Gary Le Freeman

Gary L. Freeman, widely acknowledged as the city's premier abstract sculptor of the last 40 years, died Monday after a prolonged illness. Born in 1937 in Wellington, KS, Freeman grew up in Wichita before attending the Kansas City Art Institute, then and now regarded as one of the nation's finest undergraduate art schools. He continued his artistic training at Tulane University in New Orleans, receiving his Master of Fine Arts degree in 1963 with a major in sculpture and a focus on metal casting and fabrication. For three years after graduating Freeman was a partner in the Orleans Workshop, Inc., a fine arts foundry, before becoming head of the sculpture program at the Kalamazoo Art Center in Michigan. In 1968 he accepted the position of chair of the sculpture department at the Herron School of Art (now the Herron School of Art and Design), IUPUI, a post he held until retiring in 2001. Freeman's arrival at Herron signaled a turning point for the local art world. Under his leadership, the sculpture department evolved past the traditional figurative emphasis of previous years and toward a modernist approach based mainly on abstraction and metal fabrication, a direction better alig...[more]

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to the national art scene of the era and more in keeping with Freeman's own aesthetics. Yet Freeman never imposed his own stylistic preferences on his students, insisting that they define a clearly conceived artistic idea, that they demonstrate a strong personal commitment to their own work, and that they strive to master the craft of their chosen approach. This, more than any personal artistic style, was what he could teach best. In the course of his 33-year tenure at Herron, Freeman taught and mentored hundreds of students (not to mention young colleagues) in the rhythms of that commitment, that sense of integrity. On a more tangible level, where sculpture must stand, Freeman became a willing collaborator at the Foundry, the school's teaching and fabrication studio he created in a derelict commercial building a block east of the Herron campus at 16th and Pennsylvania streets. Such master-apprentice collaboration is common, even necessary, in sculpture, when handling very hot or very heavy metal requires cautious and deliberate teamwork. Freeman preferred this role of the experienced guide, the man who knew how to do things and was here to help. This teaching strategy worked well with mature students who came prepared with their own artistic ideas. Other students, who came seeking inspiration or a style they might copy, could be frustrated. The best of his students left Herron completely prepared for graduate school and professional careers. Over the decades, Freeman's sculpture spanned a range of styles and material processes, but was always informed by the same exacting professionalism both in technical execution and the thorough consideration of artistic idea. In an era when many modernist sculptors hired fabricators to complete works too big or demanding for their own technical expertise, Freeman was his own expert, and it showed in the meticulous surfaces, edges and joints of his signature steel constructions. Two of his best large-scale works, and undoubtedly two of the most widely seen public sculptures in the state are Monumentalment IV, the towering, 21-ft high abstraction commissioned by the Indianapolis Art Center in 1979 and still standing at the Center in Broad Ripple; and For Endless Trees, a grouping of four geometric pillars that branch as they reach their full 16-ft. height in front of the WFYI headquarters building on the west side of Meridian north of 16th Street, where it is seen by passing cars millions of times every year. Although these prominent works are decidedly different in their choice of forms, both approach the centuries-old challenge of inhabiting a monumental vertical with forms that acknowledge but ultimately defy gravity. If traditional in that sense, both works also embody a rigorous sense of high modernism and its belief that only through abstraction, preferably geometric, can an artist create metaphoric forms that speak broadly enough of fundamentally human ideas and emotions. In these and dozens of smaller works, it was often impossible to tell if the separate geometric forms were rising or falling; they were always exquisitely, if anxiously, cantilevered into moments of balletic poise. While gravity threatens to dismantle the ballet, the dancers strive to maintain their balance, or even to float upwards. A similar dialogue of solid and void, mass and light, is found in Freeman's series of beautifully realized abstract metal tables. Seemingly carved from solid planes of steel, they are punctured by carefully crafted holes and trenches. They glow silver and gold with high-sheen surfaces, yet sat a few inches from the floor, requiring an