My
guest is Harry Burrus. A few decades ago, Harry went to graduate
school at Iowa and was the Head Pro at Racquet Club West in Des
Moines. For several years, I covered many of the tennis tournaments
he played in and won, among them the Iowa Open. I am pleased to be
doing this interview. So, welcome Harry.
Thanks,
Ron. This is a real treat. While Iowa was in some respects a lifetime
ago, it was a wonderful experience on many levels. It is all vividly
there, up-front, on my memory screen. I recall a caption of yours at
the Iowa Open after one of my matches: “The Bearded Man with the
Booming Serve.” I presently do have a beard, but I am rather
certain the serve is no longer “booming.”
First
off, I’d like to hear about your poetry since you have a new book
called Layers: New & Selected Poems. Maybe,
too, touch upon travel and photography since I’ve noticed you
utilize both in your writing.
I confess
I feel strange talking about my writing. I’m a terrible promoter of
my own work—I lack that used-car-salesman gene. However, I’ll try
to break out of that mold.
Good.
Maybe readers of this blog will buy your book. I think they
very well might. Do you have any idea how many copies make a best
seller in poetry?
I’m not
really sure. I think around 2,000 copies. Maybe a few more.
That
just might happen.
That
would be incredible. I could use the help. I’m pleased that Karl
Orend of Alyscamps Press Paris brought out the collection.
How
can one order the book?
When did your writing begin?
In
elementary school I wrote some short fiction pieces, usually two to
five pages, mostly about the pioneers moving west, finding and
setting up a homestead, and dealing with the hardships of making a go
of it.
I started
writing poetry my sophomore year in high school, although I didn’t
particularly think of it as poetry. I was making observations and
recording thoughts and experiences. In the classroom, I was
introduced to Shakespeare, Chaucer, Emerson, and Longfellow, the
usual suspects and, really, I was disenchanted with them, largely
because their work didn’t touch me. I can’t say I was moved by
any of it. I would have liked something more contemporary, using
conversational language rather than archaic English. That didn’t
happen until later. I think if high school students were first
introduced to contemporary poets, they would have a more favorable
disposition towards poetry.
LAYERS:
New & Selected Poems covers poems from high school through
this decade. Poems are from seven previous collections and poems that
appeared in European publications, plus new poems.
I
recognized early on that images convey meaning and action. If
presented well, readers will respond emotionally and intellectually.
I prefer using images to symbols. Images are open-ended. They can
inflate, exfoliate, and be in motion—symbols tend to be static and
fixed.
Layers
presents a range of subject matter and a variety of styles. Here are
three poems for a taste:
Lyrics
Chiseled by a Florentine
I
guide my gondola
under
Rialto bridge,
singing
unrequited love songs.
Shutters
are thrown open,
merchants
abandon their shops,
leaving
customers who want prosciutto.
Fish,
learned in such matters,
swim
on each side of me,
casting
cold stares.
But
my voice grows stronger;
my
lyrics give hope to those hospitalized
and
mesmerize chestnut vendors
who
burn their hands and fruit.
The
bells of the Campanile
ring
out, greeting me.
I
pass the Gritti Palace
while
a mariachi band plays
“O
Solo Mio.”
It
was like this in Cairo,
where
on a clear, starless night,
I
sang to the Sphinx
and
answered all of its questions,
permitting
it to lick my hand.
Camels
from all over Egypt
left
their masters
and
came to the pyramids
to
hear my song,
seeking
a cure for their thirst.
One
Way to Say Good-bye
It
was seven-thirty on a Sunday morning
in
June, my father’s second life
beginning,
my mother’s too,
though
she didn’t want to admit it.
My
sister and her husband, still in bed,
heard
Mom pleading in the family room.
“Can’t
we talk about this? Please . . .
whatever
it is, we can work it out.
You
can’t just leave. I beg you.”
“There’s
nothing to work out.
I’m
sorry. I’ve made up my mind.
I’m
going.”
“Talk
to me at least. Please.
Don’t
go. We can do something.
Tell
me, what it is, what’s wrong?
Don’t
throw thirty-one years away.
If
it’s something with me . . . talk
about
it, tell me, I’m willing
to
change. Anything.”
“You’ll
need to go in and sign
the
papers. There’s nothing more
to
say or discuss.
I
don’t love you. I’m leaving.”
The
night before, they’d fixed popcorn
and
looked at family slides:
Mom
on the swivel bar stool
next
to Dad,
Lei
Lane and Gene on the hardwood floor,
looking
up at the portable memory
screen—
laughing
at the changes,
mostly,
each at his own,
discussing,
recalling the trips,
like
the one to the petrified forest,
which
was a major disappointment,
seeing
rocks two to four inches high,
hardly
a tall forest frozen in time.
