Redtree Times

The Regeneration— At West End Gallery

What good are all the objects in the universe, if there is no subject? It isn’t that mankind is all that important. I don’t think that Man is the measure of all things, or even of very many things. I don’t think Man is the end or culmination of anything, and certainly not the center of anything. What we are, who we are, and where we are going, I do not know, nor do I believe anybody who says he knows, except, possibly, Beethoven, in the last movement of the last symphony. All I know is that we are here, and that we are aware of the fact, and that it behooves us to be aware — to pay heed. For we are not objects. That is essential… And with us, nature, the great Object, its tirelessly burning suns, its turning galaxies and planets, its rocks, seas, fish and ferns and fir trees and little furry animals, all have become, also, subjects. As we are part of them, so they are part of us. Bone of our bone, flesh of our flesh. We are their consciousness.

–Ursula Le Guin, from essay Science Fiction and Mrs. Brown (1975)

When I came across this passage from Ursula Le Guin the image of the painting at the top immediately came to mind. It was from a group of work last year that expressed the entanglement of all things, how we humans and all living creatures are simply physical manifestations of the greater power from which we have been formed. While we may be unique in the universe, we are not supreme in any way.  As Le Guin puts it, we are mere subjects to the greater object, drawn from the stardust and light and darkness that makes up all things.

As Le Guin puts it: As we are part of them, so they are part of us. Bone of our bone, flesh of our flesh. We are their consciousness.

I wish I had written this as the statement for last year’s shows. I couldn’t have summed up any better what I was seeing in that work from last year than this short passage, especially when she brings up the last movement of Beethoven’s 9th Symphony which contains the Ode to Joy chorus. This image with that chorus ringing out seemed to fit perfectly together. I see this painting as being a joyful celebration of our unity with all things. And even the English translation of some of the music’s lyrics seemed to fit as well:

RedTree: Continuum– At West End Gallery

The future is usually imagined as either better or worse than the present. If the imagined future is better, it gives you hope or pleasurable anticipation. If it is worse, it creates anxiety. Both are illusory.

–Eckhart Tolle, The Power of Now (1997)

I know that Eckhart Tolle is right with the statement above. But like they say, easier said than done. I don’t know what it says about me, but I tend to anticipate the worst. My reasoning is that if it comes out better than expected I am both thrilled and relieved and if it does go as I feared it might, I am not overly disappointed since I knew it was going to turn out that way all along.

That sounds pretty screwed up, even to me.

But so far, it has worked out fairly well, outside of the overwhelming sense of dread and anxiety that haunts my every waking moment.

I am just kidding, of course. We all have our own ways of dealing with the future. My way is not as crazy in practice as it sounds. At least I think it isn’t. But it’s how I deal with things. You do it your way, I’ll do it mine.

We all deal with the future in our own way and that’s okay. It’s not a one-size-fits-all situation.

That was bunch of words to get to my upcoming events for this fall. This year I am choosing a combination of both anxiety and hope for my outlook on these events. Figure I have all my bases covered that way.

The first event for the fall is my annual Gallery Talk at the Principle Gallery on Saturday, September 26th. The talk begins at 1 PM at the gallery in Alexandria, VA. I’ve been doing this Gallery Talk every year since 2003 with only year missed due to the pandemic and it is usually a lot of fun. Some talk by me (ugh), lots of questions and some answers though even those are suspect, some laughs, and some prizes including the now highly anticipated Painting Giveaway. Hope you can put this on your calendar.

In October, I have my annual solo exhibit at the West End Gallery in Corning. This year’s show begins with an Opening Reception that runs from 5-7 PM on Friday, October 16th.

This year marks my 25th solo show at the West End Gallery. With that mind I am titling this show Silver Jubilee, the normal designation for a 25th anniversary. The silver in this context is said to symbolize strength, radiance, and resilience. I would like to think those qualities have been well represented in my work over these past 25 years.