extended, slightly awkward reach for anyone who wanted to use the piece as an actual coffee table (which Freeman fully expected). Visually, they were stunning; functionally they demanded the world meet the artist halfway. In another series of works Freeman created miniature carpentry framed structures, none more than a foot or two in any dimension. These possessed a skeletal openness both structurally and metaphorically - as if they might be either the beginnings or the abandoned conclusions of modern houses, play sets or factories for unknown industries. In all of Freeman's work the visual effect is dynamic and restless, suggesting there might, indeed, be some specific allusion or structural reference, yet refusing finally to reveal it. Perceptive viewers understood that Freeman's work required patient study to identify that inner moment of reconciliation when all of his angels (and demons) balanced on the same point. There were enough of these viewers to propel him, particularly during the quarter-century from the mid-1970s to late through the late 1990s. During this period, his work found an eager audience among corporate and private collectors; was promoted passionately by a handful of galleries in Indianapolis, Milwaukee and Chicago; earned seven major public commissions and attracted seven significant grants to advance his artistic explorations. Yet he was nothing if not unflinching in his assessments of the world's shortcomings and the often fickle plays of art fashion, and adamant in his refusal to accommodate them. In his later years, as the local and national art world became increasingly a type of "show biz," as he often called it, he refused to charm his way through that circus, and this limited his professional opportunities in the last two decades of his career. When he died, the artist left a small warehouse of works. We may expect these will eventually be shown to further secure Freeman's reputation and his place among the best of our artists of the past half-century. The same tensions of up and down, heavy and light, solid and open, characterized him as a man. His knowledge and appreciation of the international art world was as sophisticated as any artist in the city, yet Freeman was the fundamental Midwestern homebody, content to spend his days relaxing at his northside house with his wife Sally when he wasn't at his studio. Married in 1984, they built a partnership that worked, respectful of each other's individuality yet deeply emotionally connected. Freeman found in his wife the highest level of connection that he could not readily sustain in other relationships. As a friend, Freeman could be fiercely loyal and generous, yet distant and inaccessible unless you were willing to reach out to him. When you reached him, he was as close as family and happy to have you visit for a long afternoon, but the connection happened on his terms and on his territory. Once home, Freeman stayed home, and never cared much for the bright lights and white wine of gallery openings, or even a night at the movies. When he did venture out, he was a man of constant habit, preferring to eat in the same restaurant (the long-gone Jong Mea Chinese restaurant on north Meridian) and order the same dish ("waar-de-par, shrimp wedded to bacon") three or more times a month on his way home from a long day at the Foundry. And, he loved dogs, and kept at least two Dobermans for decades, as if each new dog was simply the reincarnation of the last. And those were different days than the 21st century art school routine. Students and faculty often shared a cold one or two after an afternoon of welding and grinding. It was a quintessential guys' domain and Freeman was a guy's guy. Women were welcome if they could pull their weight and give as good as they got; and many did. But just as Freeman helped Herron evolve, so the world of college art evolved past him, and he was blessed to retire just at that tipping point when the cultural style of his generation was fading. Regardless of the changes in artistic fashion, his fierce commitment and sense of integrity will never go out of style. Freeman was preceded in death by his parents Ruth and Ken Freeman, and his brother Kenny. He is survived by two sons from a prior marriage, Mark and Matthew Sisk. He leaves his widow, Sally Rice Freeman, who has been his constant companion and support in these last years of his declining health. Characteristically, Gary did not want a funeral service, but a memorial celebration of his life will be held at the Herron School of Art and Design, Sculpture and Ceramics Building, on March 1, 2014 at 2 p.m. Leppert Mortuary, Nora Chapel, has been entrusted with arrangements. Those wishing to make a contribution to the Gary L. Freeman Scholarship can send them to: Kim Hodges, Director of Development Herron School of Art and Design, 735 W. New York Street, Indianapolis, IN 46202