Many
events were almost forgotten—
fading
as the blue Ektachromes
flashing
before them.
No
one had noticed or thought
anything
of the neat little stacks
Dad
was making, separating the pictures,
placing
some in a different box
from
the others.
The
morning sun burned strong
and
hot when he drove away,
like
the fire he’d left
sizzling
inside 501 Hillside Drive.
The
brown Plymouth Scamp pulled
a
small U-Haul,
packed
with a few clothes . . .
the
racket stringing machine,
and
a small box of Ektachromes.
And on a
lighter note:
Agreement
I
don’t want
from
you
what
others
have
had
or
what you
have
given them.
I
offer you
my
visions,
my
humor, and
a
willingness
to
always go
for
ice cream.
What has been the
reaction to the collection? How have the reviews been?
I’m
pleased to say the reviews have been very favorable. Extremely
positive. I particularly liked one because it was from someone who
doesn’t normally read poetry and he said he never in his life had
read a poetry book from cover to cover. A first for him. His last two
sentences were comforting—he got it: “Bottom line: You don't have
to be a poetry jock to enjoy this book. There is something here for
everyone.”
Where
do you get your ideas for poems? Plays, too. Really, for any of your
writing. How do ideas come to you?
I find
that ideas emerge from the completed poem or play, or screenplay, not
the other way around. I may have an image in mind that I want to
explore. Sometimes it’s a locale that I want to incorporate into
something. Maybe I’ll create some kind of situation and take it
from there. The important thing is to begin. To start. It doesn’t
matter that I don’t know where I’m going. Actually, I like that.
The essential thing is I am looking for something and the quest
becomes more of an adventure. When you are curious you make
discoveries. With curiosity, you become involved.
I may
begin with a line from a snippet of conversation. Or, a descriptive
phrase or I might just make a statement. The piece builds largely by
associations and aggregation. I periodically read through old
notebooks and extract material from there. When traveling, I keep a
journal and entries often serve as a foundation for a poem or another
piece of writing. However, merely because I begin with something
doesn’t mean I keep it. I may not. Nevertheless, it serves a
purpose. It got the juices going.
Another
thing I’ve always done is observe others. When I was actively
engaged with tennis and saw a neat move or a nifty combination of
shots made by a player, I’d figure out a way to incorporate the
move or shots into my game, utilizing what I have. Making it my own.
I do the same thing with photography, writing, and film. I’m
particularly drawn to how time is handled and the various ways I can
deal with it. Jean-Luc Godard, the French filmmaker, once stated that
a film has a beginning, a middle, and an end, but not necessarily in
that order.
Travel
has been beneficial because I get a portal into how other cultures
live. It strikes me it’s difficult, perhaps impossible, to have any
sense of universality unless one engages other countries,
particularly non-occidental ones.
Dougga,
Tunisia
I
sometimes use photographs as springboards—to get me going. I get
curious and wonder what words might evolve. I’ll look at the image
and begin to write. Here is a poem that evolved from a photograph I
took in Chiapas:
Gypsy
Girl
(Across
from the Plaza of La Caridad Church
San
Cristóbal de las Casas)
She
wears a rose-colored dress
covered
by a lime green apron.
She
leans against the brown and white
sun-bleached
wall of Tres Estrellas restaurant,
eating
an ear of grilled corn sprinkled with paprika
and
chili powder.
Her
bare feet are hard, dry, and cracked.
She
uses a turquoise rebozo wrapped around
her
head for a turban.
Multiple
eye-of-the-tiger spheres dangle
from
her earlobes.
She
looks as though she’s from one of the caves
of
the Sierra Nevada foothills near Granada,
but
this ten year old Indian lives in Zinacatán,
a
village in the Chiapan highlands, and speaks
Tzotzil
with Spanish as a second language.
Near
the curb, a few feet away, her mother and four
sisters
sit in the back of a canvas-covered truck
eating
their elote on a stick.
When she finishes
the treat,
this
gypsy will return with her mother and sisters
to
her village and make more pulseras to sell
in
San Cristóbal without ever thinking of Spain.
Tell us a little
about your early years and where you grew up.
My first
couple of years found me in Texas: Lubbock, San Antonio, and Fort
Worth. My sister, parents, and grandparents were all born in Texas.