There is then my annual Gallery Talk at the West End Gallery on Saturday, November 7, beginning at 11 AM. Again, talk, questions, laughs, sometimes some tears, and prizes. I am in the process of choosing a painting to give away at each talk.

Hope you can make it to one or more of the events. As I said above, while I hope it goes well I still fear it won’t.

So far, so good but only time will tell.

That was a somewhat subtle lead-in to a song, Time Will Tell, from Gregory Alan Isakov. Good stuff, as always, from him.

Your time here has come to an end for today. Do I need to say it?

Okay, you asked for it--git.

Eyvind Earle- Santa Ynez Memory (1998)

Then very slowly I go to slightly lighter colors until little by little, the forms begin to take shape and I start to see what is happening. Since I never plan in advance, I simply let myself be led by instinct, taste and intuition. And it is in this manner that I find myself creating visions that I have never before imagined. And little by little certain color effects develop that excite me and I find the painting itself leading me on and I become only an instrument of a greater, wiser force…or being…or intelligence than I myself am.

–Eyvind Earle

Really didn’t feel like writing this morning. Very tired. Sunday was the best day I have had in months, feeling bright and close to normal for a change. Painting has been going great, thankfully, creating its own energy. Thought I might be moving past this level of fatigue. But after a busy morning of painting and then retrieving my work from the Gmeiner show (thanks, Melina at the Gmeiner!) I crashed hard in the evening yesterday, like I had been beaten with a bag of oranges, which is a reference to a scene from the film The Grifters. Left me groggy, achy, and kind of blah this morning.

But I was determined to post something. I have a long streak that I didn’t want to end until I want it to end. And that is not today. So, I looked through some old posts and came across the one below from 2018. [ I was getting ready to hit the publish button when I discovered that I had rewritten this and shared it in 2024. Well, it’s here today and it’s going to stay.] It featured the work of Eyvind Earle which gives everyone a break from my work. Believe me, you need a break. Plus, it was written on a day in 2018 when I didn’t feel like writing as well. Plus, the post was about that wonderful state of being that sometimes comes when painting. It is a feeling I have been fortunate to experience in recent weeks, one that I am counting on later this morning to reinvigorate me.

Seemed to fit the bill this morning. The post from 2018 [rewritten in 2024] along is below with an added song from the late blues legend John Lee Hooker with Santana, The Healer from 1989. Looking for some of that healing power today and kicking it off with some John Lee seems like just the prescription I need.

No gits today. Too pooped to kick your butts out the back door…

I have discussed my appreciation for Eyvind Earle on this blog in the past. Earle was a celebrated artist/illustrator who died in 2000 at age 84.  He was a child prodigy and had his first solo show at a gallery at the age of 14. He exhibited his work in gallery shows for many years but gained his ultimate fame with his popular stylized Christmas cards through the years and with his time spent working with Walt Disney in the 50’s and 60’s as a background artist. He was responsible for the look of many of the animated films of that time from Disney, including the classic Sleeping Beauty.

I have a massive two volume set of the works and writings of Earle’s work that I often pull from the shelf. There’s much I am drawn to in the graphic works from Earle– the colors and the rhythm of his landscapes, for example.

I am also attracted to the great clarity in his work. The compositions are often complex in design but come across as simple, a duality that I really find appealing. The color is bold and could be a little sharp in tone if it weren’t harmonized so masterfully within the picture plane. He is a pure genius at handling harmony and contrast– another duality that strikes me.

I also like the fact that Earle was an unabashed landscape artist, feeling no desire to express himself through figurative work. He found total expression in his handling of the landscape around him, often depicting the open spaces and coastlines of California. They are not mere scenes but have emotion and a depth that goes well beyond the surface, another aspect that appeals greatly to my desires for my own work.

The passage at the top briefly describing his process further links my attraction to Earle and his work. As he describes his process, I am struck by how similarly we describe how we work such as not planning anything in advance, working from light to dark colors and following the excitement of certain colors until the work seems to be taken out of our hands.

Until we become instruments.

