Sandy Dyas
I’m walking down Washington Avenue with Sandy Dyas, rejoicing over the intricate flavors and possibilities of our new favorite vegetable, kale, when I realize I’ve met my soul sister. I leave her at her car, both of us grinning after a wonderfully unexpected Saturday.
Earlier that afternoon I ducked out of the October summer sun to attend the Englert’s “Independent Artist” discussion panel. As part of its 99 year anniversary, Executive Director, Andre Perry, invited four Iowa City artists to share their experiences as working professionals in what blue hairs or the unsuspecting passerby may deem an “artistic wasteland.” The question pulsed at the core of the talk- does Iowa City provide fertile ground for artists, or is the corn the only beneficiary of Iowa soil?
The artists, representing mediums ranging from music, record label production, mixed media, lighting, and photography, all found their own routes to the same answer: While Iowa City may not compete with the artistic Mecca of, say, New York, there exists a great sense of artistic support and community within Iowa City. The panel reached consensus that Iowa City was a particularly fertile land for music, having produced an entire generation of folk musicians. Iowa born photographer and music enthusiast, Sandy Dyas, pushed the discussion further: “We do have a strong community, but I’d like to make it stronger.” I smile to myself, knowing that after the discussion I’ll be able to pick this tour de force’s brain, and if I’m lucky, find out just what kind of revolution she’s cooking up.
We find a park bench that will be our nest for the next hour. After some playful banter, I dive in with my first question, what is the world’s greatest need? She laughs, and responds to my curve ball with her own lob out of left field: “I don’t get what you mean-I’m not a photo journalist. I don’t do message pieces.” Suddenly it all clicks: sitting beside me is an updated Janis Joplin; aside from esthetic similarities like her wavy hair and whimsical style, she is fully present and in the moment. If I know anything, it’s that I better torch my script and join her. “I like people,” she offers instead. Sure, it’s a simple answer, but I have a feeling it’s what fuels Sandy’s fire.
“Did you always know you wanted to be a photographer,” I ask. She tilts her head back, laughs, and realizes I don’t get the joke: “Maybe you don’t know this, but we had four options when I was growing up: secretary, nurse, beautician, or teacher. I wasn’t very good at typing, I have never liked being around sick people, and a beautician, really?!” she squeals. She recalls how her Stone Age guidance counselor discouraged her from teaching. “You’re pretty good with clothes,” he suggested. Sandy stuck to her guns and now divides her time between teaching in the Art and Art History Department at Cornell College and working as a freelance photographer.
From a small town in Northeast Iowa, Sandy remembers, “I had a camera in my hands since I was a little girl.” At twenty-three she opened her own photography studio to support herself. At 30 she recalls reaching an artistic plateau: “it was comfortable, not challenging.” One of Sandy’s mottos has always been “What else can I do?” She found her answer southbound, in Iowa City, where she received her MFA degree in Intermedia. “If you’re doing something you love, it’s a labor of love…things follow. But you have to love it.” Sandy has found a necessary balance between teaching and photography: “I like collaborative work. I enjoy being an artist, but I do not like being alone in front of my computer editing photos or in the darkroom all of the time… I’m fed by working with others.”
I’m sitting in awe of Sandy’s composure when I realize I want her to level with me, to know that behind the Joplin façade, there’s even a microscopic granule of doubt. “But don’t you ever experience Resistance in creating art?” I beg. “Of course,” she nods. She mentions the all-too-familiar discussion of practicality we face as artists, but then cites a more recent example. “I applied for a Fulbright Scholarship to research and teach in Slovenia.” She describes the application process as “intimidating and terrifying.” Sandy remembers resistance taking hold: “I told myself I didn’t have enough time, that I could not write an academic-jargoned proposal like the examples shown on the Fulbright website.” Miraculously Sandy’s friends intervened with sage advice: “just do it.” Within two weeks she was done. Sandy sent her essay to one of her references, who also happened to be a respected editor. She replied that Sandy’s proposal was not only well written, but it was in her own voice.
Unfortunately, due to a lack of funding, Sandy was named an alternate. Despite the obvious disappointment, what separates Sandy from the rest of the pack is that she doesn’t give up. She reapplied for the same position this year and is now waiting to hear back. Like Sandy would say, what else can I do?
My momentary panic that Sandy had somehow bypassed the doubt and fear I feel when creating art soon vanished. Knowing that even Janis Joplin occasionally feels the chokehold of resistance meant I could sleep easier.
Sandy brings me back to our conversation: “I’m always looking for a connection, for intimacy. The camera gives you a funny license.” She asks, “Why do you listen to music? It makes you feel something, it asks questions. That’s art.”
I close my notebook, satisfied with our conversational feast, and she surprises me with a last course: “so how about you, what do you love?” Clearly Sandy wasn’t lying about liking people. I tell her about acting, researching characters, playing in rehearsal, and she nods a kindred spirit nod. Then it dawns on me-we’re all going after the same thing. Sandy searches for it through a lens; I dig for it in rehearsal. We’re all hunting for personal truth.
We leave our bench and the day seems to have opened up. The conversation naturally flows from food for the soul to real food. We discuss the exciting and endless possibilities of kale, swiss chard, and other exotic farmer’s market greens. I’m reminded of the possibilities Sandy swore she saw for Iowa City. The answer? A roller derby rink with a stage for alternative music. Perhaps Iowa City can’t bat in the major leagues, but with sluggers like Sandy Dyas, it would be silly to leave this cultural metropolis to the cows.
We part and I realize that beyond the fact that I have found a fellow foodie and soul sister, these are the people I want to be around. The seekers, the truth tellers, the poets; people who are looking to connect, share themselves, and ask the same of others. Despite working in different mediums, Sandy reminds me why I can’t be a quantum physicist: I’m too curious about relationships. To plagiarize Janis, “I like people.”
