AUTOBIOGRAPHY
Holly Halliday Ward is my signature name for my art. I have been officially recognized in the US
and in Canada. I have sent my work to
many of the United States, as well as Canada, Cyprus and Slovenia. I was born and raised in the Northwestern
United States. I attended Juneau-Douglas High School, in Alaska, Carnegie
Mellon University, in Pennsylvania and Vermont Studio School in Vermont. I now
reside and produce my art in Lakeside, Montana with my husband, George, and
three children.
I was born as Holly Maryhelen Halliday to Ronald and Daisy
Halliday in 1966. While still a
toddler, my parents were divorced and my multi- level life began. While growing up, I had an older sister,
Teresa and two younger half brothers, Bryan and Jonny as well as several step
and foster siblings all of who helped to color and enrich my life.
My mother married Billy Davenport when I was two, and this is
when I think I began my interest in art.
I remember finding Bill’s sketches and admiring each one. I think he was my first art teacher,
although he’s probably too shy to admit his merit. I knew then, that I had to learn how to draw like that! He also plays the guitar and I’ve enjoyed
that, but the drawings captured my soul!
He was the first to show me how to draw 3d and to shade a circle to make
a sphere and I was off!
My mother and grandmothers inspired me from as far back as I
can remember for their substance. They
all showed me that women could be strong and soft at the same time. A woman doesn’t have to give up her own
personality or values to be loved and admired.
(It works the opposite way!) I
will always be grateful to all of them for that. I try to keep this in mind when applying my art. I struggle with “that will mark me as a
female artist painting pretty pictures” and with “that is an ugly piece that no
one wants to look at and will mark me as a man hater or extremist.” I go back to their influence and remember
that my art is an expression of me, be it pretty or ugly and I have to express
myself and feelings honestly or none of my work will matter. I have come to believe that all art matters. Sometimes we, the artists, want to make a
profound point and every color, line, texture and image has some sort of
symbolism. Sometimes, we just have a
need to express our feelings and frustrations and our art is our outlet. Sometimes we have someone close to us urging
for a pretty little piece that will go nicely into their living-room décor. As a serious art student, I would have never
admitted to caving to such a piece, but even beginning a piece with that in
mind, we make it important and give it meaning. I struggled with this for several years. My cousin worked for a major gallery and saw the abstract pieces
and decided to slap some paint on the canvas and convinced her boss and patrons
that it had profound meaning. I was so
upset that she would belittle the art community in such a way that I couldn’t even
express my anger. She was of the opinion
that if they want to buy it, she’d create it and enjoy the rewards. She was creating a product and the demand
for it. I have come to the conclusion
that she has talent and is an opportunist and is able to remove herself from
her creations. I have some talent, but
also the profound desire to express myself.
It may or may not appeal to the masses, but my following will know that
it is true.
I’ve always enjoyed drawing and painting but the first time
that I can remember someone other than my family enjoying my work was in 5th
grade. I made a string art butterfly on
a board covered with blue velvet for my mother. While it was on display in the glass case at the main entrance of
the school, the school and the case were broken into and the butterfly piece
was stolen. When the tears were over, I
realized that it had to be good for someone to risk so much just having it.
While I was in high school, I took the basic art elective and
found the place I wanted to be. I was
quickly put into the advanced class (SEL) under the direction of Bryan Grove
and thrived! At first, I thought I’d
play the safe road, and wanted to be an architect. I was good at art; drafting and math so thought it would be a
good solid choice. I entered a contest
for a house design and placed at the top.
I love puzzles so thought I’d want to do that. (I still think it might
be fun to design my own house some day.)
Then we had the career day where the kids talk to people in that career
choice and the architect that I spoke to that day sobered those thoughts
quickly. He told that he loved his job,
but there was a lot less drawing involved than I wanted. He also talked about the need for insurance
to protect against lawsuits and how the designs that might have began as his were
changed drastically by the dictation of the clients. I knew then, that architecture was not my desired path. I still wanted to have the ability to use my
art and to have that steady paycheck for my work, so I thought about
illustration and design. I was admitted
to the pre-college art program at Carnegie Mellon University for a summer
preview. (Flying by myself, from
Juneau, Alaska, to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania was pretty exciting for a junior in
high school!)