I have often described the process and the final creation as being beyond me, the whole of the piece being more than the sum of all the parts I call myself. I have also described the sense of purpose I feel from these pieces, how I feel connected to something greater.

I can’t ever recollect using that term, instrument, before, maybe because it sounds a little presumptuous. But it does line up with what I have described in the past. And to read that Eyvind Earle felt much the same way about his work is comforting, especially on those mornings when I feel far removed from anything close to a greater force. Just knowing that the work might take me to that point where I transform into an instrument for something beyond myself makes the day seem easier to begin.

Exiles: Cain 1995

From the moment that man believes neither in God nor in immortal life, he becomes ‘responsible for everything alive, for everything that, born of suffering, is condemned to suffer from life.’ It is he, and he alone, who must discover law and order. Then the time of exile begins, the endless search for justification, the aimless nostalgia, the most painful, the most heartbreaking question, that of the heart which asks itself: where can I feel at home?

― Albert Camus, The Rebel (1951)

There is so much I could say about this small painting from my Exiles series of 1995-96, which dealt with, as I have often mentioned here, the death of my mother from cancer at that time. It holds so much meaning for me on several levels, from the separation I fel based on t in NY as she was dying in Florida to the general feeling I often felt of being forever out of place in my life up to that point, a stranger in strange lands.

The title is on the surface based on the biblical story of the original exile, Cain, the firstborn son of Adam and Eve, who was expelled from his homeland after slaying his brother, Abel, forced to create a new world in which to exist, never to return. But more than that obvious reference, it was primarily based on the novel Demian by Hermann Hesse, a book I have mentioned here a number of times over the years.

It was book I stumbled on when I was going through a desperate time many years ago. It changed the arc of my life very much in that moment.

In Demian, Hesse uses the Mark of Cain as a symbol for those seeking the truth in themselves. In the biblical story, after Cain kills Abel, he is exiled by God to wander the world. God places a special mark on Cain to protect him, warning that anyone who harms him will face a severe sevenfold vengeance. While I was going through this trying time I very much felt like Cain the Exile and references to that name began to show up all the time. It felt like there was some sort of synchronicity taking place.

Hesse also discusses the dual nature of man in Demian, an idea which has had a very formative aspect in my growth as a painter. The idea of opposing forces, light and dark, being contained in one element, one being, always struck a chord in me. It also made sense in light of the struggles that I observed in myself and many others.

In the book Hesse also wrote a sentence that resonated like a gigantic bell tolling for me: Whoever wants to be born, must first destroy a world.

It was revelation, one that still echoes in my mind nearly every day. I think shows up in the gaunt face of the Cain in this painting. He has destroyed the world he left behind, never again able to return to it. I see it as a mixture of pain and strength born of resignation to his fate. The same sort I saw in my mom’s face at the time when she was facing her own exile from this world.

Pain of this life but without fear for what was to come.

For me, that time felt like, as Camus wrote above: the time of exile begins, the endless search for justification, the aimless nostalgia, the most painful, the most heartbreaking question, that of the heart which asks itself: where can I feel at home?

This is hard to write without delving even deeper so that it makes sense for you. Not sure I am willing to do that. In fact, don’t know why I even began writing this today. I just saw that painting this morning and felt like it had to be mentioned and seen, if only for myself.

Thankfully, I seldom ask where I can feel at home anymore. Though the search for justification never ceases and there is that same aimless nostalgia at times, I feel somewhat at home in this world these days.

What more is there?

I am sharing a cover of a favorite song, Hold On, from the Alabama Shakes performed by my current obsession, Ren, with the Big Push during a busking session on the streets of Brighton, England just last year.  The message seems relevant.

Now, make like an exile and git…

Time Reverberation— At the Gmeiner Art Center— Show Ends Today!

Imagination, as opposed to fantasy, is the ability to see the other thing, what one might call, to use those old-fashioned words, nature, reality, the world… Imagination is a kind of freedom, a renewed ability to perceive and express the truth.