For three years, we lived in New York while my father was working on
his doctorate at Columbia and playing pro football. He’d been
drafted by the Chicago Bears but declined because he wanted to pursue
an advanced degree. When he finished Columbia, we moved to St. Louis
(Webster Groves) where my father was a professor at Washington
University. I was five.
In
addition to tennis what other sports were you involved in?
Ping-pong
and swimming were my first. My sister’s too. Ping-pong was a good
way to learn the various spins that would be applicable in tennis. I
remember my father putting two quarters down and saying that my
sister and I could each have a quarter if we swam the width of the
Washington U pool. You should have seen my sister’s flutter kick.
The next challenge was swimming the length of the pool underwater.
For several summers, I swam on the Webster Groves swimming team. Lei
Lane (my sister) did too and she was never without her box of sugar
cubes. My best event was the breaststroke.
Lei
Lane and Harry
Forehand
Photo Shoot
Cub Scout
softball was next. I was into it. I was the pitcher. After that, I
played one season on a baseball team sponsored by Yorkshire Hardware.
Also played a little corkball. I encountered basketball in seventh
grade and really worked at it. My father put a basket, regulation
height, on the overhang of our backyard door and enlarged the patio.
I practiced shooting for hours. We had a good ninth grade team
coached by Al Burr. Towards the end of the season, Dale Dierberg and
I were moved up to the varsity which was cool. Dale and I had a
standard agreement: if I had the ball and couldn’t get a shot off,
I’d pass it to Dale, and vice versa. So, the last game of the
season, I passed it to Dale and he sank it from just inside the head
of the key. Dale was our playmaker the next three years and I was the
leading scorer of the Parkway Colts my junior and senior years.
Two other
sports I enjoyed and played a lot when I was in Fairfield the fall
before I started Iowa were volleyball and badminton. Played a lot of
badminton, an amazingly fast sport. We had a squash court in Racquet
Club West and I played several times. For a couple of years, in the
late 70s, I was a serious dart shooter and entered a number of money
tournaments.
When did you first
come to Iowa or become aware of Iowa?
I clearly
recall the moment I was introduced to Iowa. I was playing in a 15 &
Under tournament in Forest Park, later the site of the Dwight Davis
Tennis Center. Several of us were waiting for our matches and I was
in a conversation with Tom Maxiener. He casually mentioned playing a
tournament in Iowa and that a Richard Friedman was doing particularly
well. A tournament in Iowa—geez, Iowa sounded so mysterious and
intriguing to 13-year-old me, conjuring up Indian names like Keokuk,
Ioway, and Ottumwa. Ironically, a short time later, I played doubles
with Richard Friedman of Des Moines and my last year in the juniors I
played with Bob Stock of Grundy Center. We were number ten in the
country that year. I learned about a tournament in southeast Iowa and
every September, all through high school and some years after, I’d
drive the 210 miles up Highway 61, snaking along the Mississippi,
passing through Mark Twain country, and play the Burlington event.
You know
talking about times past is rather bizarre to me. When I was a young
teen, reading about writers and artists who would regularly meet in a
bistro and discuss events that happened 40 and 50 years ago, I
thought it was amazing they could do that—so much time had passed
for them and they had these stories they could share. Well, we can
easily do that now. When Megan (my wife) and I are traveling and
having a good time, she’ll ask about the time we have left on the
trip and usually I say we have more in front of us than behind us.
Which is good. Reviewing all of this, I have reached the point in
life where there is more time behind me than I have in front of me—at
least as far as years are concerned. Yikes! I’d better get busy. So
much to accomplish. Luis Buñuel, the great Spanish filmmaker said,
“Memory is what makes our lives. Life without memory is no life at
all.”
Another
foreshadowing event for Iowa was the 1964 Missouri Valley Doubles
Championships. I was playing with Bill Heinbecker, a St. Louisian who
had played for Notre Dame, and in the semis we played Steve
Wilkinson, who played number one for Iowa, and Lance Lumsden who was
Jamaica’s top player and the number one at SIU Carbondale. Steve
and I talked a little about Iowa. In the finals, Bill and I defeated
Gene Land and Bob McKenna. At that time, little did I know I’d be
going to grad school at Iowa, living in Des Moines, and playing a
variety of Iowa tournaments.
Thinking
about Southern Illinois University at Carbondale. . . that was
another tournament I played as a teen—about a two-hour drive south.
Dick Lefevre was the tennis coach from 1955-1993 and had been a
classmate of my father’s at Columbia, the only classmate of my
dad’s I ever met. Dick had a real knack for recruiting foreign
players. The Sprengelmeyers of Dubuque had an outstanding record
there. I always got a kick at tournaments seeing the four
Sprengelmeyer brothers pulling themselves out of a VW ready to play.
