ROANOKE TIMES
Copyright (c) 1996, Roanoke Times
DATE: Thursday, May 30, 1996 TAG: 9605300035
SECTION: EXTRA PAGE: 1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: KAREN ADAMS STAFF WRITER
Kudzu crawls up the side of the old house and crumbling chimney. The porch roof sags. The windowpanes are broken.
These are the details in the paintings of Roanoke watercolorist Bill Smith, who favors old buildings surrounded by nature. As he works, he makes small, careful dabs with his steady right arm.
His left arm rests on the drafting table and does not move.
Smith, 67, paints with the precise hand of an architect, the critical eye of an artist and the joyous heart of a man who's grateful to be alive.
A tall, graying fellow with an easy smile and gentle manner, Smith says, ``Painting is an answer to my prayer.''
For 35 years, Smith worked as an architect. The Virginia Tech graduate designed what he calls ``functional architecture,'' first in Roanoke with Hayes Seay Mattern & Mattern and later in Springfield. Most recently, he worked for Marriott Corp., designing hotels around the country.
On Jan. 12, 1988, he had a stroke.
His wife, Betty, remembers it clearly. ``There were a few small indications all day,'' she says. He had stumbled a couple of times and said he saw a dot. By the time he told her he had a terrible headache - which was rare for him - she knew something was wrong.
Just before 7 that evening, they were watching the news with Jim, the youngest of their three sons.
``All of a sudden, Bill said, `There's no color on the TV.' Jim and I just looked at each other and I said, `Bill, what do you mean? Of course, there is.'''
Bill got up and went to the kitchen to get an ice cream bar. Jim watched his father fumble with the paper wrapper.
``Dad, are you all right?'' he asked, just before Bill fell over backward.
He was rushed to the hospital, conscious, but unaware. ``I just knew that something had happened,'' he says.
In the weeks that followed, he had to learn again how to sit up and stand.
``I'll never forget the day they taught him to walk,'' Betty says. ``They called me down to the hospital. When I got there, he walked about six or eight steps toward me. We both broke down and cried.''
The doctors told the Smiths that Bill had lost some of his ability to organize information in his brain - which meant that he could no longer practice architecture.
Another blow came when a doctor warned him that he'd probably leave the hospital in a wheelchair and go straight to a nursing home. Bill was determined to walk out and go straight home.
Seventy days and hundreds of therapy hours later, he did.
That was eight years ago. After years of encouragement and prayer, Bill Smith has designed a new life for himself.
When he got home, he started making pencil drawings of boats. Each one he completed was snatched up by a relative or friend and framed. The city officials of Alexandria were so fond of a clipper ship he drew that they used it for their Waterfront Festival logo in 1990.
Three years after the stroke, Jim gave his father a watercolor set and insisted he give it a try. A little later, Betty gave him a gift of private art classes with a professional watercolorist, which jogged his memory of the art instruction he'd learned at Tech.
It's been his passion ever since.
``Architecture has very rigid rules. You use a straightedge, sharp pencils, T-squares. I got rid of all that,'' he says. ``Watercolor is so free. And it's soft.''
Since the Smiths returned to Roanoke to retire three years ago, friends and family have been pestering Bill to enter the Sidewalk Art Show, but he didn't think he was ready.
He's ready now.
His work will be on display this coming weekend (on Market Street across from the Market Building) along with that of more than 200 other artists from around the country.
``It's been quite a therapy for him, and very rewarding, too,'' says Betty. ``The Lord's given him a second talent.''
Because Bill's visual perception is sometimes askew, Betty often helps him with his art. She'll say, ``That building leans a little to the right,'' and he'll correct it.
Now and then, she'll have to explain what she's doing around the house - baking bread, for instance. ``He'll ask me, `Why are you kneading it like that?' because his brain thinks he's never seen it before. He's had to relearn everything.''
Whenever they can, they drive to the country so Bill can scout scenes. After decades of designing new buildings, he's now drawn to old, often run-down structures. ``I'm interested in the preservation of history through art,'' he says.
The left side of his body lists when he walks, and to move his left arm he must lift it with his right. He can no longer drive and he has to hug people with one arm.
But he can sing in the church choir. He's a husband, father of three, grandfather of seven.
And he can paint.
It brings beauty and joy to his life, he says, and it also helps repair some of the damage done to his brain.
He works in his studio in his Penn Forest home, surrounded by photographs of his grandchildren, architectural certificates, and his paintings. A radio plays classical music. The window looks upon pots of purple and yellow pansies along the walkway and a shady, wooded street beyond.
``If I can sit here and paint with my music playing,'' he says, ``I know the Lord will take care of me. He'll show me the way.''
He paints every day until his mind tells him it's tired. Sometimes, he needs to go outside to clear his head. Sometimes, ideas will come to him at 3 in the morning.
``I can't stop painting now for anything,'' he says.
Through the darkest part of the ordeal, Betty says that what kept them going was the grace of God. And now? ``At our age, a whole new life is waking up to us,'' she says.
Like an artist, Bill Smith studies the shadow on a leaf, the metallic gray of a stormy sky.
Like an architect, he signs each painting with perfect block letters.
``If I can overcome this, maybe other people will realize they can overcome things, too,'' he says. ``Maybe it will give them hope.''
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"Women drive faster than men. They're in a hurry to get to work. They have more things to
take care of."
School crossing guard
Evelyn Campbell
LENGTH: Long : 142 lines ILLUSTRATION: PHOTO: ARNE KUHLMANN Staff A stroke eight years ago endedby CNBBill Smith's architecture career - and began his life as a
watercolorist. color.