–Iris Murdoch, Existentialists and Mystics: Writings on Philosophy and Literature (1997)

I wrestled with this passage from author Iris Murdoch (1919-1999) for quite a while. It has been sitting in a draft file for several years with just this passage on the page. I was pretty sure I understood its meaning. Art is often described as being the manner in which we reveal the truth that resides within our reach and sight but remains hidden, unseen.  The mood and emotion contained in the everyday.

The hidden sacred in the ordinary.

My struggle with her words came in my own concern that the landscapes created in my work verged on the fantastic, something apart from human reality. Could these inner landscapes as I call them reveal authentic human truths?

This was a concern for me for a long time. Granted, it was an esoteric one, A matter of my own self-perception, not something that changed my work in any way.

And it was this fact that the work wasn’t affected by my concerns that finally convinced me of the ability of human truths to be exist in my imagined world. For though it was of the mind, it was built on the reality of my experience in this world– all that I felt, saw, heard, and did. It was– and is–a kind of an enhanced reality.

In my mind I always perceived the landscapes I created as being real and of this world. Here and now, in this moment. And I think most people see them in that same way, that despite fields that are sometimes in colors they might not normally see and a Red Tree that sometimes towers over the surrounding landscaped peppered with Red Roofed house with no doors or windows, it comes across as reality.

Perhaps it is the reality as seen in our dreams. Who hasn’t had dreams where upon waking we are convinced that that dreamed place was real? And don’t those truths that are revealed to us in these dreams seem absolutely possible and self-evident?  And even though the truths seem to evaporate in mere moments, there existence lingers with us.

Maybe dreams and art serve much the same purpose; to make us aware of the truths before us that we fail to see.

Hey, works for me right now.

For this Sunday Morning Music, I am sharing a song that I was surprised I had never shared here before since I had used its title for a painting many years ago. The title is I Dream a Highway from the ethereal Gillian Welch. Then I remembered why I had not shared it before. It’s about 14 minutes long. Don’t let that scare you. Please give it a few minutes. The first comment under this video is How can a 14 minute song still not be long enough? I immediately nodded in agreement on reading that. For me, it has the sound and tone of dreams, and it soon becomes a soothing meditation. If I wore a Fit, I would bet my heartbeat drops quite a bit when I listen to this song.

Hey, it either this or two minutes of the Ramones cranking out Beat on the Brat. If you don’t like it, you know the routine by now–git.

Clear Voice–At Gmeiner Art Center– Shows Ends Sunday

Whoever wants music instead of noise, joy instead of pleasure, soul instead of gold, creative work instead of business, passion instead of foolery, finds no home in this trivial world of ours.

~Hermann Hesse, Steppenwolf (1927)

Very tired this morning. Yesterday was a busy day out of the studio and by late afternoon I was wiped out. This morning feels like a hangover, if I remember accurately what those felt like. It’s been a long time. I didn’t feel like writing this morning. Oh, I had thoughts. I just didn’t feel like actually doing the physical and mental act. Concentration and revving up an original post didn’t seem like an option.

I began going through old drafts that are kept in a file on this site. Unfinished beginnings and half-baked thoughts. Some are just waiting for a day when I am feeling sharp and ready to go to town on them. The problem is that on those energetic days I don’t revisit these files. No need. I find something right at hand to focus on. So, these ideas sit waiting for a day when I might stumble on them when I am sharp.

I had wandered around in my draft file for way too long. I had no appetite to expound on anything I came across. Then I opened the draft for this post which was simply the line above from Hesse’s Steppenwolf.

I don’t exactly remember why I created this draft about ten years ago. I can guess though.

Reading it this morning it struck me that this could a list of the opposing forces and drives that divide us and keep us separated.

Those seeking a life filled with a depth of feeling versus those who seek only superficial sensation.

Shakesperean drama versus reality TV.

Noise, pleasure, gold, business, and foolery seem far more prevalent in this world right now. Hessse saw it that way in 1927 and it probably been that way since time eternal.

We continue to slouch our way toward the trivial.

