a Memoir by Jason Horejs

Discover the compelling story of Jason Horejs, a successful art gallery owner, and his ​unconventional upbringing in a quirky Mormon family in Southern Idaho. "Dad Was an Artist" ​offers an inspirational journey of passion, creativity, and perseverance.

Sometimes, ​Pursuing ​Your ​Dreams ​Comes at a ​Cost to ​Those You ​Love Most

In "Dad Was an Artist: A Survivor's Story," Jason Horejs invites readers ​into his extraordinary world, offering a poignant and captivating ​memoir of his unconventional upbringing in Burley, Idaho. The son of ​John Horejs, a determined and visionary artist, Jason's childhood was a ​blend of artistic dreams and harsh realities.

John Horejs pursued his art against all odds, facing financial instability ​and legal troubles that brought both inspiration and hardship to the ​family. One of the most dramatic episodes in the memoir is John's ​decision to build a geodesic dome home—a testament to his utopian ​ideals and unwavering commitment to living authentically.

Jason candidly recounts the family's struggles, from financial ​difficulties to John's eventual imprisonment, revealing the deep ​emotional and psychological impact on him and his siblings. Yet, amid ​these trials, the family's bond remains unbreakable, showcasing a ​resilience that is both heart-wrenching and inspiring.

Despite the challenges, Jason's story is filled with moments of joy and ​laughter. His mother's unwavering support and entrepreneurial spirit ​were crucial in keeping the family afloat. The warmth of familial love, ​the simple pleasures of childhood adventures, and the humor found in ​their day-to-day lives provide a poignant counterbalance to the ​memoir's more dramatic elements.

"Dad Was an Artist" offers a compelling narrative that captures the ​essence of the Horejs family's journey. From the picturesque yet ​challenging landscapes of Idaho to the inner world of a young boy's ​heart, this memoir is a testament to the power of art, the strength of ​family, and the unyielding pursuit of one's dreams. For anyone who ​has dared to defy convention or struggled to balance passion with ​practicality, this is a must-read. Jason Horejs's story resonates long ​after the final page is turned, reminding us all of the transformative ​power of creativity and the enduring bonds of family.

Reviews

Jennifer Love: "Dad Was an Artist: A Survivor's Story gives us a glimpse into his life growing up as ​the oldest child of an artist while his parents built his father's career literally from the ground up. ​His parents' unconventional life choices and personal acts of rebellion and dismissal of societal ​norms are not entirely surprising when you consider they are children of the 60's. Jason's ​memories are conveyed in an easy, conversational manner. Each chapter is a snapshot that ​chronicles his early years, tween years, teen years, and finally adulthood. They are laid out just as ​our own memories are, in vignettes of days or seasons we remember in our life. Some stories ​bring nostalgia for those of us born in the 1970's. Others are far from anything we could possibly ​relate to. But, while he may not have always agreed with his parents' life choices, the deep-​rooted love for his parents and siblings is evident throughout. I highly recommend this read!"

Catherine P. Robertson: This non-fiction book is the most captivating story I have read during ​the past few years! It is one of those 'can't -put-down' books as it whisks along smoothly and ​quickly, revealing the incredible story of a young artist and his family as they struggle through ​the early and lean years on the way to eventual and well-earned success. Laughs, tears, ​heartache, joy, are all a part of this intensive and wonderful, true story. I would recommend this ​book to everyone who admires a story that offers the value of a job well done !!

Pernel Berkeley: "A story of single-minded determination to be an artist at any cost while ​trying to support an ever-growing family."

Marvin S: "The stories of his upbringing in a quirky Mormon family in a small town in southern ​Idaho made for a very entertaining memoir."

About the Author

Jason Horejs is the founder and owner of Xanadu Gallery in Scottsdale, AZ. With decades ​of experience in the art world, Jason has dedicated his career to helping artists achieve ​their dreams. His memoir, "Dad Was an Artist," offers a deeply personal and inspirational ​look at the experiences that have shaped his life and career, making it a compelling read ​for anyone interested in the transformative power of creativity and perseverance.