In the
mid-sixties, Washington University played Iowa and I got to see my
friend Arden Stokstad whom I’d met years earlier at the Burlington
tournament. Arden and I had won our respective state high school
singles the same year. I think playing on the fast, slick, wooden
boards of the WU Field House proved too much for the Iowa team.
The
summer of 1966 my parents moved to Fairfield where they taught at
Parsons College. My father had turned 45 and was eagerly looking
forward to playing senior division events. I visited often and
enjoyed Fairfield’s small town ambiance. It didn’t take long to
walk the square and visit the various shops.
After
Washington University, I taught English at a Prep School in Cheshire,
CT for a year and played a number of New England tournaments which
was a different scene from Missouri Valley tournaments. For three
summers, 1966-68, I taught tennis at the New England Tennis Camp
which used the Cheshire Academy facilities. After Cheshire, my plan
was to attend Pasadena Playhouse and pursue acting. I had been
accepted but, to my surprise, the school suddenly closed in 1969,
which actually turned out to be a good thing for me.
I applied
to grad school at Iowa and began classes in early 1970. I knew Don
Klotz, the Iowa coach from '48 to '68, from previous tournaments and
Mike Schrier, who had a terrific smile and played on the Iowa team,
had told me about John Winnie, who had followed Klotz as coach. Mike
knew I was interested in cinema and mentioned Winnie’s special area
was documentary film. Mike was getting ready to go to Spain and was
going to take his car over. I haven’t seen Mike since. I need to
track him down. I also had encountered Sam Becker and his son at
tournaments. Sam was the chair of the Speech and Dramatic Arts
department. Klotz, Winnie, and Becker, each very different, were fine
gentlemen. It was a pleasure knowing them.
July of
1970, I’d had one semester at Iowa and my father and I played the
Ottumwa Open tournament. It was incredibly windy and abnormally
chilly. I won the men’s singles defeating Bill Rompf and won the
doubles with Paul Peschel who played number one for Parsons. My
father won the veterans, which in this case was the 35s, defeating
Dick Judisch of Bettendorf and the two of them won the 35 doubles.
The Ottumwa Courier had a nice piece on us with the title A Family
Affair.
Talking
about doubles, at what point did you and your father start playing
national Father & Son tournaments?
I had
suggested to my father that we try some national tournaments and for
several years he resisted. I pointed out, trying to appeal to his
competitive nature, that we had done well playing doubles in the
Men’s division in the St. Louis District and had been the top
Father & Son team in the Missouri Valley section. We needed to
move up and challenge ourselves.
Finally,
he relented and we journeyed to Philadelphia and played the grass at
the Germantown Cricket Club—Bill Tilden’s early base. This was
our first time on grass. We always relied on our speed to chase down
lobs and the first lob that went over our heads I casually said I had
it, thinking I had plenty of time, and ran back to get it. Well, I
hadn’t counted on the ball bouncing just a few inches and I didn’t
get to it in time. From then on, we made a point of taking the lobs
in the air, hitting an overhead or running back a lot faster.
We had a
good first national tournament, reaching the semis. In the quarters,
we played Bobby Riggs and his son Larry. We won the first set 6-0. At
the net Bobby whispered, “You shouldn’t beat people 6-0.”
Riggs, always the hustler. I recalled Jack Kramer, three years
younger than Riggs, writing that in their teens Riggs always tried to
beat him love and love. We won the second set 6-1.
Our first
big win was in Rhode Island at the Agawam Hunt Club. We defeated the
number one team in the country: Chauncey & Chum Steele. This was
on grass and these courts were really soft and the ball didn’t
bounce high at all. We also did well at Longwood Cricket Club in
Chestnut Hill, Massachusetts, which was also on grass. In a big match
in the quarters, I was serving, and it was add out and my father, who
never poached, moved to his left, cutting off the cross court return,
and executed a beautiful backhand volley winner down the middle.
After that move, we ran out the set and the match.
We were
fortunate and tended to always reach the semis or finals. Other
tournaments where we did well were the clays in Cincinnati and the
clays at the Homestead Club in Hot Springs, Virginia. Our highest
ranking was number 2 in the country. My dad always played well and,
if I had raised my game in some key matches, we would have had a good
shot at being number one.
THE LAST
FATHER & SON TOURNAMENT
Do you
think that being at Iowa helped your game?
Absolutely.
Working with the Iowa tennis team nearly every day for two years
really sharpened and elevated my play. It was intense, consistent
practice, with a variety of good players.
