File:Frank Duval Brunswick artist in 2007 from the Frederick News-Post, March 4, 2021.jpg

Summary

An homage to Frank DuVal: 'The artist in residence in all of our lives'

By Graham Cullen from The Frederick News-Post, March 4, 2021

Frank DuVal was an artist enthralled by the human form. His paintings and sketches, wrought with expressive lines that embodied the true nature of his subjects, could convey more with a single stroke of his brush than most of us could ever hope to emulate. Frank, who lived in Brunswick, died Feb. 6 at the age of 75, had been a part of my life since before I can remember. When I received word of his death, I was perhaps only 5 feet away from one of his paintings – an image of a ballet dancer he gifted to me years ago that hangs in my dining room. He was a dearest friend of my late grandmother, so I have fond memories dating back decades of the pair, who would spend hours talking about two of their favorite topics— politics and jazz. During a call last week with Frank’s niece, Carol Quigley, she told me the cause of his death was non-alcohol-related liver disease, although she told me that in retrospect she believes the pandemic is partly to blame. If not for the isolation that has kept so many from scheduling routine check-ups with their doctor during the pandemic, Quigley said, she thinks her uncle’s illness would have been caught early enough to treat. Quigley said her family has been incredibly touched by the outpouring of support in the wake of Frank’s death. Her mother, Anne Quigley, Frank’s only sister, recently told her that while the family was aware of the extensive network of close friends her brother maintained, they didn’t fully grasp how good of a friend Frank — whom she referred to as “the premiere dinner guest” — was to others; especially those who received his artistic postcards. Postal art Frank became known for painting and sketching original artwork on pieces of mat board usually reserved for the border of a framed piece, which he would then send to friends and family as postcards. The man was partially colorblind, making the masterful use of color in his work all the more impressive. The subjects in his postcard artwork ranged from wildlife, to jazz musicians, dancers or athletes at the height of competition. The works often featured literal splashes of ink, paint or both, and each included a handwritten, personalized note scrawled elegantly across the back. “It’s not just the artwork,” Quigley told me. “It was on the reverse side, which just always spoke to something personal about the person receiving the card, or some exchange that they’ve had or some joke the last time they had dinner.” Frank’s friend Michael Davis, who had known Frank since their days as fraternity brothers at Catholic University, told me Frank’s mailing list was about 300 people long. Davis said Frank endeavored to send at least one of these postcards to each contact on his list. I had the privilege of being one of them. One aspect of his postcard art that I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about in the weeks since his death is the manner in which Frank would mail these precious works of art — not in an envelope, nor with a protective cover of some kind. They were sent through the massive logistical labyrinth that is the U.S. Postal Service. The postcards, each of them of such magnificent quality that they begged to be framed and displayed, would be adorned with stamps and handed over to a post office clerk— usually the downtown Frederick office. Invariably the works would sometimes pick up small dings, a slight smudge from jostling against other mail, and most importantly, with a cancellation mark across not just the stamps, but sometimes even over part of the image. “We just used to laugh over the idea that all of his artwork was validated by the U.S. government,” Davis recalled during a recent phone interview. “Even if he wasn’t physically visiting you, he would still show up as a beautiful hand-drawn postcard, which would always put a smile on your face.” As a child growing up in a house filled with such postcards, I couldn’t imagine why he would allow the artwork I admired so profoundly and others treasured so dearly to be mailed in such a fashion. It wasn’t until after a lesson from an art professor in college did I realize the beauty of his sending them unprotected. The lesson was about how an artist needs to be able to cede control of their work when they’re finally done with it. You should cherish the process, not the final piece, the professor said. Which makes sense. If you hope to sell your work, you have to be comfortable with the buyer ultimately doing whatever they want with it. And because he embraced the possibility of another hand — or in some cases, machine — putting what could be seen as the final touch on his work, it really was the consummate artistic expression, allowing a sort of vulnerability in his art. Margaret Dowell, who knew Frank during her time on the board of directors for The Delaplaine Arts Center, said she admired Frank’s penchant for sending his art through the mail as a way to enrich the lives of friends and family. “It wasn’t like people had to go to a special place and view it in some