We picked up this piece on a house call yesterday morning. The more I learn about the artist, the more interesting the piece becomes. Dan was educated at the Art Institute of Chicago but seemingly had the mind, creativity and lifestyle of an outsider artist. This piece was executed when Dan was 18 years old. It is signed and dated 1976. For more pictures and to purchase click here
Our Urban Times, a newspaper for the Bohemian neighborhoods of Bucktown, East Village, Noble Square, Ukrainian Village, WestTown and Wicker Park provided a beautiful obituary.
UPDATE Jan. 6:
The Chicago Police Detectives indicated that they are waiting for a toxicology report which can take up to 6 weeks but there is no indication of foul play.
Described as sculptor, raconteur, friend, brother and man of mystery, Daniel Blue is dead at the age of 55. Resident in an industrial building east of Elston and near the Hide Out, Dan was found in his home Jan. 2. The cause of death has not been determined. There will be a memorial service at some point but no plans have been established.
His unexpected passing has his family, friends and colleagues in a
state of shock. As they each talk about him, they all express many of
the same feelings... respect, admiration, appreciation, affection, love
and a terrible sense of loss. The kind of loss that opens a gaping hole
in the middle of your being.
Dan was the middle child born to the late Donald and Ruth Blue, Cindy
was the eldest and Tom the youngest. They grew up in Northbrook and
attended Glenbrook High School. Dan continued his education at the Art
Institute of Chicago.
"Big Blue, that was our nickname for him, was a great brother. We would pick on each other, but he was always there to make sure I was ok," said Tom. "As kids we were always outside having crazy fun. We played kids games that we made up with other neighborhood kids. Nobody would get hurt, it was kid stuff.
"He was at the Art Institute of Chicago for only two years because the instructors felt they had no more to teach him. He had already purchased the machines he needed so he went off on his own. Later he spent another two years as an apprentice for other sculptors.
"Being an artist, he was on his own creative time schedule, often having many projects going at same time. He stepped back from his artwork for awhile. He decided to put his own life on a back burner to try and help others. He was a good friend to those he cared about and wasn't afraid of speaking up to others. He avoided the spotlight."
Part owner in the Sedgwick Studio, a former CTA sub-station structure in Old Town, Tom Scarff brought Dan into the studio.
"He came to my studio when he was 18. He was a talented genius, a hard worker. He was always creating and making something better. He was like a son without the blood connection.
"Dan loved kites, the crazier the better. One night he brought out [to Indiana] a huge kite. It was a foggy night we were on the beach. He attached a flare, that burned for 20 minutes, to the kite string and it sailed up high over head. Suddenly every path in the area had beams of flashlights. A friend of mine had his Russian Wolfhound with us too.
"The police, who received about 50 UFO reports, were part of the
parade of flashlights. When they encountered the Russian Wolfhound they
were convinced they had found the aliens! We assured them that we had
meant no harm, just having some fun. As they left, they turned to Dan
and said, 'Please don't do that again.'
"I'll never see another kite without thinking of Dan."
Another one of Dan's partners was John Adduci. According to him, they also formed Adduci Blue, Inc. in the early 80s. "We fabricated other sculptors' works for about four years. Dan was a great nuts-and-bolts guy, a fine craftsman. As a person, he was a perfect gentleman. He was polite and went out of his way to be a good guy." Among the sculptors for whom they fabricated was Jerry Peart, another former partner in the Sedgwick studios.
Dan's own work can be seen in Northbrook (above), in Kenosha, WI, and in Chicago.
A more recent acquaintance of Dan's is Victor Cassidy. "I was organizing a show and writing a catalog for Steve Urry (1939-1993), a forgotten Chicago sculptor who was a friend of Dan's in the 1980s. When I needed $5,000 to be able to house the show at Oakton College, Dan was there to make it possible.
"In the show were two Urry pieces from Dan's collection. He later donated those pieces to the Oakton Museum."
"When I was trapped in my bedroom for 84 hours, it was Dan who met the police at my building and broke the front door open. The paramedics rushed me to St. Mary's," explains a grateful and healthy Joe Lake, former Wicker Park resident. "We had many happy lunches at Chicago's Italian La Scala. For dessert, Dan told the waitress, 'We'll have a cannoli, leave the gun.'"