An
example is the 1971 Midwest Indoors in Chicago held at Alan Swartz’s
Midtown Tennis Club. Huge draw. 128. A lot of strong players. I was
fifth or sixth seed. I played Steve Wilkinsen in the finals and I
didn’t drop a set the entire tournament. That tournament was song
driven. By that I mean when I first walked into the club, Gordon
Lightfoot’s “If You Could Read My Mind” was playing. I looked
at the 64 draw on the table and didn’t see my name. Hmm. I asked to
see the other half and the woman slid over the second half of the
draw. When I went to lunch, dinner, or breakfast at different places,
over several days, that song was playing. I took it as an omen—I
knew I was going to win the tournament.
Another
example of how playing with the Iowa team helped my game was the
Fairfield Memorial Day Open. Several Iowa players were in it as well
as Jim Watson. I played Trey Waltke of St. Louis and Los Angeles in
the finals. Trey has wins over Stan Smith, McEnroe, and Conners. We
are in the third set. I’m up 6-3 in the seven-point tiebreak. I
have three match points. All I had to do is win one point. I have
three chances to win one point. Well, Trey wins 3 straight points to
even the score at 6 all. We go back and forth and he finally wins two
points in row. Ugh!
One day I
was hitting with Ian Phillips and a nice-looking brunette came over
to my side of the court and asked if I’d be willing to hit with
Galway Kinnell. Kinnell was a visiting poet. I was aware of Kinnell’s
poetry. I was curious about him and his tennis, so I was agreeable.
We set up a time. Galway liked to hit the ball hard. After we hit, we
discussed his poem “The Bear.”
Who
were some of the players on the Iowa team then?
Jim
Esser, Craig Sandvig, Bruce Nagel, Lee Wright, Steve Houghton, Rod
Kubat, Ian Phillips, and Rob Griswold. They were a great group of
guys and it was enjoyable being with them.
How
did you do with them?
I never
lost a set.
Have
you had any contact or interaction with any of the team members?
I saw
Bruce Nagel frequently when he was teaching in Des Moines during the
mid 70s. We played several tournaments together. Currently, he’s
Director of Tennis at a club in Hawaii. I saw Ian Phillips a number
of times in Houston in the late 70s and early 80s. I’ve
communicated with Rob Griswold who was the history chair at OU for 16
years. I believe he’s focusing on teaching and research now. I’ve
exchanged e-mails with Craig Sandvig who is involved with a tennis
club in St. Louis. A while back, I learned that Lee Wright was at a
club in Houston and I called him.
You
must have numerous trophy cases, perhaps a trophy room.
Nope.
They just take up space and attract dust. I donated the trophies,
bowls, and cups to friends who were running tournaments. The silver
trays I gave to a neighbor who was starting a café. Unfortunately,
he wasn’t successful. I have no idea where those trays are now. I
kept the first trophy I won. The Webster Groves Jaycee Boys Winner.
What
is the story behind you being the pro at Racquet Club West in Des
Moines? How did that come about?
I was
teaching film and creative writing in Galesburg, Illinois and Jim
Burns, originally of St. Joseph, a friend from Missouri tournaments
contacted me. Jim was pursuing his doctorate in history and also
teaching tennis at a club. He suggested I would probably do better
financially teaching tennis than being in academics. Serendipitously,
a short time later, I was contacted by several Missouri Valley clubs
who were looking for a head pro. These search committees knew me from
Iowa and Missouri Valley tennis.
I checked
a few of the clubs out. I knew some of the people in Des Moines,
liked their attitude, and decided to accept their offer. Jim Watson,
another player I knew from tournaments, was the pro at Racquet Club
South which was the sister club of the new Racquet Club West. Jim and
I won the Nebraska Open and we’d played a tournament in San Luis
Potosí, Mexico. When Watson left I was pleased to see Jim Burns
become the pro at South. Jim’s a fine player and teacher and
presently teaches at a club in Phoenix. He’s also an excellent bird
photographer. In the finals of the National Public Parks doubles, we
were in the third set, playing the seven-point tiebreak, I was
serving at match point and double faulted. Jim nonchalantly turned
and gave me an expressionless look.
On
several occasions, I played some fun mixed doubles against Governor
Ray. I also won the Iowa Kodel Cup Mixed Doubles twice. Sue Oertel
was one of my partners. Sue had a good-looking game. I suspect she
still does.
I had a
wonderful four years in Des Moines and had the pleasure of knowing
some great people. Some names readily surface: Ruth & Paul,
Harriet, Scotty, Jack Ver Steeg, Florence & Glenn, Arden &
Robyn, Linda, Jim, PE, Howdy, Roger, Roberta, the Knapps, Murphys,
Swartzes, and the Hulls. I am now older than those people were when I
knew them—holy smokes!