Don’t miss this ​inspirational memoir

Excerpt

I don’t remember many notable days that first winter—one cold day blends into the next in those ​distant memories. I do, however, remember one particularly blustery Sunday morning.

Dad had taken Adrienne and me to church as the wind howled on that Sunday morning. Mom ​must have stayed home with Yvette and Shalece, because coming home from church it was just ​my dad, Adrienne, and me in Dad’s sky-blue Lincoln Continental. As we came around the five-mile ​corner and neared our home, we could see that something was wrong up ahead.

The sky was mostly clear, but it appeared that snow was blowing across the highway from our ​property. As we drew closer, the small white detritus drifting across the road was suddenly joined ​by several large, oddly shaped white blocks. Everything was moving across the highway and then ​beyond, covering the landscape to the east.

“Shit!” I heard Dad growl as he pulled the Lincoln off the highway, down the short gravel road, ​and into our driveway.

My sister and I, who had both been sitting in the backseat (most likely without seatbelts), jumped ​to our feet on the floorboard, grabbed the back of the front seat, and through eyes wide with ​wonder, gazed at the spectacle ahead.

I knew that cursing was bad—really, really bad, according to my mother—but I’m not sure if ​Adrienne, only three or four at the time, knew the significance of the word that was still hanging in ​the air. We both understood from the tone of Dad’s voice, and from the heavy electricity pulsing ​through the silence of the car as we stood staring at the building site, that Dad was angry—very ​angry.

The dome at this point was comprised of a full ring of styrofoam and metal, and rose almost two ​stories from the foundation; a kind of bizarre Stonehenge. Or at least it had been a full ring when ​we left for church services earlier that morning.

Now the entire west side of the structure had collapsed and folded in on itself. Large chunks of ​foam were missing, leaving gaping holes. Even as we watched in fascinated horror, another large ​triangle of foam was wrenched free by the fierce wind and blown past the windshield of the ​Lincoln, tumbled up the embankment, and whisked across the highway.

A heavy silence hung in the idling Lincoln as Adrienne and I followed the trajectory of yet another ​triangle, unable to avert our gaze. For a time, Dad seemed dazed, frozen in place—unable to ​fathom the scene unfolding before him.

Then suddenly the car’s engine thundered to life, and the Lincoln leaped forward, hurtling toward ​the stacks of unshaped foam where they lay staked down in front of our mobile home. As the grill ​of the Lincoln made contact with the foam, Adrienne and I were thrown against the back of the ​front bench-seat.

Adrienne screamed, and I felt terrified tears stinging my cheeks. Styrofoam exploded in every ​direction before being grabbed by the wind to join the foam already careening away from the ​dome.

Dad must have applied the brakes before we hit, otherwise the heavy car would have plowed ​right through the foam and crashed into the side of our trailer house. There was no indication of ​uncertainty, hesitation, or remorse on Dad’s part with regard to his behavior. After the car ​shuddered to a halt, Dad threw the column-mounted gearshift into reverse, backed across the ​yard, braked, and then surged forward to ram the foam again.

As we made impact a second time, I saw through my tears the back door of the mobile home fly ​open, and my nightgown clad mother, mouth wide open in a desperate shout. We couldn’t hear ​her over the roar of the car and the screaming of the wind, but I could read her lips as she ​repeatedly howled my father’s name in desperation. “John! John! John! John . . .”

As with most mobile homes, ours was elevated on its axles and placed on blocks, so the front and ​back doors, both of which were on the side of the house facing the driveway, sat up three or four ​feet from the ground. We had a set of wood steps at the front door, but there were none at the ​back door, which meant that my mom would have had to leap to get down to the ground. Instead, ​she disappeared for a moment as she hustled to the front door.

While Mom hustled to exit the trailer, Dad backed up for another run at the foam. He forcefully ​hit the foam head-on, just as my mother reached the side of the car, whereupon she started ​banging on the passenger window, even as she yanked the car door open. Luckily, Dad decided to ​discontinue his demolition derby, and the Lincoln sat still as Mom hurriedly pulled first my sister, ​and then me, from the back seat of the car.

As we were enveloped in the biting wind and swirling foam beads, I heard Dad mutter, “Goddamn ​wind.”

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