Somehow music, joy, soul, creative work, and passion have been relegated to the back seat of the bus. That saddens me because those are the very things I have sought all my life, even when I wasn’t yet conscious of that fact. The things that now make up most of my life. The idea that these things have become somehow devalued in this trivialized world seems ludicrous. And deflating.

As I said, these oppositions form a dividing line, one from which most of our problems stem.

Don’t know why this came up this morning. Writing about probably serves no purpose other than to utter the words aloud. There is no answer obviously. The choice between a life of deep feeling and one of gold and hedonistic pleasure is an easy one for the average person, even if the latter is a mirage, a promise than will never be fulfilled.

Jeez, now I am tired and sad. Even a little pissed off.

Thanks, Hermann, ya’ schmuck.

Just kidding. I know how things are. Same as they have always been. That being said, I am happy with my choices and the life I came to be living. Could do without the cancer but, hey, that’s just the luck of the draw.

Okay, I’ve depressed you sufficiently this morning. Job done.

Here’s a song guaranteed to pick you up. It’s Good Morning Starshine from the original Broadway cast recording of Hair from 1968. This album was burned into my psyche early on in my life. Tell you what, because I like you guys, I am throwing in another track, a favorite, from Hair. It’s The Flesh Failures (Let the Sunshine In). A feel-good song but in a different way.

Now, excuse me, I am going to now lay on the floor with my cats. When I get up, I expect that you will have gone back to the trivialized world. As the old saying goes: git.

Eye to Eye— Now at Principle Gallery

When I have been hungry or scared or broke, I called on my friends—agents of the Lord, you might say—and I received from them food and drink, comfort and kindness, money or a bed to sleep in for a time. I would have discarded—as you should also—anyone who heard a plea from a friend or a fellow human and offered only a prayer. We are, as Martha Graham always stated, the answered prayer. We are here to move the mountains and heal the sick and raise the dead—in spirit, of course.

Stop praying, except to call on your God for the strength and the courage to move forward, to help those who need your help, and to fill the space you’re taking up with things of honor and beauty and worth.

We are always capable of doing something to help people, without relying on the spiritual cop-out of a prayer. Talk to someone. Feed someone. Make them laugh. Offer a hand or a shoulder. Pray only when you are exhausted from your efforts and are asking for more strength to keep doing your work.

Do not make prayer an evil thing.

—Tennessee Williams/Interview with James Grissom (1982)

Are you the answer to anyone’s prayer?

That’s a tough question to ask yourself. Being the answer to a prayer puts a certain responsibility on our shoulders, something that is often evaded by offering mere “thoughts and prayers.” Rather than a vague hope and a wish, it infers action of some sort. It could come in the form of some grand gesture but also might come as a small gesture that has an effect on someone that we ourselves don’t recognize in the moment. 

I have been the fortunate recipient of answered prayers several times, most notably in my darkest, most desperate moments.  Some of these answered prayers came as intentional acts of kindness and generosity of spirit. But most came in the form of anonymous people who offered small kindnesses and assistance in moments when I was sure there was none left in this world or that I was unworthy of such kindness. I am sure these angels, if you will allow me to call them that, were totally unaware of the effect of their actions.

Their actions were simply a matter of course for them. Often, they were just doing their job. But it was the humanity with which they did their job that struck me in the moment, allowing me to see that kindness and caring still existed. That is my definition of hope. Their small gestures reignited the flame of hope that had went out in me.

I was going to write small insignificant gestures in that last sentence. But I realized in an instant that no act of kindness, however small it might seem, is insignificant. 

But getting back to the original question, I don’t know for sure if I have been the answer to anyone’s prayers. By my definition, I most likely have and will never know it. I’m okay with that so long as something I have done, some small act of kindness, has provided some form of hope in their own life. Has allowed them to see that kindness and caring still exist.

It makes me more aware of and careful with my actions. I often worry that some stray comment may have had the opposite effect on someone. I am sure it has happened. It has happened to me a number of times and like the kindnesses I describe above, I am sure that those who spoke thoughtlessly or cruelly had no idea of the effect of their words and actions.