Let’s
shift gears and move into your other pursuits. I’d like to broach
each of them, which are many, and maybe take one or two at a time.
Okay.
I
really enjoy hearing about how you go about creating a specific form.
Were there periods where you were writing poetry more than anything
else? You know, if you want, just roll from one area into another. I
want to hear about all of it.
Okay, I
can do that. The 80s through the 90s were an intense, fertile poetic
and photographic period. Travel, too, was an ongoing exploration. For
me, a different environment provokes and serves as a stimulus,
igniting the writing. Although, usually it isn’t about the present,
that comes later. What’s strange is that the foreign locale acts as
a distiller of objectivity, but the looking glass reveals something
from the past.
Early on,
I usually took several camera bodies with different lenses and
different film stocks (color and black & white). Wearing three
cameras through the narrow souks of a medina sometimes was a little
touchy. Eventually, I became more minimalistic, taking only one Nikon
(versus 3) and a small camera as backup. However, the truth is one
will do just fine. Many trips I used one camera. Certainly when it
comes to weight and mobility and climbing over ruins and sand dunes,
less is more.
Pacific
Coast, Mexico
Market day
in Sololá, Guatemala
I’m big
on clippings from brochures, maps, restaurant menus, hotel and
theatre receipts, napkins, matches, newspapers, ticket stubs, etc. I
often go into hotels, ask about their prices and pick up stationery.
Saves money, plus, I didn’t have to pack any. All fodder for
writing and art projects.
Festival
of the Sahara
Megan and
the Gargoyles
In the
early 90s, I became immersed in a number of areas: visual poetry,
painting, fiction, mail art, screenplays, rubber stamps, and collage.
I had never encountered visual poetry in college or graduate school.
Had not heard of the term “vispo.” I first saw some visual poetry
in the Italian publication
Offerta Speciale. I was familiar
with Apollinaire’s Calligrammes and Mallarmé’s positioning of
words on a page where their placement underscored a specific meaning.
Essentially, visual poetry needs to be seen, it can’t just be read
to you. It may utilize numbers, math equations, letters, words,
colors, images, or just have the words and letters arranged in a
specific way. I have five visual poetry poems in
Layers. Here
is an example:
About the
same time that I became aware of visual poetry, I discovered the mail
art network. Many artists were disenchanted with the gallery-juried
system and were tired of what they viewed as an elitist structure.
With mail art, artists shared their work—be it drawings, collage,
photographs, or painting with one another—through the mail. Artists
in various countries would announce an exhibition, sometimes called a
“congress,” and invite artists to submit their work. Usually the
work was exhibited in a gallery, rental space, a bar, on a wall, in a
museum, or even in someone’s home. I participated in a number of
these events.
After
thinking about it for several years, I decided to do a literary—art
publication featuring visual poetry, poetry, collage, drawings, and
photography. I called it
O!!Zone. I wanted to see how quickly
I could make it an international publication. Many people in the mail
art network became contributors. Within three years, it came to be
considered one of the best and most influential international
publications for visual poetry and the literary arts. I loved going
to my mailbox and finding work from Russia, Cuba, Europe, and South
American. It was wonderful stuff. My correspondence was huge.
2001
O!!Zone cover by Russian artist Dmitry Babenko
I really
jumped into making collages. I used photographs, markers, and rubber
stamps. I painted using acrylics and watercolors. I drew and applied
choice clippings from various print sources. I liked that it could be
a continuous, unending activity. I used the envelopes from O!!Zone
contributors as my canvas / backdrop for a series called Oaxaca
Stelae. Pátzcuaro Glyphs is a series using
postcards as the canvas. Another series is called Tanganyika
Petals.
The
spring of 1994, Megan and I, my sister and her husband, and my
father’s brother journeyed to Winter Haven, Florida to visit my
father. Lei Lane and Gene (her husband) had arrived first. My sister
placed a rubber stamp of a deep sea diver she had picked up in St.
Augustine under my motel room pillow. I had no idea that she was
using rubber stamps in collages and that she, too, was learning about
the Maya and reading about how to decipher glyphs. We were both
pleasantly surprised. Strange coincidence. We each continued
acquiring and using rubber stamps. Lei’s work appeared on two
covers of RUBBERSTAMPMADNESS: The Magazine For Stamp Artists and
Collectors.
