A Visit with Woodie
It was summer of 2009, and I had been invited to attend my now brother and sister-in-law’s wedding in Rosemary Beach, Florida. I would be going as the girlfriend of the brother of the groom, and I was thrilled. I loved a wedding, I loved a beach, and the families were fun, so it was an easy yes. Actually, I’m not so sure I didn’t just go ahead and invite myself.
On one of the days leading up to the wedding, my future mother-in-law, known to us as “Dee”, asked if I wanted to ride with her to an art gallery in Santa Rosa, a few miles way. Being a young and free twenty something year old, I happily obliged and just “went with it.” Now, Dee has been a collector and avid fan of folk art for years. She has quite the eye and quite the collection. Being that I’ve always loved art, creativity, and trying to understand the brains of creatives, I knew it would be a fun ride along.
As we drove the drive to the gallery, we meandered along the coastline, then turned off onto flat black top roads flanked by white sand and a sporadic mixture of tall pines and palm trees. During the ride, I learned more about the artist whose work we were going to see. Dee wanted to visit the gallery of Woodie Long- a humble darling of the folk art world. Woodie first began painting at the age of forty-five, with no formal training other than simple house painting. Often times, writers are told to write what they know. And Woodie once said, “I wanted to write my memories down”. While he didn’t feel he had the ability to write them well, he took to the medium through which he could express himself best- painting.
Woodie was one of twelve children born to sharecroppers and was usually so busy working in the fields that he was unable to have a formal education through the local school system. It was during this field work he would see school buses taking children to the school he could only see in his imagination and where he learned, through firsthand observation, about racial disparities and discrimination. These depictions are often found in his work. His paintings tell stories of a very simple life from children jumping on the bed or riding bikes to men picking crops in the field.
After turning off a main drive and wandering down a modest road, Dee and I eventually arrived at the gallery, which was actually Woodie’s home. We knocked on the front door of the unassuming cinder block house and stood on the front porch with a friendly cat at our feet. Dee and I were greeted by a small, thin woman with long flowing, brown hair and a peaceful demeanor. We assumed this was the gallery director. We assumed correctly as the gentle and soft spoken woman introduced herself as Woodie’s wife. I distinctly remember the creaky floors and the low light of the home. As I walked through the house, the original wood floors made a noise with each step. I could see a bedroom toward the back and a man lying down. There were also many paintings by other folk artists throughout the rooms. Dee would later tell me these artists were known to trade their work with one another, each respecting and having a true appreciation for the other’s art and form of expression.
The woman told Dee to look around at the available paintings as I noticed the old, upright piano in the corner. She excused herself briefly, and when she returned, a frail and feeble man joined us. He introduced himself as Woodie. From my few years of nursing, I could tell that Woodie was not in good health. His face was gaunt, his eyes wide but kind, his arms and legs very frail, and his abdomen swollen as if he had swallowed a watermelon. It was clear Woodie’s time on earth was drawing to an end, sooner rather than later.
As the four of us spoke, Woodie noticed me looking at the piano. I cannot remember if I was playing with the keys at some point, but for whatever reason he looked directly at me and simply asked, “Do you play?”
“I do. A little.”
“Will you play for me?”
I glanced at my future mother-in-law with a perplexed look on my face. I looked at the woman with the long brown hair, then back at Woodie. His question was so simple and unexpected, and I found myself responding, “Sure! I’ll try!” Besides, how could I say no to this man who had let us in his home and was clearly unwell?
Now, I took piano from the time I was seven to twelve or thirteen. I honestly wished I hadn’t stopped, as I am sure most people say. Although I was rusty, I could still read sheet music, so I went to the wooden bench, adjusted myself to a comfortable position, and looked to see what it was that I would be playing for my new found friend, Woodie.
“Amazing Grace” was the song of choice. (It was also the only sheet music on the piano.) So, I did my best and started playing. As I played, Woodie began singing along. And there I had found myself in the strangest position- in a little house in the middle of Santa Rosa, Florida, with a famous near death folk artist, his kind wife, and my future mother- in-law, playing (or fumbling) through “Amazing Grace” while he sang along in the most innocent, child-like way. It was all very strange, but it was also awesome. I love interesting, somewhat awkward, and unexpected moments like those.
When I finished, Woodie simply said, “Thank you for playing for me.”
“You’re welcome. I love the old hymns.”
“I do, too.”
And that was about all of mine and Woodie’s conversation. Dee went on to purchase a painting or two from him, and we said our goodbyes. During the drive back to our condo we discussed at length the strange encounter we had just had. I believe my mother-in-law told me she had not expected that particular type of experience. I assured her I had actually enjoyed it, even though it was also not what I was expecting.
A few months later, Woodie passed away. I’m still not sure what took him, but if I had to guess it was something to do with his liver, as his abdominal ascites gave hints. I am grateful for the interaction I got to have with the artist before his passing. How wonderful a thought that he really never dies as his work lives on forever in galleries and collections throughout the country. What a contribution he left to the art world, simply using his God given talent by expressing himself the only way he knew how. And what a gift that I was able to play an old hymn for him before he passed.
Woodie’s pieces can be found in the following:
The Strombecker Corporation in Chicago; the Fenimore House in Cooperstown, NY; the Frank M. Johnson Federal Building, Montgomery. AL; the Governor’s Mansion, Charleston, WV; Andalusia Public Library, FL; New Tennessee Aquarium in Chattanooga, TN; Hunter Museum of Art, Chattanooga, TN; Southern Poverty Law Center, Montgomery, AL; National School Safety Center, Malibu, CA; Birmingham International Airport, Birmingham, AL.; Ronald McDonald House, Atlanta, GA; Fox Chase Cancer Center, Philadelphia; Monteflore Medical Center; and in the private art collections of Tommy Lee Jones, Dan Ackroyd, Jean Harris, and the House of Blues.
“Jumping on Grandma’s Bed” (1995) is just one of Woodie’s pieces that can be found at Marcia Weber Art Objects in Wetumpka, Alabama. This gallery features one of a kind works created by self- taught artists. It is filled with over 1000 works by artists throughout the country.
“Kids and Kites” can be found at Anne Hunter Galleries in Seaside, Florida. I love the bright yellow in this painting by Woodie. I also love that the founder of this gallery’s philosophy is “Community begins by supporting the artists”.
Learn more about Southern Folk Art through this amazing book. You can order through the University of North Carolina Press.