While there, I explored art in a University setting and knew
that was my direction. I met people from other parts of the country and found
out that not everyone was like me. That
was a shock! I knew people looked
different, but had no idea that their backgrounds could be so drastically different
from my own. I talked to a girl from
New York City. She asked me how I liked
the United States and did I live in an igloo!
I told her I lived in a house and that Alaska was a state in the
US. I wondered if she had geography in
school. She said she went to the finest
private schools in NY and also in London where they had a country estate. I thought, I might not have gotten the best
grades, but I was happy I went to public school. She wanted a group of us to go shopping with her. I said I couldn’t because I only had money
for my school supplies. She said to get
some from my parents. I told her they
didn’t have extra money. She said to
tell them to write a check. I told her
they didn’t have money to back it. She
had no concept that some of us did not have money to burn. That was the first time I’d ever heard of
someone so wealthy that they had no idea what a budget was!
That summer, a group of us got sunburns on a particularly hot
sunny day. One of the girls was from Alabama
and had never associated “white” people before. Her roommate’s sunburn started to peel and she was so upset she
wanted us to call the ambulance! We all
told her that her roommate would be ok and just needed moisture and
Noxzema. She was so horrified! Before that day, I thought everyone got sun
burns some time. I later found out that
everyone of every color can burn, but it just isn’t so obvious and usually not
a severe as on pale complexions. It opened my eyes to new cultures, ideas and
inspirations!
While I was still in high school, I ran with a less than
academic crowd for a while. Smoked and
drank as they did, then tragedy pulled me from the scene. I was pulled from a burning cabin where we
had a party, and because I had drank so much that night, I was willing to watch
it burn from the inside. I recently
found out that the man who carried me from that cabin, just a few years later,
was shot by his brother. I feel bad for
them and hope that his saving me, will allow me to do something great in
time. I don’t ever plan to allow myself
to be that out of control through use of drugs ever again. Please don’t allow yourselves or your loved
ones to endanger themselves like that.
During the same time frame, I dated a nice boy and got into some
trouble. I knew then, that I had to
straighten up and make some drastic changes.
I think of him some times and hope that he found happiness.
When I was searching for a healthier life style, I dated a boy
who was anti drugs and alcohol and smoking.
I’m thankful that he steered me in a more productive direction. Before I figured out what was happening, he
began to try to take control of my life, my friends, my family and me. I didn’t realize at the time how dangerous
that situation was becoming. He
threatened my friends and apparently some of my classmates to stay away and
accused my parents of “spoiling” me. My
senior year in high school, I noticed that the boys in my English class, as
well as some in other classes, would speak nicely to me while in the classroom
setting, but seemed like they would hide if I wanted to ask them something in
the hall, or outside of school. I confronted
some of them in English class, and one told me that my boyfriend had made it
clear to all of them to stay clear of me.
I escaped through my art and he became jealous and abusive. Don’t ever try to control another’s life; it
will back fire. I decided to break
off the relationship and pursue a degree in art. I wish him well too, but just not with me. Here are some examples of my high school
works. EARLY WORKS
The next few years were packed with new directions, influences
and avenues. I did graduate from JD
High, and I did go on to CMU and graduate.
I was influenced in my personal life with extreme emotions and had
guidance and support from many people that I am still grateful.
College years are very difficult to put into words. Every day seemed to lead me into new ideas,
emotions and directions. The impact was
mostly as a whole and much of the day-to-day blends years after graduation, but
influenced me all the same. This will
have to just skim the highlights that I remember shaping my future.
I was the first of my family to go to a university so it was
not only new to me, but a learning experience for my parents as well. When we got the paper work to fill out for
the dorms, there was a choice of all girls or co-ed. We had heard rumors that in some places in the world, they had
co-ed restrooms and such. We thought
since Pittsburgh was so close to New York City and we were from such a back
woods part of the world, we chose the all girls just in case. ;-) I didn’t consider myself a prude, but the
thought of possibly sharing a dorm room with a boy made me shudder. When I arrived at Carnegie Mellon
University, I found that co-ed dorms just meant sharing a hall with the
opposite sex.