"He was handsome, intelligent, inspiring, creative, compassionate and the most generous person I've ever known," said Debra Lewis who met Dan in 2010. "I'll never forget the roof top conversations, lunches and going to exhibits."
Dan's charm and continual interest in bringing a smile to people's
faces is illustrated by Bucktown's Michele Deptula. "I had seen Dan
occasionally walking past his home, but didn't know him at the time. One
day, he stopped what he was doing, grabbed his pocket-knife and cut a
bouquet of daylilies from the roadside for me. From then on, we'd always
say hello whenever I saw him. Dan was unique and I always enjoyed his
company."
"Outspoken about crime, he acted against it.," comments Scott Waguespack, 32nd Ward Alderman. "He will be sorely missed.
"Dan provided us with many of the tools we use to improve the ward. He was always hands on and constantly worked to improve his part of the city."
Dan's concern for his neighbors and the community is how I got to know Dan. He was involved in attending the deleterious impact meetings for a business in his area. He was a treasure.
Art Shay in his column for the Chicagoist "From The Vault of Art Shay" spoke of the life and death of Dan Blue.
In
2008 Florence and I went to Paris to attend my photo exhibition at the
famous Loeb Galerie (which used to sell Picassos and Matisses!) when
Albert Loeb's father owned it. Dan was in New Zealand at the time with
"a date." He broke off his New Zealand trip and came to Paris and also
transported an art connoisseur lady he admired. Here, on a Seine River
dinner cruise, he's about to order a champagne refill.
(Legendary Chicago-based photographer Art Shay
has taken photos of kings, queens, celebrities and the common man in a
60-year career. This week, Art recounts the life and mysterious death of
an old friend.)
The bland inch and a half Chicago Tribune obituary Jan. 7 of my family's dear friend, artist and sculptor Dan Blue, got most of the facts right but missed even hinting at the wonderful man we, Chicago and, um, New Zealand just lost in a mysterious death in his Ada Street home the day after New Year's.
New Zealand? Yeah: He was planning to resettle there in two months and had already transferred part of his considerable inheritance there. "They pay 7 percent," he explained, shrugging his huge, muscular shoulders. Dan, at 55, looked a lot like a taller Harrison Ford in his prime and sounded like him, too. He rarely boasted about his skills as an artist in metal, but was very proud of a device he designed and built for my car—an ingenious holder. (I've included a picture.) My Lexus dealer asked where he could buy some.
There were always obstacles to overcome, enemies to face down. Dan was considering two jobs in New Zealand. One job opportunity was, as a master welder on a secret boat project and as manager of a friend's huge ranch. He was a man of secrets and "huge" projects and friends, myriad friends. He used to send stretch limos for Florence and me to transport us to his four or five farewell-to-Chicago parties. He was flirty with Florence—who was old enough to be his mom—and she loved it. When she was in a nursing home early in her terminal illness and couldn't walk, he'd show up in his signature cowboy garb, put his Stetson on her head and sprawl next to her on her sickbed. When she was about to come home he appeared at our house with a contractor, whom he hired to install two expensive and practical stairlifts. "Every time I ride up or down," Florence would gleefully tell visitors, "I think of Dan- and his joy in supervising the installation" down to doing all the handrails by himself, to Florence's measure.
On Dec. 30 I got Dan's last e mail to me. “I'll be out of Chicago in a
month or two and very so-sorry to leave you. but I seek distant shores
and a peaceful existence. He was fed up with Chicago politics and had
several neighbors with whom he maintained ongoing feuds. "The little
clown thinks he's got squat on me. I have bigger, more long range guns
and I sure as Hell hit what I'm aiming at with one shot ... Splat! Each
and every time."
Was there a plot against him? I could never be sure if he was really that tough.
Now I'll never know, except if his autopsy reveals foul play beyond the first police statement to the family, that he apparently had a cerebral incident (much like Hillary Clinton's), passed out ,fell and hit his head on something metal.
"First shipping container of welding equipment went out this morning. N.Z., Panama or Costa Rica;-can't quite decide yet. Your friend and I should do a lunch if he's still alive, before I leave the country." I was trying to set up a meeting for him with a hobo-intellectual-veterinarian-racquetball champion I've known for decades. I thought they'd hit it off.
He ended his note enigmatic as usual. "Killers are a most notoriously interesting subject, just hate to make it our last meeting. Because none of us could hang out on the beach, unless we work this out. Warmest Regards , D.B." I don't have a clue as to what he meant.
