Velma Smith is as terse with a stranger as her husband is voluble. But that's understandable for a man who decorates toilet lids for a pastime—more so for the woman married to him. Asked what she thinks of her husband's hobby, Mrs. Smith said, "Well, I think it's a good hobby. It's a way to spend a lot of time."
Smith said he got started in his unusual pastime mounting a pair of "deer horns," also known as antlers, on a toilet seat lid.
Needless to say, Smith's work has attracted some attention over the years. In 1992, local television reporters from Channels 12, 5, and 4 in San Antonio profiled Smith and his unusual works of art. After the programs aired, Smith bought a guest book and opened his garage to the world as museum.
Since then, the museum has drawn more than 1,000 visitors each year. People from all 50 U.S. states, including Puerto Rico and the Virgin Islands, and 52 foreign countries have come to gander at Smith's decorated toilet lids. Some have traveled from as far away as the Ukraine, Romania, Australia, and South Korea.
National television has also come calling. Smith has appeared on the Today Show and Montel Williams. (A producer for the latter, during Smith's green room preparations, explained to him that Williams was an animal activist and might not want to hear that he got his folk art start fixing "deer horns" to a toilet lid. So Smith says he left that part out during his televised introduction. He did, however, present his host with a custom-decorated toilet seat lid.)
The Throne of American Folk Art
While the life of a toilet lid artist is a singular passion, Smith has not toiled alone in his pursuit. Another artist by the name of John Kostopolous in Boron, California, gained acclaim with his collection of over 400 hand-painted toilet seats. But unlike Smith, who enforces an almost a curatorial zeal for order on the indexing, authentication, and display of his work in his garage-turned-museum, Kostopolous hung his work on a fence separating his property from an ill-favored, neighboring sister. "He did that just for aggravation," Smith said of his fellow artist.
Kostopolous passed away in 1996, thus ending the one-artist West Coast school of toilet lid folk art and leaving Smith among the form's sole practitioners.
Like any serious artist, materials matter to Smith. He uses a Dremel Moto-Tool (a drill popular with hobbyists) equipped with a burr-like drill-bit favored by dentists to engrave his work. Toilet lids manufactured from plastic or solid wood don't suit Smith's artistic purposes. Lids made from pressed sawdust and glue do. Smith favors toilet seats from the Bemis Manufacturing Company in Sheboygan Falls, Wisconsin. (A local plumbing supplier donates Bemis toilet seats that are damaged in shipping to Smith.)
Smith says it takes about 20 hours to transform a toilet lid from blank canvas to a finished work of art. His first step is to prepare the lid by removing the toilet seat and unfasten the hinges. "They become wall plaques whenever I get to taking the lid off and…the hinge away from the seat," he said.
Smith works in the house on occasion, a notion that seems to strike his fancy. "My wife loves to read, and she sets around with the paper. Sometimes I work in the house there, right under her nose in the backroom while she's reading the paper. Here I am Moto-drilling on a toilet seat."
Smith doesn't sell his work. "I just don't want my toilet seats to be scattered out far and wide," he said. But a number have been displayed at a local bank in Alamo Heights. He did send a decorated lid to the Bemis Manufacturing Company covered with photographs of his art work. "The plumbing supply house told me it would be a good gesture," he said.
Asked how he explains the meaning of his art to people who inquire, Smith replied, "I tell them that I just want to show the world that nothing needs to be thrown away."
As far as plans for his collection go, Smith says a daughter has agreed to take care of them when his time comes. Until then, Smith continues to pursue his singular hobby. He says he's already prepared a toilet seat lid, a plaque he calls 82, an annual rite in anticipation of his 82nd birthday later this May. "If anybody gives me a birthday card, they know where it's going to wind up," he said. "It's going to wind up on my toilet seat."
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