Redtree Times

Sky and Submission (1995)

Can ye fathom the ocean, dark and deep, where the mighty waves and the grandeur sweep?

–Fanny Crosby, A Wreath of Columbia’s Flowers (1858)

When I finished this painting about 31 years back, I thought it was by far the best thing I had painted. Actually, I felt it might be the best thing I would ever paint, that it was as good as it might ever get for me. I was still new to this all. Pretty green.

I had just started showing at the West End Gallery just a few months before and I decided to show it there. As I said I was naive and, feeling that it was the best thing I had done or would ever do, put an absurdly high price on it. I can’t remember the specifics, but I believe I priced it at more than twice the price of other pieces of mine that were around the same price.

Of course, it didn’t find a home. I quickly brought it home and it has remained here since. I did learn a few things from that experience, one being that I can’t price my work based on my subjective judgement of any one piece. What I see as the merits of my work mean little to someone else.

But the more important lesson was that you can never say when your best work has appeared. Or, for that matter, if it will remain your best work forever. Looking back, it would be a sad commentary on my growth as an artist (and a human) if this early were to be my best work.

I would feel like a one hit wonder, a pop star who had some early success then never progressed beyond that.

That is not to denigrate this painting in any way. It is still a hit in my eyes. I still am moved as much by it now as I was then. It still speaks directly to some deep part within me. And at the time, it probably was the best thing I had painted.

But I moved on in many ways. But I took much of what I saw in this piece with me. I wrote a short paragraph about ten years ago about what I saw in this painting:

It reminds me of  the feeling of looking out at the ocean. Maybe for us who live and were raised inland, far away from the seas, seeking the far horizon in our landscapes is the equivalent. Watching the roll of the land and how it comes up to meet the sky raises many of those same feelings, creating a sense of awe in us of the great power and vastness of the world and our own smallness in relation to it.

I think much of my work since this was painted has carried that same search for the distant horizon and that sense of being carried over the rolls of the landscape as on a boat. It creates a perspective that allows us to see the grandeur of the sky and the sea and our both own smallness in relation to it and our connection to it.

I have lived all my life in a region with hills and valleys, far from the oceans, yet I always find myself seeking that horizon still, knowing that this same sky hangs over the hills, plains, and oceans. It connects us and represents something greater.

I see that in this piece still and while my work may have progressed and have been and will be other paintings that I see as being the best things I have ever done at any given time, this is the equal of any of those in my eyes.

I am still debating whether I will show this piece again. While it has a place in my heart, it has already served its purpose for me. I know that my work is created to be shared, to find life and purpose beyond myself.

It may show up in June at my Principle Gallery show. Or not. Still not sure.

Here’s a song that goes with this post and painting in several. This is I Am the Sea followed by Can You See the Real Me and the instrumental overture, Quadrophenia, from The Who off their classic album, Quadrophenia, from 1973. All three compositions lineup beautifully with what I see in this painting and what I felt at the time it was done, when I was just finding a way to show the real me.

The Awakening— At West End Gallery

“There is very little that I can do well,” he confessed. “I cannot have or care for a child. I cannot prepare a meal satisfactorily—the dishes never emerge at the appropriate times. I cannot even eat a meal when I would like to. Things are falling apart; I lack mental and glandular flexibility. My brain doesn’t produce the creative fog, or words or sentences that share anything but the dusty refuse that resides in my skull. I cannot even be a friend for any sustained period of time, because my boundaries, always gently traced in sand—sands of madness—have been blown away and I can’t retrace them. I cannot, you see, really do anything, can’t relate to anything, but goddammit, I thought once, and I think still, that I can write. Can’t I get a single witness to whom I once delivered pages and deliverance to say that I once mattered?”

-Tennessee Williams, interview with James Grissom from  Follies of God (2015)

The words above from the late Tennessee Williams really hit hard when I first read them. For one thing, his statement that there is very little that he does well hit a nerve as it is a belief that I have long held about myself.

Don’t get me wrong, I can do things. It’s more a question of whether I can do them well. And in most every case the answer comes back that my skills are unexceptional. Average at best.

Just enough to somehow get by. I guess that’s the most important part here.

There are some things I do somewhat well. My work, for example. But even that assessment is suspect in a field based on subjectivity. I can’t say with any authority that my painting is exceptional. Of course, I want to believe that it is.