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Freshman year I shared a dorm room with two other girls. I met
my two roommates and they both seemed nice.
I’ve lost touch since then, so I won’t mention names. One was from New Jersey and she was in
illustration and design. She was so
stylish, and it wasn’t long before she made me lose my way out of date wardrobe
and taught me about style and appearance.
It was the 1980’s and I was behind the times severely still sporting
some wide leg and bell-bottom jeans and didn’t notice that people in that city
had colors for seasons. I wore out dated jeans, sweats, tees and a few nerdy
dresses. Some things I hung onto, just
because they reminded me of home. I
always thought she would be shocked to go to Juneau and see half the town
sporting our “southeast sneakers” (knee
high black rubber boots to keep the feet dry while hiking through muddy
trails). My other roommate was from
California. She was in architecture and
wore mostly black and seemed to already have a life of her own on campus. We
met, found places for our belongings, and were headed to freshman orientation
when J asked me if I was going to change clothes. It was evident that she was embarrassed that I’d be caught
wearing such things. She gave me tips,
sometimes gently, sometime pretty blunt, on how to catch up on “the look.”
Orientation was another highlight in itself. I found the group of students I needed to be
with, met some, not realizing anyone seemed special. Then the announcer was speaking and told everyone to have a
seat. We did. Then he asked all the valedictorians of their classes to please
stand. I was the only person seated
that I could see. My grades were above
average, but I’ve had trouble taking tests.
Comfort levels Dropped! I was
determined to try to keep up with these people anyway.
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There was a Freshmen Orientation Dance. I went with J and we met several students
who developed into good friends in the coming years. Being so tall, (5’11”) I have always seemed to dance with either
very short people, or ones that didn’t seem to care about appearance. I was starting to become overwhelmed at the
crowd and started for the door when I crashed into R. He seemed to be perfect in every way and taller than me
too! I was speechless when he asked me
to dance. After dancing, we began
talking until the sun came up and found that although we grew up on opposite
sides of the planet, we seemed to have a lot in common. I might have fallen in love with him that
night although the more time spent together, the more in love with him I became. He was in engineering and was supportive of
my art and my dedication to it. I
painted a picture with him in it once.
He said he preferred his privacy so I never painted him again.
That night, I also learned something about Pittsburgh, and
bugs! We were sitting on the steps to
the fine arts building, still talking when the sun started to rise. Then he flicked something off my shirt. I asked what it was, and he said a
cockroach! Ugh! Then we looked across the pathways through
the cut (lawn in center of campus) and they were all covered with big
cockroaches! I ran back to the dorm
with the bugs crunching under every landing!
I think I showered until my skin was raw that day, thinking of them. I found out later, that they live in the
steam tunnels and come out at night.
What better reason to get back to the dorm before morning! I didn’t even know that I was afraid of bugs
until then.
Classes started and I was amazed at all the different aspects
of the art world. It wasn’t just
painting pictures, or making sculptures.
Teachers and people expected logical reasons for things created. That was new to me. I didn’t have a clue as to why I painted or
drew, just that I saw an empty page or canvas and suddenly had to fill it. Sometimes I knew what I was going to do
before I started, but most of the time it started with a doodle and
bloomed. Some times, I had to think of
my reasons after the fact. Most of my
teachers caught on quick and wanted a verbal idea before my work began. That was incredibly hard for me.
The first class that I turned my direction was design with Mrs.
Yannick. I’ve always thought when
something was assigned, I knew what was expected and did just that. She and I were from two different
planets. When I thought she liked my
project and said to leave it alone, she would come back and ask why I didn’t
improve on it. When she told me that
this and that were unacceptable, the whole thing would need to be reworked, and
I did, she would come back that she had loved the original and why would I
destroy it? She wasn’t trying to be
mean, we just didn’t seem to be on the same page at all. I decided that if it was going to be that
hard to understand classroom directions, how on earth would I ever be able to
know what a future client would expect.
I needed to have my talents appreciated and thought of how depressing it
would be if the illustration world were as frustrating. I changed my major from illustration &
Design to Fine Art.