The fact that these moments stick with me still is testament to the power of both kindness and cruelty.

I guess the thought I am trying to get across is that even if we can’t be the obvious and direct answer to everyone’s prayer, that by practicing kindness and generosity with others we might well unwittingly be the answers to their prayers.

That reminds me of a favorite passage from a Kurt Vonnegut book, God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater, one that I have shared here a number of times:

Hello babies. Welcome to Earth. It’s hot in the summer and cold in the winter. It’s round and wet and crowded. On the outside, babies, you’ve got a hundred years here. There’s only one rule that I know of, babies- “God damn it, you’ve got to be kind.”

So, try to be the answer to someone’s prayer. And if you can’t do that completely, just remember that God damn it, you’ve got to be kind!

And if you can’t be kind, ask yourself: What the hell am I doing here?

Here’s a truly favorite song that has been shared a number of times here over the years. It’s been a couple of years so I think it is okay to let ‘er rip once again. This is Try a Little Tenderness, from the immortal Otis Redding. This is a performance in Cleveland that took place the day before he died in a plane crash back in 1967. I am still in awe of all that he left in his 26 years on this planet. He’s been the answer to many of my prayers in some dark times. Let’s listen to his advice.

Now, let me say this in as kind a manner as I can muster–git.

Studio 5:30 PM August 5, 2026

Every moment instructs, and every object; for wisdom is infused into every form. It has been poured into us as blood; it convulsed us as pain; it slid into us as pleasure; it enveloped us in dull, melancholy days, or in days of cheerful labor; we did not guess its essence until after long time.

–Ralph Waldo Emerson, essay Nature (1836)

I put what I believe are the finishing touches on the above painting yesterday afternoon. It’s a large piece– 30″ by 48″– that I’ve been working at for a while now. Yesterday morning, after finishing my blog post for the day, I spent some time looking at it. It was still quite a few hours from completion. It was not yet fully light outside and the flood lights I work under were not lit. It was shadowy and the colors were muted in the semi-darkness of the studio. I went over and as I stood in front of it to get a better look, the dull light from the outside was cast across its surface.

The ridges of the text created by the layers of gesso applied long before I began painting cast shadows and I reached out to run my hands lightly over the surface. Gently. Slowly. The canvas gave lightly under my hands and my fingers brushed over the landscape set in paint and gesso.

It’s something I have done for a very long time apparently. I never really noticed. Back in 2009 photographer Barbara Hall Blumer came to my old studio up in the woods to shoot some images for a book, In Their Studios: Artists & Their Environment. I was working on a large painting on paper on my large table. Standing at the table as we chatted, I absentmindedly began to run my hands over the surface of the painting. It was heavily textured and cool to my touch. Barbara noticed and commented as she took a shot of my hands on the painting, asking if that was something I did regularly.

I thought about it and said I guess I did.

Don’t know when this practice started. Probably when I introduced the textured gesso surface that has long been my staple in my work.

It is normally a soothing thing for me.  It sometimes feels like a sort of ritual binding takes place, as though I am somehow transferring some part of myself to it.

Or maybe it is the other way around. Maybe the painting is imparting something of itself to me. I know there are times when I run my hands over a painting as though it were a Ouija board, waiting for the oracle to pass on some hidden knowledge or wisdom that I might need.

Whatever it is, I usually feel even more invested in the painting, as though the act is a laying on of hands, the religious act of some religions which conveys blessings, healing, and authority. Perhaps this is my anointment of the painting? Or again, maybe it is the other way around?

Maybe it is like a Braille message from beyond that has to felt rather than seen.

It might just the tactile sensation it provides.

I don’t know.

Yesterday, running of my hands over the surface made me unexpectedly emotional. For some reason, I found myself looking into a future where I was no longer here but the painting remained. I wondered if whoever held it at that future time would feel any of those things that moved from my hands to the painting as I ran them over its surface. Would they somehow sense the thought and emotion felt in yesterday’s moment if they were to run their own hands over it? Would they feel my own sense of it being something beyond me, something that possessed the grace, beauty, and wisdom that elude me?

