CENTERVILLE — A bell above the door rang as William “Bill” Brady Jr. creaked open what he refers to as his father’s library.
“This was his study,” he said softly, stepping into the space that’s more museum-like than a workshop. In there remains his father’s sketchbook and a menorah drawn to scale and ready to be forged that has since grown cold since his father’s death about a decade ago.
The study is just one piece of the small world Brady has created on his 30-acre Tryonville property. It’s a mixture of history and art, as Brady’s sculptures hang from every ceiling, nook and cranny. It chronicles how he has forged a career, following in his father’s footsteps — first becoming a tinsmith and then an artist.
Most recently, Brady came in third place in the state’s art show in Harrisburg. The show included 2,300 entries, in which 96 works were selected for exhibition. Brady’s “Red Head” took third in the sculpture category, which had about 600 entries.
Afterward, the state purchased “Red Head” among two others’ works to be inducted into the state museum’s official collection this year.
Brady is a man who cannot read a cellphone but whose hands create complex, precise and sometimes kinetic works of art. Up until this recognition, he’s lived a life of solitude, mostly flying under the radar.
It began in his childhood as he sought refuge in art studios, away from the classroom. In the 1950s, his dyslexia went undiagnosed and prevented him from being able to read or write. By the time he was 17 and finished ninth grade, he was considered “ineducable” and had to leave school.
“I’m a dyslexic, that means I don’t read or write, and I stutter; that’s my version,” Brady said. “Everybody picked on me, so I went off by myself. And it’s worse and worse now.”
But thankfully for Brady, he wasn’t completely alone.
Born in Philadelphia, he grew up watching his father create everything from sconces to hinges and larger projects. As a blacksmith, his repertoire was expansive.
“He was always making something down in the shop there,” Brady said. “He’d come home from work and wolf his dinner down, then go down to his shop and blacksmith until 11 p.m., then would get up at 5 a.m.”
When Brady dropped out of school, he took jobs with shipbuilding companies in the Philadelphia area, then became a logger when the family moved to Centerville when he was 19.
Inside the house his parents owned, he pointed to a sculpture of metal carefully woven together, overlapping and branching out with a small partridge in the middle. His father gifted it to his mother for Christmas one year — a partridge in a pear tree.
“I remember when I was a small kid, watching him make it,” he said.
By the time he was in his early 20s, Brady decided to venture to the New England area. He was a tinsmith in Maine, working in shipyards in the summer and as a short-order cook at Acadia Yacht Company. Then he moved to Boston and began creating personal sculptures from his mind’s eye.
By the 1960s, he bought a surplus Navy school bus for $900 and customized the front end as a living quarters, then opened up the back into a glass-enclosed metal shop. At that point in his career, he made his living from selling early American reproductions and some of his own lighting fixture designs like sconces.
“I used to live off of this,” Brady said, gesturing to a small forged lamp. He explained that he sold them in trios. He now has bits and pieces of his past lining the ledge of his bus and hanging from the ceiling. “These are all different things I’ve made, projects, you know.”
Tugboats and lighthouses commemorate his time in the shipyards, while airplanes reflect the gliding lessons he once took.
His workbench holds his sketchbook and the hammer he uses to create each of his pieces.
After about seven years in the New England area, Brady briefly visited home before driving his bus to California and spending around 10 years there. His life may have been on the move, but he was consistently rooted in his ability to create.
Now, Brady lives on the 30-acre property with hundreds of his sculptures to keep him company. In a region known for chainsaw-carved eagles and bears, his sculptures — kinetic, aerodynamic and whimsical — stand out as something entirely different.
“This is my living room,” he said, extending his arms to gesture across the sprawling land.
There are large metal stars on the lawn, and in one area, a plastic lawn chair sits, facing what Brady says is his newest obsession.
“This is my windmill collection,” he said. “I go on different kicks, and this is my windmill kick.”
Wooden poles extend from the ground in a semi-circle with metal sculptures on top. One mirrored a Ferris wheel while others were more complex.
In chainsaw-carving country, others buzz with sawdust, but Brady works in sparks and steel. Oftentimes, he doesn’t have a real inspiration. Things just pop into his head, and he gets to work, bringing them to life.
“I make all these, and I don’t even remember making these things,” he said. “I sort of go maybe into a trance or something.”
He begins with a sheet of metal, and from there, it’s a flurry of hammering and soldering. Each piece differs, but they all take weeks to complete. They tend to be mostly abstract now, as opposed to the early American productions that he began with.
Each work bounces, bobs and reacts to changes in airflow. Most are pure metal, but some have been painted. Being surrounded by them is like being in a whole new world.
Brady’s philosophy is that art is meant to be engaged with, even though he knows not everybody holds that belief.
“You’re allowed to touch them; they all move,” he said of his work. “I think all art should be touched. I mean, I’d want to touch the Mona Lisa, but you can’t even think of doing that.”
His different approach to art has meant working in solitude, unrecognized by the world beyond his property.
“I’m pretty much a lone wolf here,” he said.
The isolation that began in his childhood due to bullying and his dyslexia followed into his adulthood, becoming part of his artistic DNA. It’s that independence that fueled him to develop his own style, though, and set him apart in the eyes of judges in Harrisburg.
Brady showcased some of his pieces at Campbell’s Pottery before its closing in 2021. That’s where he met Fred Scruton. Scruton is a photographer who took a special interest in Brady immediately.
Soon, the Erie Art Museum created exhibits full of Brady’s work. One exhibit lasted this past winter at the museum. Scruton documented Brady’s artistic process, and the photos were published in an international art magazine, highlighting the work of both men.
Scruton convinced Brady to submit some pieces to the Harrisburg state art show for the first time last year. By his second year, among 2,300 entries, he placed third in the sculptures division, and the state announced it would be purchasing Brady’s “Red Head” along with two others’ pieces.
Still, his recognition has gone mostly unnoticed. No newspaper articles, no phone calls, nobody looking to buy any of his pieces. Although he’s a lone wolf, he’s proud that his work is a permanent part of state history, and he wants people to know.
“I feel good about it,” he said. “It’s a big deal, really, but nobody knows.”
“Red Head” is a glossy crimson, its tall tapered base giving way to concentric metal loops that overlap in symmetry, creating a sense of vibration and movement, even while standing still.
It’s not only a work of art, but it’s a symbol of persistence and individuality. Everything from the windmills turning on the lawn to the stabiles hanging inside Brady’s house is part of a small world he has created, and now the state will keep a small part of that world in its museum forever. He remains solitary now, but he is no longer unseen by the art world.
When asked what he looks forward to making now, he said he wasn’t really sure. It’s not something he can predict: “I’m just making things, you know?”