A few of
my rubber stamps
Oaxaca
Stelae #82
Pátzcuaro
Glyphs #8
When I
was doing darkroom work, I often had to do two or three trial prints
before I was satisfied with a final print. I had all of these test
prints and wondered what I could do with them. I decided to use them
as a canvas and painted on them, primarily using acrylics. Sometimes,
I would incorporate the black and white image into the new piece;
other times, I might use just a small part of the image in the new
work. And sometimes, I didn’t use the photographic image at all and
painted all over it.
Fanning
Thought (Acrylic on Black & White Print)
Primordial
Question (Acrylic and Paper on B & W Print)
Parade of
the Crazies (Watercolor)
In early
'92, I did a 1,000-page first draft of The Hummingbird Wizard.
That summer while we were in San Cristóbal de las Casas, Megan
proofed the novel. I let it sit for a long time and then began
tweaking it. I put it away again. I am now going to alter the
structure, supplement the story, focusing on additional characters,
and do some pruning. I’m glad now that I didn’t send it out as
originally written. Although, I did write a few queries, looking to
generate interest.
In 1992 I
wrote my first screenplay, The Immortal. Over the next 14
years I wrote 12 more. During the height of Julia Roberts’
popularity, I sent her company my script The Housewife.
Amazingly, I heard back from them and they needed me to sign a
release. I did. They said they would get back to me in a few weeks. I
wondered. Well, I received a phone call and when I heard her
assistant’s words that Julia really liked the script and saw
herself in the part, I was soaring. Then the proverbial shoe fell and
my moment of exhilaration came spiraling down. Unfortunately, Julia
“must decline,” I was told. She had played a housewife who had a
serious problem with her husband in Sleeping with the Enemy. Even
though the scripts were very different, she didn’t want to play
another housewife with a husband who is trying to kill her. Bummer!
A few
years later, I wrote, produced, and directed the feature
Marrakech.
Megan was executive producer. It was a wonderful and rewarding
experience. I’d like to do another film. I certainly have enough
material, but films are bloody expensive and take huge time bites out
of your life. Raising money is not a pleasant task. I’d like to
work with John Darbonne again. He shot and edited
Marrakech.
John is a consummate filmmaker—he can do it all. Maybe, I should
write a no-cost feature. I will continue to send out queries to
production companies and studios. However, getting something accepted
is such a long shot, in part, because they have their own coterie of
writers. I also don’t have an agent and most companies insist a
recognized agent submit the script. Maybe I will get lucky.
One
afternoon in 2007, I found myself sitting on our rooftop terrace and
I began writing a play. That play was
Aztec Daughter which was
performed in California, Pennsylvania. More plays rapidly followed.
Prom King & the Fiancée and
The Letter
have had readings. Presently, I’m working on
Wade Cooper: Action
Cowboy Star. I am considering directing three of the one-acts as
a triptych. I am submitting plays to theatres. Unfortunately, many of
them insist on agent submissions or a known theatre person endorsing
me.
That
has to be frustrating.
It is.
And it gets old. Still, you go after it. There is a Octavio Paz quote
that I believe is applicable to me: “Beyond myself, somewhere, I
wait for my arrival.”
I’m
curious; I’m guessing that in addition to your ongoing projects you
have some new pursuits. Do you?
Yes. A
couple of things. I’ve become very keen on reading about Route 66.
For many years, primarily at Christmas, our family would make the
journey from St. Louis to Lubbock to visit my paternal grandparents.
I eagerly looked forward to the trip. My grandparents owned a
neighborhood food store—Burrus Grocery. Early on, the drive
utilized Route 66 to Amarillo. We’d then head south on 87 to
Lubbock. 87 is now 27. I’ve been recalling the little towns we
passed through and places we stopped to eat and where we’d spend
the night. I’ve strained to rewind and see them in my mind’s eye.
One book I particularly like has photos of how places originally
looked 60 or more years ago and what they look like now. Most places
that were once vibrant are now either a ruin or an empty space. One
thing I found annoying is when I would be reading about these small
towns and I’d go to look them up on a current AAA or Rand McNally
map only to discover most are no longer listed. Primarily because the
interstate passed them by decades ago and those cities are barely
there or just ghost towns. So, I began looking on eBay. I needed a
vintage map, one that reflected the Route 66 landscape. For a while
nothing was listed. I then saw a 1949 Rand McNally. Perfect. I
pounced. It is a little worn and has some loose pages and the staples
are rusted, but . . . the towns are all there! The simple pleasures.
What I
find striking is while the interstate clearly is more direct and
saves time, visually and culturally, it’s lacking. Gone are the
motels, gas stations, diners, and curio shops with character,
instead, replaced with more homogenization—a sameness that engulfs
us—Pablum.
