George Pappadakis lives in a darkened world of lonely silence.
Deaf since he was a year old and blind since he was 30, Pappadakis is also mute, unable to utter what his heart feels and his mind thinks.
But where words fail, the hands speak. And for the 73-year-old Pappadakis, his hands–and what he creates with them–communicate volumes about what lies deep inside. With the aid of his touch, and a handsaw, sandpaper, glue and nails, Pappadakis turns chunks of bare wood into toy airplanes, trains, Ferris wheels and 3-D puzzles.
His creations reveal his visible memories, halted at a young age.
“I do it because it makes me happy,” Pappadakis explains, spelling each word out letter by letter through sign language. “It’s all I know to do. It’s all I remember.”
Despite his inability to see what he’s making, Pappadakis sculpts intricate and lifelike toys. A toy airplane consists of 20 odd-shaped wooden parts, meshed into a movable 3-D puzzle; a toy truck has 18 pieces, its wooden wheels moving in unison.
As much as they are toys, these creations are works of art.
And Pappadakis’ artwork has caught the eye of local arts dealers. Through Saturday, his sculptures will be on display at the Vedanta Gallery, 119 N. Peoria St., Chicago, as part of “Informal,” an art show featuring the works of four local, self-taught artists.
“This is true art,” exclaims gallery director Kavi Gupta as he cradles one of Pappadakis’ toy trucks in his hand. “Nowadays, everything seems so contrived, and so many people are so trained, the art loses its freshness. With George’s work, you know it’s what he’s feeling.”
Pappadakis, who lives in a Zion nursing home, never envisioned his life’s passion would sell for between $175 and $450 per piece. When asked through sign language how he feels about it, Pappadakis, shrugs his shoulders and smiles.
“Feels good,” is all he signs. Then, he lets out a giggle and flutters his eyelids just enough to reveal his chocolate brown eyes.
Born in Chicago in 1924, Pappadakis contracted spinal meningitis when he was 1. Within a few months, he lost his hearing. His eyesight slowly deteriorated until, at the age of 30, he was declared legally blind.
He attended the Illinois School for the Deaf in Jacksonville and later moved to Colorado with his stepmother, where he made wooden frames for a living. When his stepmother died in the late 1980s, Pappadakis’ stepbrother moved him to the Sheridan Health Care Center.
A shy and humble man, Pappadakis lives most of his days in virtual solitude. Though he knows sign language, he understands the signals only when he feels them in his hands. Deanna Dodson, a care-plan coordinator at the nursing home, is one of only a handful of people with whom he communicates.
“Sometimes,” says Dodson, “he tells me he’s lonely; that he wishes he could talk to people and see people. I think making these toys is a way for him to talk to the rest of the world.”
If so, Pappadakis talks 14 hours a day.
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Every day he rises at 5 a.m. By 6, he’s inside his makeshift workshop dreaming up new creations and hammering, sawing and gluing them into reality. He stops only for lunch and for a snack. The hammers and saws come to rest at 8 p.m.
To call Pappadakis’ workshop crude would be an understatement. In fact, it’s just a utility closet.
But next to the dishwasher and double sink sits a small and well-worn sawdust-covered workbench. Scraps of wood in all shapes and sizes lie scattered about. A broken hammer, three handsaws, and a half-completed miniature rocking horse sit up front. Nearby is a large bin filled with donated lumber scraps, metal wiring and an assortment of “commandeered” items.
Pappadakis has a limited mind’s eye data bank on which to draw. He can re-create only those items he saw before he started to go blind in the 1940s.
Still, creating a blueprint for the toys he’s seen is no simple matter. And complicate that with an inability to actually see the sawing and hammering and the task becomes even more difficult.
“Yes,” Pappadakis says, he wishes he could see. “Because sometimes I have a bad time making things.”
Still, he enjoys his work. “It makes me happy, and it makes other people happy,” he explains.