As I suggest, a man of secrets and mysteries. And love for his fellow man. At least for some of them. My son Richard the other day asked him how he had spent Christmas.
Dan replied: "I had a ball. I found a busy spot in the Loop and handed out twenty dollar bills to passers-by. You or Art shoulda been there with a camera."
Years ago I introduced Dan to an investigative journalist. I called her yesterday. She said, "Dan was the kind of guy you hoped would live forever."
Amen.
Our Urban Times, a newspaper for the Bohemian neighborhoods of Bucktown, East Village, Noble Square, Ukrainian Village, WestTown and Wicker Park provided a beautiful obituary.
In memory of Daniel Blue: A patchwork of facts, respect, admiration, appreciation, love and affection
By:
Elaine Coorens
Date:
01/04/2013 The Chicago Police Detectives indicated that they are waiting for a toxicology report which can take up to 6 weeks but there is no indication of foul play.
Described as sculptor, raconteur, friend, brother and man of mystery, Daniel Blue is dead at the age of 55. Resident in an industrial building east of Elston and near the Hide Out, Dan was found in his home Jan. 2. The cause of death has not been determined. There will be a memorial service at some point but no plans have been established.
His unexpected passing has his family, friends and colleagues in a
state of shock. As they each talk about him, they all express many of
the same feelings... respect, admiration, appreciation, affection, love
and a terrible sense of loss. The kind of loss that opens a gaping hole
in the middle of your being."Big Blue, that was our nickname for him, was a great brother. We would pick on each other, but he was always there to make sure I was ok," said Tom. "As kids we were always outside having crazy fun. We played kids games that we made up with other neighborhood kids. Nobody would get hurt, it was kid stuff.
"He was at the Art Institute of Chicago for only two years because the instructors felt they had no more to teach him. He had already purchased the machines he needed so he went off on his own. Later he spent another two years as an apprentice for other sculptors.
"Being an artist, he was on his own creative time schedule, often having many projects going at same time. He stepped back from his artwork for awhile. He decided to put his own life on a back burner to try and help others. He was a good friend to those he cared about and wasn't afraid of speaking up to others. He avoided the spotlight."
Part owner in the Sedgwick Studio, a former CTA sub-station structure in Old Town, Tom Scarff brought Dan into the studio."He came to my studio when he was 18. He was a talented genius, a hard worker. He was always creating and making something better. He was like a son without the blood connection.
"Dan loved kites, the crazier the better. One night he brought out [to Indiana] a huge kite. It was a foggy night we were on the beach. He attached a flare, that burned for 20 minutes, to the kite string and it sailed up high over head. Suddenly every path in the area had beams of flashlights. A friend of mine had his Russian Wolfhound with us too.
"The police, who received about 50 UFO reports, were part of the
parade of flashlights. When they encountered the Russian Wolfhound they
were convinced they had found the aliens! We assured them that we had
meant no harm, just having some fun. As they left, they turned to Dan
and said, 'Please don't do that again.'"I'll never see another kite without thinking of Dan."
Another one of Dan's partners was John Adduci. According to him, they also formed Adduci Blue, Inc. in the early 80s. "We fabricated other sculptors' works for about four years. Dan was a great nuts-and-bolts guy, a fine craftsman. As a person, he was a perfect gentleman. He was polite and went out of his way to be a good guy." Among the sculptors for whom they fabricated was Jerry Peart, another former partner in the Sedgwick studios.
Dan's own work can be seen in Northbrook (above), in Kenosha, WI, and in Chicago.
A more recent acquaintance of Dan's is Victor Cassidy. "I was organizing a show and writing a catalog for Steve Urry (1939-1993), a forgotten Chicago sculptor who was a friend of Dan's in the 1980s. When I needed $5,000 to be able to house the show at Oakton College, Dan was there to make it possible.
"In the show were two Urry pieces from Dan's collection. He later donated those pieces to the Oakton Museum."
"When I was trapped in my bedroom for 84 hours, it was Dan who met the police at my building and broke the front door open. The paramedics rushed me to St. Mary's," explains a grateful and healthy Joe Lake, former Wicker Park resident. "We had many happy lunches at Chicago's Italian La Scala. For dessert, Dan told the waitress, 'We'll have a cannoli, leave the gun.'"