I’ve
always had an appreciation for the moment—I wish I’d known more
of the backstory of what brought me to that moment. I am much more
aware now of how certain places, relationships, and situations have a
limited shelf life, much of it being inevitable. There was a time
this never crossed my mind. Not once when we made the trek to Lubbock
did I consider Burrus Grocery would not be around. In '82, '84, and
'87, Megan and I went to Lubbock to spend time with my grandmother.
In 1982 the closed store was still standing and “Burrus” could be
made out on the upper front wall. Shortly thereafter, the area became
apartments.
While I
think of myself as one who is curious about a number of things, I
regret that I did not ask my parents about their early years as
preteens and what their lives were like as teenagers and even about
those early years when Lei Lane and I arrived. Nor did I ask my
parents about their relationships with their parents. Later, when I
was more aware, I still didn’t pose these questions, in part,
because I thought I had plenty of time to do so. But sometimes the
sand in the hourglass falls at an accelerated rate and puff, time is
up, and the opportunity is lost. Gone forever. Game over. What I’ve
learned is if there are people you are truly curious about and would
like to know more about them, don’t put off asking questions . . .
their shelf life might expire sooner than you think. Be a cobra and
strike now.
Many of
the people that I knew in Iowa have died. A little while ago, I was
curious about certain ones and I tried to look them up. I found
several by searching their names in conjunction with obits. Reading
about them I wish I’d known them better. One example is Dick
Judisch, my father’s Iowa doubles partner. During World War II, he
served in the North African campaign under Patton. I’m sure he had
plenty of interesting stories.
The other
thing that has happened to my life is Molly. A Golden Retriever we
adopted from a rescue organization in 2004. To say she has enriched
our lives is an understatement. What is remarkable is we were not dog
people. A little over two years ago, Megan read an article in the
local paper about a dog named Donald who was at the local animal
shelter. Megan suggested we start volunteering to walk dogs at the
shelter one time a week for an hour. I said there was no way I could
commit to an hour a week—I had too many projects I wanted to
complete. Well, straightaway, we were hooked. We walk dogs three
hours a day, 7 days a week. I take photos and videos of Megan with
the dogs for the shelter’s website. We write articles for the
paper. We are now on the shelter’s board and are heavily involved
in running the operation. And, the big kicker is, I never anticipated
I’d be so smitten with these animals, so emotionally tethered to
them. They are so cool. I realize the big picture is getting them
adopted; however, I have a real problem with dealing with seeing them
go. I miss them.
What
is the best way for people to keep up with what you are doing?
Go to my
website. It has information about all of my work: synopses of plays
and screenplays, examples of collages and photographs, as well as a
clip from Marrakech. There is also contact information.
And if someone wants
to order Layers?
Molly and Harry
*
RON MALY'S COMMENTS: I headlined this column Catching Up With Harry Burrus.
Why? Because catching up with the newest adventure of this man of
many talents is sometimes a challenge. It was a pleasure to have this
prolific writer and artist take the time to give me and my readers an
update on his always-exciting life. Among professional writers in the
state of Iowa, I have become known as the man who has perhaps traveled
to more exotic places in the world than any other. Sometimes it's
mind-boggling when I think of all the places I have been. And I'm always
on the lookout for more far-away travels. And Harry Burrus? Well, he's
certainly right up there with the biggest boys of world travel. He's
been there and he's done that. As Burrus mentioned, he and I first
crossed paths many years ago during my newspaper days. I was always the
guy who was assigned to write about the tennis tournaments and the
people who played in them. I liked every minute of it. Well, almost
every minute. Competitive tennis--at least the type in which Harry
Burrus participated-- is a very difficult game to play, and it is a
sport made up of some very intelligent, complex men and women. I enjoyed
finding out what made them tick. I regarded Harry Burrus as certainly
one of the most interesting of all those players. Perhaps the most interesting. I had forgotten that I once referred to him as The Bearded Man With the Booming Serve,
but I'm glad he reminded me I did. If anyone--beards and booming
serves included--who played in the tennis tournaments throughout the
state of Iowa has as many diverse talents as Harry Burrus, I don't know
who it is. Burrus has been sending me his well-written books for
years, and I have thoroughly enjoyed all of them. But I had no concept
until now of the many things he has accomplished in his professional
career. You name it, Harry Burrus has done it, or can do it, And he
does it all exceedingly well. Again, thanks very much, Harry, for taking
the time to inform us about yourself. I wish you continued success in
the future with all of your endeavors.