Or would all that be lost in the miasma of time? Would it have become an object, a mere colorful trinket devoid of the life force it once possessed?

Of course, I can never know the answers to these questions. It’s a futile gesture even to consider that future.

But yesterday morning, in the dim breaking light of morning, fool that I am, I dared to wonder. It left me a bit melancholy. But it was a good melancholy, if you know what I mean. The kind that makes you appreciate the here and now because of a recognition of our ephemeral nature. I don’t know that I can fully describe the feeling but that’s okay.

If you know, you know.

Here’s a song and a band that I never heard before fifteen minutes ago. It is Place Your Hands from the British band Reef in 1996. That was a time when I was still waiting tables, building our home, and beginning my painting career. It was a busy period where I lost track of a lot of music and other things. The internet was in its infancy– we didn’t even have dial-up service for several more years– and YouTube was still almost a decade away. It was easy to lose track of things. Kind of nice in some ways. Anyway, this song came up and I played the lyric video below.  The first two lines sewed it up for me:

Oh, place your hands on my hope,
Run your fingers through my soul.

Wished I had heard it back in the day. Good tune.

Okay, you must evacuate the premises now.

That’s just a fancy way of saying git. Got it?

And for god’s sake don’t run your greasy mitts over my paintings on the way out the door!

Studio 6:50 AM August 5, 2026

I do what I can to convey what I experience before nature and most often, in order to succeed in conveying what I feel, I totally forget the most elementary rules of painting, if they exist that is.  In short, I allow faults to appear, the better to fix my sensations.

–Claude Monet, 1912

Much of what is below was first posted here back in 2012, I’ve shared it several time over the intervening years, always slightly changing its wording. This particular rerun has a lot more rewriting and added content. Probably didn’t need it but sometimes I like to put lipstick on my pig. Here it goes:

I have had this little sign hanging in my studio for the last 16 years [nearly 30 years now], a rough reminder to myself when I begin to feel like my work is bending too much to the so-called rules of art or the judgments and advice of others. It reminds me that when I am working in my own little world it is my realm. Mine alone. I control the parameters of what is possible, of what defines reality in my work.

The rules of others mean nothing in my little painted world.

Over the years I have glimpsed this small sign at times when I have been feeling that my work is stagnating or beginning to adhere to accepted conventions. Maybe I have even unwittingly created my own rules that after a time have become restrictive. At those times I have been spurred to push my work in some new direction. It might come in the form of heightening the intensity of color, introducing new hues that seems improbable or incompatible with nature, or adding new elements or perspectives.

Or all of these things and a little more.

It’s as though these two small words are sharp prods that constantly remind me that nobody can control me when I am here in my created world. There’s a great liberation in this realization and I find myself trusting my own judgment of my work more and more. Because I have created my own criteria for its reality, criticism from others means little now.

I think that’s what I am trying to get at here, that an artist must possess an absolute belief that they are the sole voice of authority in their work, that they, not others, determine its validity. Maybe that’s why I am so drawn to the Outsider artists, those untrained artists who often work in whatever materials are available to them– house paint, found items, and sometimes even mud. These artists maintain total belief in their personal vision and create a personal inner world of art in which it can live and prosper.

Rules mean nothing to them; only the expression of that world of their inner self matters.

When I reshared this post back in 2016, my friend Linda Leinen, a wonderful writer and photographer, down in Texas commented:

I’ve either never read that quotation or never felt its truth so keenly. I often hear photographers talking about the rules for their art, especially the rules for composition: anguishing because they’d forgotten to “obey” them. In one or two cases, I’ve seen their level of satisfaction with playing by the rules increase, even as the vitality is drained from their work.

My response was:

I’ve been thinking about this subject this morning and I think that in art “rules” tend to be templates that can be followed to create a successful piece of work. They are templates that we know and accept. But these “rules” are only the ones that we know. There may be other ways outside of the known and they can only be found by straying from the accepted way of doing things.

