During the 1960's and early 70's, we lived in an adobe house, in El Paso, Texas, with walls over one foot thick that was built in 1887. When my parents bought the house they were told that the builders had placed a coin somewhere in the walls or floor with the year the house was constructed. During one of our endless remodeling projects, a 1887 silver dollar was found in a wall in the back of a closet. That house is still at the top of a hill on North Cotton Street, tucked up tight at the base of Mount Franklin and just below Scenic Drive where the hapless Micheal, Maggie, Debbie family begin their journey to Valley Lodge. As a kid, I would spend an afternoon climbing from our back yard and would go all the way up to that road and the pullout where Debbie states "I'm cold".
We lived just three miles from Juarez Mexico and could see the Rio Grande river from our front porch. The family that lived in the house in the early days were able to watch and hear the battle across the border in March 1911 where the decisive victory of the Mexican Revolution with the capture of Ciudad Juarez occured. I still remember sitting on that porch imagining that family watching the battle as though it were live theater.
My parents were college educated bohemian types. Mom was a teacher who became an administrator who became a Psychologist with another degree in Ministry. My dad, Tom Neyman, who played the part of The Master in "Manos the Hands of Fate" was an artist of many mediums. His work was as Director of the South El Paso Boys Club and the Director of the Festival Community Theater before leaving El Paso, but he was creating every chance he got. In our back yard was the only big tree in our neighborhood, a patio arbor and a small rock house where he had his art studio.
When he was home, he was either making changes to the house or working in the studio. When I was around six years old, my mom and I came home from shopping and she went to hang the laundry on the line only to discover my dad had cut down the poles holding the line because he needed more metal for a piece he was working on.
I loved hanging out, poking around his supplies or simply sitting on a stool watching while being bathed in music like the theme song to Zorba The Greek. Dad painted, sculpted, welded and carved. We would sometimes drive out into the desert in an old electricians truck, named Tobacca Roada from the 40's, searching for things he could include in his work or in the house projects. Weathered wood from a dilapitated shack, railroad ties and nails, or anything that might catch his eye.
One day, as the truck was parked out front, the brake failed and she rolled down the hill and deep into the ditch across the road at the bottom. Dad attached a chain, hauling it back home, and over time, Tobacca Roada succumbed to the welders torch transforming her into art, including the hand rising from the caldron of fire in Manos: The Hands of Fate.
Dad's most beautiful, expressive work was his hand sculptures in bronzed clay, metal and wood. Although his painting was saturated with layer of meaning, his hand sculpture came from the deepest part of his soul. I am now blessed to have one of his sculptures that I cherish. It sits on my dresser where I can be reminded of his talent and our connection through art.
I remember him making the hands in Manos. I watched while he painted The Master's painting and I recall him figuring out and building Torgo's leg braces. I remember the sketches he did for the Masters robe and the laying out and cutting of the fabric. My mother was a very gifted seamstress and gladly worked with him to design and construct the robe. Those were happy times in my childhood I am so blessed that some of the best memories of my youth are immortalized through the famously bad Manos, The Hands of Fate.
As I often say, "If you can't be the best, make the most of being part of the worst"
We lived just three miles from Juarez Mexico and could see the Rio Grande river from our front porch. The family that lived in the house in the early days were able to watch and hear the battle across the border in March 1911 where the decisive victory of the Mexican Revolution with the capture of Ciudad Juarez occured. I still remember sitting on that porch imagining that family watching the battle as though it were live theater.
My parents were college educated bohemian types. Mom was a teacher who became an administrator who became a Psychologist with another degree in Ministry. My dad, Tom Neyman, who played the part of The Master in "Manos the Hands of Fate" was an artist of many mediums. His work was as Director of the South El Paso Boys Club and the Director of the Festival Community Theater before leaving El Paso, but he was creating every chance he got. In our back yard was the only big tree in our neighborhood, a patio arbor and a small rock house where he had his art studio.
When he was home, he was either making changes to the house or working in the studio. When I was around six years old, my mom and I came home from shopping and she went to hang the laundry on the line only to discover my dad had cut down the poles holding the line because he needed more metal for a piece he was working on.
I loved hanging out, poking around his supplies or simply sitting on a stool watching while being bathed in music like the theme song to Zorba The Greek. Dad painted, sculpted, welded and carved. We would sometimes drive out into the desert in an old electricians truck, named Tobacca Roada from the 40's, searching for things he could include in his work or in the house projects. Weathered wood from a dilapitated shack, railroad ties and nails, or anything that might catch his eye.
One day, as the truck was parked out front, the brake failed and she rolled down the hill and deep into the ditch across the road at the bottom. Dad attached a chain, hauling it back home, and over time, Tobacca Roada succumbed to the welders torch transforming her into art, including the hand rising from the caldron of fire in Manos: The Hands of Fate.
Dad's most beautiful, expressive work was his hand sculptures in bronzed clay, metal and wood. Although his painting was saturated with layer of meaning, his hand sculpture came from the deepest part of his soul. I am now blessed to have one of his sculptures that I cherish. It sits on my dresser where I can be reminded of his talent and our connection through art.
I remember him making the hands in Manos. I watched while he painted The Master's painting and I recall him figuring out and building Torgo's leg braces. I remember the sketches he did for the Masters robe and the laying out and cutting of the fabric. My mother was a very gifted seamstress and gladly worked with him to design and construct the robe. Those were happy times in my childhood I am so blessed that some of the best memories of my youth are immortalized through the famously bad Manos, The Hands of Fate.
As I often say, "If you can't be the best, make the most of being part of the worst"