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I had some drawing classes under Mr. Olds. He was amazing! When he put the drawing instrument to the surface, magic seemed
to happen. I would struggle for hours
trying to see and get my hands to follow the line when he would walk by, take
note of the struggle, and show me how to see, what to compare, and how to mark
the page accordingly. Even now, I
start struggling with perspective or how to make that line look correct and
think,” how would he tell me to look at it or to draw it.” It will be with me forever, I hope.
I had some drawing classes under Mr. Pickering. I wasn’t sure if he was sane or crazy but I
loved his class and his ideas.
(Sometimes not at the time, but definitely after the fact.) I remember feeling really good about a
drawing I had done. I took it to him to
look at, and he grabbed it, ripped it up, and said to proceed, as he handed me
the pieces! (I might have started to cry, I don’t remember.) I took those pieces and made a collage and
drew them again and again. The end
product was never what it started from.
I remember that he had us draw from life, then photocopy the drawings
changing light, dark, color and moving the images as we copied. Then we drew from the photocopies and
collages. He showed me how to be
creative with work, even, after thinking it was complete. Sometimes, if I’m struggling with a piece, I
give it time first, then rip it up and begin from the pieces. I remember how he could persuade anyone to
do anything. He found a very overweight
lady from the bus stop and got her to come to our class and model nude in some
unusual poses. We found mountains,
hills, landscapes, seascapes and more in her folds. He showed us how to see the skeleton and bring it out in some of
the skinny models. I have never wanted
to draw or paint “normal”” pretty” “boring” people ever since. He showed me how to love the imperfections
in what I see and be inspired by it.
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I remember painting under Sam Gilliam and loved the way he made
us look at our own work. When I joined
his class and was admitted, one of my friends, M, was excited. She knew of his reputation as an artist in
D.C. I knew the teachers were good and
just found one that would fit my schedule.
He had a presence that seemed to electrify the room. We had to bring our first piece to class for
group discussion. I don’t remember the
assignment, but I do remember the critique and how I felt. My piece was about the torture of being
pregnant and unwed as one of the girls I knew was going through that situation
at the time. It was a large piece with
a pregnant nude, a disappearing man, clergy peeking in a window, the phone off
the hook, etc. Everything of the piece
was very symbolic and well placed in my mind.
The class seemed to be fine with it, but Sam (as he preferred to be
addressed) asked me why I would do such a thing! He pointed out every flaw that I hadn’t even considered and
addressed my use of color, placement, prospective and subject. I was so upset that I couldn’t stop crying
and left the class for the rest of the afternoon. He later stopped by my studio to make sure I was o.k. He explained that from viewing my portfolio,
he had determined that I was probably a snob show off that wouldn’t learn until
being taken down to size. He apologized
and we forged ahead. I learned more about color and texture and the love of
painting from him than I can express.
He had us write about why we liked or didn’t like artists, styles,
etc.
I had the distinct feeling that Sam really wanted to make a
point to me so the class took several trips to the Carnegie Art Museum as well
as other galleries. I remember pointing
out some super realism piece that impressed me and some doomsday piece that I
thought was stupid and it made me angry that someone would allow it to be
considered art. When the discussion was
through, it sank in that art is power.
If it strikes high emotions, it’s doing its job. I still enjoy pretty pieces, but I
appreciate the ones that strike the emotional cord. From that time on, I don’t create a piece with out assessing its
emotional value. Some is simply, the
emotions of home, comfort and pretty, but I also give my other self the “o.k.”
for creating the raw heartfelt pieces that no one will ever want to hang in
their house.
While in Sam’s class, I remember doing a piece 10’x4’ tall of a
nude man who had a c-section and the baby was on the floor crying at his
feet. It was inspired by the animosity
I felt toward the freedom of men while women have to consider issues every
month. We placed our pieces for group
discussion and when Sam walked into the room, everyone fell silent as he
inspected the painting for several silent minutes. He was a very big tall man himself, dwarfed standing next to my
painting. He asked me if I hated men or
was this just a disturbing phase. At
the time, I hadn’t considered how putting paint to a canvas would cause such a
question. I hadn’t thought of the paint
being read that way. I was glad that it
did stir an emotional response, even if it was a little more than I had
anticipated.