I think your point about finding satisfaction by playing by the rules even while vitality is drained away makes a lot of sense. By following the rules there is a greater chance of creating an acceptable work but it doesn’t guarantee that the work will excite and inspire. The excitement that comes from the discovery of the new, something that strays from the known, far outstrips the satisfaction of following the rules.

In short, rules are like road maps. They may show you a way to get where you want your work to go. It almost the easiest and most well-trod path.

The highway.

My point is that there is almost always an alternate route. Getting off those crowded main roads often brings new discoveries, excitement, and a freshness that is lost on those bland highways. I believe that is the vitality to which Linda referred.

This ties neatly — don’t know how that happened–into a post from several days ago about the Five Habits of the Mind. It suggests five questions that anyone making a creative decision in any field or situation should ask themself.  IS THERE ANOTHER WAY? was one of those five questions.

My answer is that there is almost always another way. Sometimes it’s just a matter if you have the guts to take those winding side roads that don’t even show up on the road maps. It might take a lot longer to get where you hoped to go. Hell, you might not even get there. But if you do finally get there, you will soon realize that the trip was worth the effort and the risk.

My advice? Break some rules. Toss the roadmap aside and take the next off ramp. You never know what you mind find out there.

Here’s a song. Yes, a song. It was the first that came to mind even though I haven’t heard it in a very long time. Seems to fit though I imagine if wanted to think a little harder there might be some that fit even better. But, hey, you get what you get when you chose this back road. This is Sheryl Crow and a 2017 performance of her 1996 hit, Everyday Is a Winding Road.

You had your song. Now hit the road. Git…

Pondering Solitude— Now at the Gmeiner

Life is painful. It has thorns, like the stem of a rose. Culture and art are the roses that bloom on the stem. The flower is yourself, your humanity. Art is the liberation of the humanity inside yourself.

― Daisaku Ikeda (1928-2023), Discussions on Youth (1999)

The other day I wrote about how art creates the artist, how the artist’s being is ultimately shaped by the art they make. How they become a reflection of their art rather than their art merely reflecting them. That very day, I came across an article on the online magazine Aeon titled How Art Invented Humanity. It basically took the same hypothesis as the one expressed in my post and expanded it throughout our history.

It went back to the Neolithic cave paintings of around 20,000 years, such as those in Lascaux, describing how these paintings first expressed the world around us, the animals and elements of nature those early humans observed. The first figurative expression of humans did not appear until 8 to 10 thousand years later. It was as though for those earlier thousands of years we were still developing a consciousness of self and the unique singularity in their world. As though during that interim we obtained a questioning sense, one that found us seeking meaning even as we struggled to survive the harshness of the world then. Though beyond mere animal instinct.

Had their art brought them to this point in our evolution?

I don’t know. It’s an interesting article and thesis. I am not going to go further into it though. That sounds a bit like a tease, doesn’t it? Yeah, probably its. I just wanted to mention it, finding the synchronicity between the blogpost and the article interesting.

To be honest, I didn’t want to write anything. Tired, as always. I keep hoping the fatigue from my hormone therapy will ease up but it keeps hanging on, especially in recent weeks as I battled lingering cold. There is good news, however. I had a great week of work in the studio, the best in quite some time. It’s been wonderful to be immersed in paint again, to have my mind run freely in those familiar tracks of pattern and flow. To block out the bullshit of disease and the chaotic world outside my studio.

I feel then a bit like that flower that the late Buddhist philosopher Daisaku Ikeda describes above; as though I have been liberated by art from the thorns of this world.

And that’s a good thing–I think. It works for me, at least.

Also wanted to remind you that this is the last week of the Big Gems exhibit that the Gmeiner Art & Cultural Center in Wellsboro, PA is hosting in collaboration with the West End Gallery. The exhibit, along with my showcase, A Seedling Returns, ends Sunday, August 9.

Here’s tune from the Beatles and their White Album. This is I’m So Tired.

No comment. Just git, okay?