kind of reverence,” she said. “He did show in some galleries, but the whole concept of the mail art was to circumvent that; to make sure that the masses could experience fine art, or art of some sort.” “And he gave them fine art,” she continued. “He gave them gorgeous art.” In that way, Dowell said Frank stands out as the only person she’s known to make art such an ingrained part of their life. “It’s not something that necessarily comes easily,” she said. ”He worked hard to master his craft; he really did. He was gifted, he was talented, but he also worked incredibly hard.” Many of the works Frank produced over the years were based off quick sketches he would produce while attending a jazz festival in Saratoga Springs, New York, which for Frank and my grandmother, became an annual pilgrimage Frank’s artistic inclinations began at an early age, his older brother John DuVal told me during a recent phone interview. Their father was a professor at Temple University in Philadelphia, and would bring home students’ old exam papers for his children to use as scratch paper. It was opposite the writings of countless anxious undergrads that a 6-or-7-year-old Frank began drawing comics, his brother said. John, like their father, is a college professor, teaching English, creative writing and literary translation at The University of Arkansas. Because Frank wasn’t getting along with his junior high school teachers, his brother said, their parents decided to enroll him in private school at La Salle College High School outside of Philadelphia, where his artistic predilection would end up being nurtured. After abandoning his first two college majors, Frank finally pursued his true calling— majoring in art at Catholic University, where he attended on a swimming scholarship. A common thread among the stories of those with whom I spoke about Frank touched on his love of swimming. After a standout college swimming career, Frank would retain his desire to be in the water for the rest of his life. Frank’s longtime friend Michael Davis has ample memories of his college buddy in the pool, sometimes just treading water for hours. “He just was alive in the water,” he said. “He just loved it. Life lessons Frank’s allure of being in and around water led to my first commissioned portrait as a photographer. He hired me, then a nascent photographer fresh out of college, to make a portrait of him along the banks of the Potomac River. During one of his countless walks along the river near Brunswick he spotted a tree with a branch that reached out over the water. That branch, he decided, is where he would perch himself with a sketchbook and pencil in hand to be photographed. I offered to make his portrait for free, considering how close he was to my family. He would hear nothing of it. And so began Frank’s seminar on valuing not just one’s own art, but also their time. Not only did he insist on paying me for that portrait, but he also imparted on me the concept of portal-to-portal billing — which is to say, the billing starts when you leave the house for a commissioned gig and doesn’t stop until you’re back. When I recounted that story to Davis, he recalled Frank once telling him, “if you don’t charge anything for [one’s art], then that’s what it’s worth.” Of the dozens of exhibitions Frank either displayed his work in or curated for others, I was lucky enough to be involved in two. The first was a joint exhibition of our respective work at the Delaplaine titled “Art and Sport.” The show featured sports photographs I made for the News-Post and his drawings and paintings, some of which were based on my photos. I was honored to have been approached by Frank for such a project, because I found his work so awe inspiring. The second show Frank involved me in was an exhibition of work by photographer James Fee, which featured images of the remnants of The Battle of Peleliu, the site of some of the fiercest fighting during World War II in the Pacific, and where Fee’s father fought. My role in that project was limited to helping decide where each image should be positioned and then climbing a ladder to assist in hanging each piece. Still, I was honored Frank involved me. Gone are the days when I could hope for the delightful surprise of opening the mailbox to find a watercolor piece based on one of my high school sports photos that had appeared in the paper just days earlier. But I’ll continue to cherish the ones I have. While driving home from a recent trip to Brunswick to organize her late uncle’s apartment, Quigley, Frank’s niece, told me she was struck by something. “There’s going to be a great deal of sadness when I’m done,” she said. As she sorts through the clutter that so often accumulates in an artist’s work space, Quigley is discovering bits of artwork — some finished, some not, that offers a glimpse into her uncle’s life that would have been unknown to others. “And then, in a couple more visits, I’m going to come to the end and that will be the end of my discovery of Frank’s artwork that I haven’t seen before,” she said. Davis, his friend, summed up what I think most, if not all, of his friends and family feel about Frank — “that he was kind of like the artist in residence in all of our lives.