Even if it is not, it has been good enough to get by for about thirty years now. That is probably all that matters.

But is it something that I can say that I do well? Something that matters beyond the living and self-expression it provides for me?

Is it relevant outside of my own mind? Does it really matter and have relevance to the outside world?

I think anyone working in a creative field has questions at some point about the relevance of their work. I imagine it is an achingly difficult question for someone like Tennessee Williams who had been often near the pinnacle of his field. I have never scaled to anywhere the heights he reached, of course. Few have.

But whether an artist is standing at the peak of the mountain or toiling somewhere further down it, the question of relevance is much the same: Can my mind create work that is exceptional and, more importantly, work that has a wider resonance?

It’s a hard question. I think most artists try to avoid even thinking about it and that’s probably the right route to take. Just do the work that you feel the need to create and let the others sort it out.

That is what I try to do, for the most part. But there are days– and weeks and months– where that question nags at me. It’s been hanging around a little more with the fatigue I am experiencing. As I try to muster up the energy to get started, that question jumps out at me: Does it really matter?

There are days when the answer is no and nothing gets done. I stumble around in frustration and fog.

But more often than not, the answer comes back to me in the form of another question: If it doesn’t, what does?

Its relevance might simply be in its existence.

Much like our own.

So, I go to work most days, hoping that whatever comes from my efforts has some purpose and relevance. That it has expression and meaning in this time or whatever time in which it is seen. That it doesn’t exist one day as merely a relic of the past.

Being such an internal struggle, I am not sure this makes much sense to many folks. But then again, we all wonder whether whatever makes up our lives has meaning, that it somehow matters. So, maybe it does make sense.

I don’t know.

Thanks for putting up with my wandering– and wondering– mind this morning.

Here’s a song, That’s Where I’m Going, from Eilen Jewell.  I am not going to try to explain the relationship between this song, the paintings at top, and my words. There might not be any evident connection though I am sure I can pretzel logic one together if I felt like it.

But I don’t so you’re on your own, partner.

Further On Up the Road— At West End Gallery

My method is simple: not to bother about poetry. It must come of its own accord. Merely whispering its name drives it away.

–Jean Cocteau, on 26 August 1945; Professional Secrets (1972)

Ain’t that the truth?

And Cocteau would know. Jean Cocteau (1889–1963) was one of those folks who somehow achieve virtuosity in a multitude of fields. Cocteau shone brightly in many ways– as a poet, playwright, novelist, designer, film director, visual artist and critic. His 1946 film of Beauty and the Beast is considered a masterpiece of French cinema, as is The Blood of a Poet from 1930.

Though he found acclaim a variety of mediums, Cocteau considered himself a poet, but one who created poetry in many fields. He believed that poetry could and should be found in any creative field, that poetry was the sought after final product of creation.

But he also realized that actively seeking poetry in whatever medium you might work is often a futile effort. Poetry comes not from the poet or artist calling for it. No, one must first immerse themselves in their work in order to find a rhythm and harmony in the words, the paints, the musical notes, or the movement of the dance they employ.

That coming together of rhythm and harmony is the creator of poetry.

Trying to create true poetry without first finding rhythm and harmony is putting the horse before the cart.

Been there, done that. Too many times. Trying to force feeling into a painting usually produces lifeless work. The feeling or emotional tone and message of any piece doesn’t come into being until a rhythm and harmony is established well into the process.

As a result, the most strikingly emotive pieces, those that are poetry, often come when you least expect them. It’s like that when the moment comes where rhythm and harmony come together, poetry senses its opportunity and jumps in, taking over the whole show.

And in those times, few as they may be, when this occurs in my own work, I am happy to hand over the reins to poetry.

The main thing for any artist in any field is to be at work. Poetry needs a vehicle on which to ride. And the work of the artist is that vehicle.

No work, no poetry. Simple as that.

So, every day, though I may not feel like it and may not feel enthusiastic or poetic in any way, I go to work knowing that poetry is always lurking, ready to ride into form if I give it the opportunity.

And if the opportunity arises and poetry does appear, I am grateful to ride along as its passenger on that day.

Will poetry come around today? Don’t know if it will, but I do know that it won’t unless I get to work.

I struggled to choose a piece to attach to this post. It’s difficult because sometimes the poetry I see is not apparent to everyone. Sometimes it seems as though it shows itself to me alone. Not that I mind that. Our private poetry is often the most satisfying.

