Remembering An Outsider Artist

"The old man, Smith, was another story. For one thing, he possessed style. His hair, combed straight back, fell toward his shoulders. His straw hat was rakish. Smith was lean, and cut a figure. His walking, as was plain to see, was a pure pleasure; he took things in, savored them. I'd see him, with his blaze of white hair, walking up the hill, wooden staff in hand, stopping to gaze into the trees or off across the bay, an expression of transport on his face. His walking was always a passage through places of unexpected beauty and surprise. The same places nobody else paid much attention to." The following piece pays tribute to an unusual artist encountered in the hills of Oakland.

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