"He was handsome, intelligent, inspiring, creative, compassionate and the most generous person I've ever known," said Debra Lewis who met Dan in 2010. "I'll never forget the roof top conversations, lunches and going to exhibits."
"Outspoken about crime, he acted against it.," comments Scott Waguespack, 32nd Ward Alderman. "He will be sorely missed.
"Dan provided us with many of the tools we use to improve the ward. He was always hands on and constantly worked to improve his part of the city."
Dan's concern for his neighbors and the community is how I got to know Dan. He was involved in attending the deleterious impact meetings for a business in his area. He was a treasure.
Art Shay in his column for the Chicagoist "From The Vault of Art Shay" spoke of the life and death of Dan Blue.
In
2008 Florence and I went to Paris to attend my photo exhibition at the
famous Loeb Galerie (which used to sell Picassos and Matisses!) when
Albert Loeb's father owned it. Dan was in New Zealand at the time with
"a date." He broke off his New Zealand trip and came to Paris and also
transported an art connoisseur lady he admired. Here, on a Seine River
dinner cruise, he's about to order a champagne refill.
The bland inch and a half Chicago Tribune obituary Jan. 7 of my family's dear friend, artist and sculptor Dan Blue, got most of the facts right but missed even hinting at the wonderful man we, Chicago and, um, New Zealand just lost in a mysterious death in his Ada Street home the day after New Year's.
New Zealand? Yeah: He was planning to resettle there in two months and had already transferred part of his considerable inheritance there. "They pay 7 percent," he explained, shrugging his huge, muscular shoulders. Dan, at 55, looked a lot like a taller Harrison Ford in his prime and sounded like him, too. He rarely boasted about his skills as an artist in metal, but was very proud of a device he designed and built for my car—an ingenious holder. (I've included a picture.) My Lexus dealer asked where he could buy some.
There were always obstacles to overcome, enemies to face down. Dan was considering two jobs in New Zealand. One job opportunity was, as a master welder on a secret boat project and as manager of a friend's huge ranch. He was a man of secrets and "huge" projects and friends, myriad friends. He used to send stretch limos for Florence and me to transport us to his four or five farewell-to-Chicago parties. He was flirty with Florence—who was old enough to be his mom—and she loved it. When she was in a nursing home early in her terminal illness and couldn't walk, he'd show up in his signature cowboy garb, put his Stetson on her head and sprawl next to her on her sickbed. When she was about to come home he appeared at our house with a contractor, whom he hired to install two expensive and practical stairlifts. "Every time I ride up or down," Florence would gleefully tell visitors, "I think of Dan- and his joy in supervising the installation" down to doing all the handrails by himself, to Florence's measure.
On Dec. 30 I got Dan's last e mail to me. “I'll be out of Chicago in a
month or two and very so-sorry to leave you. but I seek distant shores
and a peaceful existence. He was fed up with Chicago politics and had
several neighbors with whom he maintained ongoing feuds. "The little
clown thinks he's got squat on me. I have bigger, more long range guns
and I sure as Hell hit what I'm aiming at with one shot ... Splat! Each
and every time." Was there a plot against him? I could never be sure if he was really that tough.
Now I'll never know, except if his autopsy reveals foul play beyond the first police statement to the family, that he apparently had a cerebral incident (much like Hillary Clinton's), passed out ,fell and hit his head on something metal.
"First shipping container of welding equipment went out this morning. N.Z., Panama or Costa Rica;-can't quite decide yet. Your friend and I should do a lunch if he's still alive, before I leave the country." I was trying to set up a meeting for him with a hobo-intellectual-veterinarian-racquetball champion I've known for decades. I thought they'd hit it off.
He ended his note enigmatic as usual. "Killers are a most notoriously interesting subject, just hate to make it our last meeting. Because none of us could hang out on the beach, unless we work this out. Warmest Regards , D.B." I don't have a clue as to what he meant.
As I suggest, a man of secrets and mysteries. And love for his fellow man. At least for some of them. My son Richard the other day asked him how he had spent Christmas.
Dan replied: "I had a ball. I found a busy spot in the Loop and handed out twenty dollar bills to passers-by. You or Art shoulda been there with a camera."
Years ago I introduced Dan to an investigative journalist. I called her yesterday. She said, "Dan was the kind of guy you hoped would live forever."
Amen.
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