, because Mr. Broadfoot was all about yellow ocher.
In fact, that’s what my classmates and I used when we impersonated him. We’d roll our chins down to find our deepest voices and say, “Hmmm, needs more yellow ocher.”
In all fairness, sometimes he would say, as he passed behind our easels in the turpentine-scented room, “Hmmm. Try adding a little raw umber.” And he might even mention burnt umber.
Now Mr. B.’s suggestions were gentle; he wasn’t trying to control our art. He just wanted us to discover the depth and richness of color that he saw when he looked at the world.
Benny Broadfoot was a practicing artist and earth tones showed up in his own paintings and sculptures, many of which reflected his Native American background.
When I knew him, he was in his mid-30s, was tall, had dark hair parted on the side, and a patient fatherliness, sort of like the TV dads of the ’50s — only with a ‘70s mustache.
As the seasons roll around and yellow ocher rides the hills and swales around us, I think of Mr. Broadfoot.
Pawnee Rock’s high school was closed, so I transferred to Macksville as a sophomore and ended up in his class accidentally. I had scheduled myself for American History, a junior level class, and the principal pulled me out.
So, on my first day at a new school, I was escorted to the art room and deposited like a stray puppy at Mr. Broadfoot’s feet. Mr. B. already had a full class that hour, but he took me in, probably because he had no choice.
Once in, I stayed. I took art classes each of my three years at Macksville High.
For a tiny high school (about 120 students), we had a well-equipped art department in a new metal building. The art room was on one side, the band room on the other with a moveable partition in between - which meant that if we had art the same hour as the junior high band we got our ears full of tubas and squeaky clarinets.
Mr. Broadfoot showed us how to stretch a fine screen over a wooden frame and we made our own silk screen designs. We painted with oils, acrylics, and watercolors. We sculpted clay, learned to weave, and pounded nails into wood for string art.
He taught us to take our time and do a good job, and to examine an object or a process from a fresh perspective.
Because of the nature of the class, it was a relaxed atmosphere with conversation and movement. Mr. B. allowed a free environment which is good for creativity, good for joking around – and we took full advantage of that freedom.
Mr. Broadfoot must have questioned his career choice daily.
In our small school, there was a comfortable level of good-natured joking and teasing between students and teachers. Sometimes though, we pushed the boundaries and when we did, it showed up on Mr. Broadfoot’s face in the form of exasperation.
“Hmmm,” he’d mutter with more of a growl than if he were merely “hmmm-ing” to suggest that we add more ocher to a painting.
After we graduate, the good teachers return to our minds occasionally. We recall the presence that they offered and the personal attention which gave us a feeling that we mattered. We get the urge to go back and thank them.
Sometimes we wait too long. About 10 years ago I learned that Benny Broadfoot died in 1992 at the age of 49.
I think of Mr. Broadfoot from time to time, sometimes in the chain of other high school memories, sometimes when I’m looking at a piece of art.
But especially each and every autumn when the pastures turn to yellow ocher, my favorite teacher comes to mind. And once again I hear that deep-voiced “Hmmm.”
“Flyover People” is online at www.flyoverpeople.net. Cheryl Unruh can be reached at cheryl@flyoverpeople.net.
Comments
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Posted by bharz (anonymous) on October 6, 2009 at 9:01 p.m. (Suggest removal)
Good teachers never really die. They live on in their students, just like you and Mr. Broadfoot.
Posted by spectator (anonymous) on October 9, 2009 at 8:08 a.m. (Suggest removal)
Couldn't agree more, bharz. Cheryl, another one of your best.
Posted by create (anonymous) on October 9, 2009 at 8:57 a.m. (Suggest removal)
What a nice thing to say, bharz. Thank you for saying that.
And Cheryl, what a beautiful essay to honor the memory of your teacher.
Posted by Pollyanna (anonymous) on October 9, 2009 at 9:19 a.m. (Suggest removal)
Thank God for Mr. Broadfoot and every other teacher out there who have made lifelong positive impressions on their students. My guess is we all have a Mr. Broadfoot who changed us for the better.
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