My work reflects on my
emotional state and some political views at the time of creation, without me
even realizing it. Several pieces were
disturbing to some that viewed them, and later, maybe it was my sub conscious
working its way out. I created several
pieces, trying to focus on dreams and nightmares that I had. I enjoy analyzing them, to piece together,
maybe why I had dreamed them in the first place. Someone mentioned that they never had dreams like the ones I drew
or painted and asked why I didn’t just change the dream? I still don’t have the ability to choose my
dreams, nor do I think I would ever want to.
I have some, which are reoccurring, and progress to a new part every few
years. I have some that are so real,
that when I wake, I can still smell, taste, and feel the dream as it
fades. Most of these pieces are not
what most people would want hanging in their house, but I am compelled to
create them anyway.
Sometimes, I still start with a doodle, just to see where it
takes me. While still in college, I
wanted to paint and experiment with colors and decided to arrange my pallet in
a light to dark fashion without regard to specific colors. I painted a lantern on some newsprint, and
it turned out pretty cool. I laughed
hard, when a friend asked if it was the gates to hell and the devil inside. I’m not sure if he ever did see the lamp,
even after I showed him. I experimented
with that for a few years and sometimes it comes back to me for certain
pieces. A few years later, people were
doing the same thing by altering the colors via computer on their photographs. I still like the physical aspect of the
paintings better.
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I graduated from Carnegie Mellon with a BFA in the double
majors of painting and drawing. I had
also taken several computer animation classes, but the counselor said they couldn’t
pull a minor in that for me as it was still to new. My parents came to my graduation and as a gift, my mother took me
to Washington D.C. to see the museums and culture. I can’t express how special that made me feel! We showed each other amazing things and I
will treasure that forever!
The most intriguing of what we saw, was the mummies and the
King Tut exhibit. I later did a whole
series on mummies and expressed my facination with the after life concept. I painted a self-portrait with a mummy
called the mummy and me. I later gave
it to R as a gift.
After college, I took the summer off and went to an artist
colony called the Vermont Studio School in Johnson, Vermont. I loved that experience! It was a bunch of artists coming together
from all over the world to create together and share talents and backgrounds. While there, I did most of the mummy series
exploration. I enjoyed meeting artists
from all backgrounds and ages. It
helped me to realize that art isn’t just who you are while in school. Some of these people were working successful
artists, making their way using their talents, some had careers that allowed them
to express themselves at times, but they worked their true art when they could
find the time. One thing did make me sad
while I was there. I made a friend,
Hobart Jackson and he was so talented, but was like I am now, unable to move to
that next level of believing in his own talents. I hope he knows that I was sincere when I enjoyed his photographs
and drawings and others will too. When
I feel like nobody enjoys my work and why must I create, wasting all the money
and heart ache to have it tossed in the garbage in a few years, I think of him. His love of his family and his art shined
through his work. They would be stupid
not to appreciate that, and then I listen to my children and how they complain
when I sell a piece that they hoped they would get when they grow up and move
away.
I went home to my family in Juneau after the six weeks of Vermont
was done, to say good-bye before moving to Colorado with R. It was really hard to pack the rest of my
girlhood things and make choices to take them or toss them. I realized that my family meant more to me
than I had understood. I didn’t realize
how much I would miss them after that.
I moved to Fort Collins, Colorado the fall of 1989. I thought I could just share an apartment with
R and find some galleries to take my work, get a part time job to get me
through until I could sell some pieces.
I found a studio and was able to show my work in the hotel lobby. Nearly a month had gone by, and no work
sold, I was becoming discouraged and had to pay my part of the rent, so I took
a job as a part time bank teller. Still,
no work sold and money was fast becoming a big problem. I had too much pride to ask for help.
R was tired of throwing money at rent so he decided to buy a
house. We found a wonderful one that we
both liked and decided that I would just pay him rent since we were not making
plans of marriage and wanted to keep things simple. I moved my studio to the
basement of his house and worked hard at making it a home. I still had pride keeping me from asking for
help. I couldn’t keep up with the
credit card payments, so I took another part time job as a bookkeeper in a
chiropractic office. I was working more
than full time and trying to make as much time as possible to spend with him. I put him at the center of my world and he became
suffocated. While this was going on, I had
some family members die and I didn’t have the means to go back for some of the
funerals. R pointed out that my work was
suffering and I needed to focus on my art.
