Wizard of Whirligigs

Vollis Simpson might be called a modern-day Don Quixote, except he doesn’t do battle with windmills, he makes them. Or, he fashions odd-shaped objects that resemble them. Simpson practices “outsider art,” which lately has become trendy. More than that, his art—whimsical whirligigs that range from mini desktop sculptures to giant outdoor structures—are winning fame nationwide.

Like folk art, outsider art—also called “visionary art”—is self-taught. But rather than relying on tradition, it originates solely within its creator’s mind, unfettered by school rules or cultural norms. “He takes junk and turns it into wonder,” says Rebecca Hoffberger, founder and director of the Baltimore Visionary Art Museum, where his four-story whirligig stands in the entrance. “He’s one of the greatest visionary artists on the planet.”

Although Simpson’s work can be seen at the Baltimore museum, and in Atlanta near the Courtland Avenue Bridge, and in Raleigh at the North Carolina Museum of Art, the best place to view it is on his property in Lucama, N.C. (pop. 847), about 50 miles east of Raleigh.

Simpson’s garden consists of 30-odd fixtures up to 50 feet tall. Some call them “windmills,” others say “whirligigs,” and some say “they’re downright weird.” What’s for sure is they spin in a breeze, whirl in a wind, and shine like the stars when, at night, they’re caught in the glare of a car’s headlights. Made of cast-off machine parts, painted in vivid colors and covered with thousands of small reflectors, they resemble nothing so much as a giant Fourth of July pinwheel.

Simpson, 84, made his first rudimentary whirligig when he was in the Air Force during World War II. Stationed in the South Pacific, he officially repaired runways but also served as resident genius when things broke down. Among his inventions was a windmill-type contraption that washed clothes, thus foreshadowing his future as a combination artist, engineer, and master recycler.

Back home he earned his living repairing farm machinery and moving farm buildings. It wasn’t until his partners retired in 1985 that Simpson, with lots of free time and a yard full of discarded machine parts, began planting his fields with wind-powered machines. “I had to find something to do that was better than watching television,” he says.

He used a blowtorch to cut simple figures from sheets of steel, added parts here and there and covered them with paint and reflectors. With the help of a well digger, he dug holes up to 16 feet deep, filled them with cement, and erected his mammoth structures.

Fame came in 1996 when he was asked to display his sculptures at the Summer Olympics in Atlanta. He enlisted his son to help him haul them down, using a truck with a 30-foot trailer. “I couldn’t take my real big ones,” he says. “They wouldn’t fit under the highway bridges.

After the Olympics, Simpson found himself besieged by people who wanted to buy his work, so he’s created a variety of mini-gigs that range from less than a foot to about 5 feet tall and sell for $200 to $1,000. He doesn’t sell them to stores or through the Internet, just to people who visit his farm.

“Some people, like my wife, thought I was crazy at first,” Simpson says. “But now, she’s pretty happy.” He looks down and smiles slyly. “Folks can always change their mind, you know.”

 

Andrea Gross is a freelance writer in Asheville, N.C.

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