I chose the painting at the top, Further On Up the Road, because it has a rhythm and harmony to it that seems easily apparent. Well, it does to me. Whether you find poetry in it is not in my control.

But it’s there for me.

Here’s one of the late recordings of Johnny Cash, produced in the final months of his life. I have commented here before that I believe the work from late in his life was as raw and powerfully deep– poetic– as anything in his long and illustrious career. This is his cover of a Bruce Springsteen song, Further On Up the Road, that I shared here a number of years back.

A Prayer For Understanding— At West End Gallery

Whatever happens. Whatever
what is is is what
I want. Only that. But that.

—Prayer,  Galway Kinnell (1927-2014)

This is the third time I have featured verses from Galway Kinnell in the last week or so. I wasn’t planning on doing it that way. These three poems just seemed to fall into line with my thinking at the moment. I will most likely never share another of his poems and will struggle to remember who he is if I stumble across his name in the future. Well, maybe not — his name has a memorable quality.

As to this short poem of his, after stumbling over the triple use of is in the second line, my first thought was that it might be referring to the inevitability of all things.

Or maybe the acceptance of whatever happens.

I struggled with that interpretation. I understood it and might well be okay with it under different circumstances. But at this point in time, with what is taking place in this country, the idea of simply accepting whatever happens without question was not appetizing to me.

Of course, after reading it a few times– after getting the rhythm right for the what is is is— I understood that it was not about passive acceptance of whatever life hands you.

It is, to my understanding, at least, about wanting to know life completely, to not be deprived of any experience that marks us as human. No more, no less.

To love and be loved.

To know joy and happiness yet not be deprived of the sorrow, loss, and grief allotted to each of us.

To be both the humble giver and the appreciative receiver of kindnesses and generosities.

To understand that we possess both knowledge and ignorance.

To feel big at times and small at others.

To know both the absolute certainty and uncertainty contained in belief.

To have felt secure and insecure.

To have acted with both courage and cowardice.

To feel both the short-lived elative moments of victory and the lingering, harsh pang of failure.

To care for someone other than yourself and be cared for as yourself.

To know that when you leave this world you do so with the knowledge that you have been exposed to all that is human. Nothing has been kept from you, good or bad. And though you may not want to leave, you do so gladly with that knowledge in hand.

I believe that is what the what is is. I know that this is the what is that I want.

No more, no less.

Only that. But that.

Okay, let’s hear some music, shall we. This week’s Sunday Morning Music is Shine a Light from the Rolling Stones, off their 1972 album Exile on Main Street. I think today’s triad of verse, image, and song work well together.

They create a nice what is…

The Wisdom Beyond Words– At West End Gallery

I guess I’m just
Somebody who
Has given up
On the me and you
I’m not alone
I’ve met a few
Traveling light like
We used to do

–Leonard Cohen, Traveling Light (2016)

Came into the studio early this morning, as usual. Did my usual chores with Momapotamus and the Boys, my family of studio cats. A bit dicier this morning since Mom underwent massive dental surgery yesterday and is still pretty woozy from the sedation from the operation and the opiates she was given afterwards. She seems to be recovering a bit from it already though my own anxiety from the whole affair might take longer to pass. I always feel like I am somehow betraying their trust when I subject them to such treatments, even when they are badly needed.

We’ll both get over it, I ‘m sure.

After tending to the gang, I flipped on some music and Leonard Cohen immediately came up, a song from his last album in 2016, the year that he died. I found it hard to believe that it has been almost ten years since he died.

It certainly has not felt like a decade. Well, in some ways. In others, it has felt like a century, one where the days are a weeklong, an hour is a day, and a minute is an hour. When you’re waiting for something to end, time is a tormentor.

But for most things, the relativity of events in time seems to compress greatly as I age. Things that I thought occurred just days ago took place two years ago. And some things that I thought took place several years ago happened just a couple of months back.

As I said, time seems to be compressing, like it is confined in a box that continues to shrink. You can’t help but notice the finiteness of time as the walls creep inward.

This whole compression thing is made even maddening by the fact that the days of youth still feel fresh and not that long ago in your mind.