I became depressed and started going to work late, crying a lot and in
general not being of much use to anyone around me. My supervisor informed me that it was counseling, or the can for
my job, so I went.
I only went to three counseling sessions. The first one, I just cried the entire time I
was there. I don’t know how she got anything
out of all my sorrow. She asked me some
questions and I rambled and cried but by the third session, she told me that
there was nothing wrong with me and that I just needed to find some friends to
confide in and start a diary. She
reminded me that I knew deep down what I needed and just needed to take some action
to get things done. I knew I missed my
family terribly and that I loved R and that I wanted to go to church without
being ridiculed and I wanted to be married and start a family and be taken care
of. I told R that it hurt when he made
fun of my belief in God and that I was tired of explaining to everyone that R
didn’t want to marry me. He told me
that he didn’t need a piece of paper to say I love you. He didn’t seem to realize that I did.
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I put in for a transfer to a bank in Montana, so I’d be closer
to my relatives in Idaho. I told them I
would like to go in about six months, but they said they needed me now. I packed what I could into the car that R
had bought for me because the one I had was always breaking down. It was a Honda CRX and we, (R, me, and my
parents, who came down to visit,) crammed everything I would take into that car. I left most of my painting supplies and finished
paintings with him. I hope that it will
repay him for some of what he’s done for me.
I had my belongings in the back, my pet carrier next to me in the passenger
seat with my cat Loki inside. I had my
pet iguana, Bones on my dashboard and had a tearful good-bye before setting off
for Montana. Leaving him was the hardest
thing to do, but I knew that if I continued the way I was, I wouldn’t last much
longer.
When I arrived in Kalispell, Montana, the house that I had set
up to move in to, wasn’t available. I
had no place to stay and was going to go to Idaho until it opened up, but the bank
needed me, so my new supervisor had me and my animals stay at her house for a
week. Then my mother found her cousin
Gene Ovnicek and he and his family invited me to stay at their house until my house
became available. I was amazed and
relieved to find so many generous people in my new hometown. It was a humbling experience to stay with
strangers and I will be grateful forever to them.
My house finally became available and it was trashed! The rental agency painted and gave me some
carpet to put down and I moved in. It felt
good to be in my own place and have some time just for me. That didn’t last long though. My new friends from the bank took me out
dancing and I met George. He was a
local “farm boy” who had just come back home after being in the army for 18
years and was recently divorced. I knew
he was older than me, but wasn’t sure how old, and didn’t really care. He took me dancing every chance we had and came
to my house for dinner more often than not.
George was intreged by my art, and didn't understand my fascination with my iguana, Bones. He was a little nervous of
both, but knew that he and I wanted the same thing.
He asked me to marry him within six months, and we were married a year later. I had mixed feelings, I loved George, but I still loved R and I knew George loved me, but still
loved his ex-wife. We went ahead and had a
beautiful out-door wedding. Even on my wedding day, my parents told me that it wasn't
to late to back out. I was afraid of being an old
maid and never having children, so we went on with the ceremony and had a lot of work ahead of us. The first year went quickly and I found
out that he was afraid of my iguana and was less than supportive of my art.
We were off to a rocky start. Before the wedding, we purchased an old trailer. George said it would just be for
a year or two, then we could buy a real house. I didn't
want to be stuck in an old trailer, but he promised to fix it up for me and it was on nearly an acre of land that we were renting. Within a month, the snow was melting and there was a
faulty drainage field. The land was condemned and we had to vacate.
Since the trailer was to old to move, we only had one option, trade it for a new one.
The only space available quickly was in a trailer court. I was very unhappy, but it was only
going to be untill we could afford some land to move it to.
I felt that it was a bad choice, but what choice did we really have. We moved into the new modular home a week before the wedding. It was new, light
and beautiful and George and his father and brothers made a beautiful deck.
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I’ll write more as time permits.
Thanks for your time and interest.
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