And that youth experienced time in such a different way. It felt infinite, expanding in all directions. There was so much space between time then that waiting for anything seemed interminable. The days between Thanksgiving and Christmas then felt like they were obligated to wear concrete shoes, so slow was their passing.

Now, Christmas comes and I find myself asking how this is even possible and if we even have a Thanksgiving this year. Wasn’t Memorial Day just two weeks ago?

I don’t know that I will ever get used to this time compression. I’m sure it is a common thing that comes with aging. Or dementia. Of the two, I’m hoping that is just aging.

I was going to talk a bit about the painting shown here, The Wisdom Beyond Words. Actually, this whole series from this past year. With this time compression that I mentioned and the health horror show of the past year, it feels like the actual painting of it took place years ago. The work itself feels now and in the moment. It’s a weird dichotomy, having work that feels both distant and near in time. Especially for work that felt then and now as being work from my core.

Being such, this work didn’t get the reception I felt it deserved. Though that may have been that way for a number of reasons, I think it might have been, more than anything, because it was out of its place in time. I think time will come around to it eventually and it will fall in place.

Time will tell. Maybe in my time. Maybe beyond. Maybe never.

For me, sitting here in my disjointed and compressed timeline, it is in its place now.

And that is good with me.

Here’s that Leonard Cohen song I mentioned above. It’s Traveling Light. This video begins with Cohen talking about his aging and ailing self. Though I am not nearly at the same location on my timeline, I chuckled knowingly at his words.

Not get out of here. I don’t have time to waste this morning.

Introspection (2002)– Coming to Principle Gallery, June 2026

Wait, for now.
Distrust everything if you have to.
But trust the hours. Haven’t they
carried you everywhere, up to now?
Personal events will become interesting again.
Hair will become interesting.
Pain will become interesting.
Buds that open out of season will become interesting.
Second-hand gloves will become lovely again;
their memories are what give them
the need for other hands. The desolation
of lovers is the same: that enormous emptiness
carved out of such tiny beings as we are
asks to be filled; the need
for the new love is faithfulness to the old.

Wait.
Don’t go too early.
You’re tired. But everyone’s tired.
But no one is tired enough.
Only wait a little and listen:
music of hair,
music of pain,
music of looms weaving our loves again.
Be there to hear it, it will be the only time,
most of all to hear your whole existence,
rehearsed by the sorrows, play itself into total exhaustion.

—Wait, Galway Kinnell (1980)

I’ve recently come across the poetry of Galway Kinnell, an American poet who died in 2014 at age 87. It’s another of those cases where I am a bit embarrassed that I had never heard the name since he was highly acclaimed, having won the Pulitzer Prize. I know that it is foolish to be embarrassed by such a thing since most of us would struggle to name maybe one or two modern poets, if any.

Even so, I still find myself thinking I should know his work after reading just a bit of it.

It has a bite to it. Some call it dark, but I don’t know about that. What does that really mean? I think anything that deals with this ourselves and world in its totality has to have at least some darkness. It’s just part of our wholeness, our beingness.

That’s a nice segue into the painting at the top, Introspection. It is from 2002 and is a prime example of what I call my Dark Work, which was more of a stylistic shift that came in the aftermath of 9/11. My work became more centered on painting on a dark underpainting which gave any piece, no matter how bright and optimistic it might appear, a dark undertone.

I saw this as being a balanced view, as we are, in my view, creatures comprised of both darkness and light.

I feel this painting fits this poem from Kinnell very well. I could even change the title, and it would speak as clearly for it as the title I gave it 24 years ago. It is yet another painting that will be part of my June solo show at the Principle Gallery. As I mentioned in recent posts, this show will be a semi-retrospective, a hybrid of older and new work. There will be a couple of my Dark Work pieces in this show.

Like all art, this poem from Kinnell is open to a variety of interpretations, all validated by our own experience and understanding of life. Art gives us insight to that part of ourselves we recognize but don’t fully know or understand. I might see it one way and you, another.

As it should be.

I was pleased when I saw that Andrew Bird had made this poem the basis for a song. I’ve featured him here before in collaborations with both the Lumineers and Iron & Wine, but this is his first solo effort on the blog. He reconstructs Kinnell’s poem in a lovely way that maintains the feeling of it. Well, at least as Bird sees it. Again, purists might beg to differ.

Myself, I like it very much. It has, as the kids say, a vibe.

And as you know, I’m only here for the vibe. And the cake…