Redtree Times

Night’s Dream– At Principle Gallery

The opposite of love is not hate, it’s indifference. The opposite of art is not ugliness, it’s indifference. The opposite of faith is not heresy, it’s indifference. And the opposite of life is not death, it’s indifference.

-Elie Wiesel, interview with U.S. News & World Report, October, 1986

I’ve been sitting here for quite some time now, staring at the quote above from Elie Wiesel. I had planned on writing about how my work evolved as a response to the indifference of others but now, looking at those words and putting them into the context of  Wiesel’s experience, I feel a bit foolish. Wiesel, who had survived nightmares of the Nazi concentration camps during the Holocaust to later spend his life crusading so that it might never happen again, was eyewitness to indifference on a grand scale, from those who were complicit or those who did not raise their voices in protest even though they knew what was happening to the personal indifference shown by his Nazi guards, as they turned a blind eye to the suffering and inhumanity directly before them on a daily basis, treating their innocent captives as though they were nothing at all. Less than human.

The indifference of which he speaks is that which looks past you without any regard for your humanity. Or your mere existence, for that matter. It is this failure to engage, this failure to allow our empathy to take hold and guide us, that grants permission for the great suffering that takes place throughout our world.

You can see where writing about showing a picture as a symbolic battle against indifference might seem more than a bit trivial. It certainly does to me.

But I do see in it a microcosm of the wider implications. We all want our humanity, our existence, recognized and for me this was a small way of raising my voice to be heard, of having my very existence recognized.

When I first started showing my work I was not far removed from a period that was the lowest point of my life. I felt absolutely voiceless and barely visible in the world, dispossessed in many ways. In art I found a way to finally express an inner voice, my real humanity, that others could see and react to. So, when my first opportunity to display my work came, at the West End Gallery in 1995, I went to the show with great trepidation.

For some, it was just a show of some nice paintings by some nice folks. For me, it was an actual test of my existence.

It was interesting as I stood off to the side, watching as people walked about the space. It was elating when someone stopped and looked at my small paintings. But that feeling of momentary glee was overwhelmed by the indifference shown by those who walked by with hardly a glance. That crushed me. I would have rather they had stopped and spit at my work on the wall than merely walk by dismissively. That, at least, would have made me feel heard.

Don’t get me wrong here– some people walking by a painting that doesn’t move them with barely a glance are not Nazis in any sense of the word. I held no ill will toward them, even at that moment. I knew that I was the one who had placed so much significance on this moment, not them. They had no idea that they were playing part to an existential crisis.

The funny thing is that now, I am even a bit grateful for their indifference that night because it made me vow that I would paint bolder, that I would make my voice be heard. Without that indifference I might have settled and not continued forward on the path I had chosen to follow.

But in this case, I knew that it was up to me to overcome their indifference.

Again, please excuse my use of Mr. Wiesel’s quote here. My little anecdote has little to do with the experience of those who suffered horribly at the hands of evil people who were enabled by the indifference of those who might have stopped them. I apologize for invoking his words in my poor analogy.

The point is that we all want to be heard, to be recognized on the most basic level for our own existence, our own individual selves. But too often, we all show indifference that takes that away from others, including those that we love. We all need to listen and hear, to look and see, to express our empathy with those we encounter.

We need to care.

Maybe in that small ways the greater effects of indifference of which Elie Wiesel spoke can be somehow avoided.

We can hope.

This post first ran here quite a few years ago and has been replayed several times. I had been thinking about it and the Wiesel quote recently and how indifference has played such a large role in the current state of the world so when I ran late again this morning, I decided to replay it. Plus, it remains a favorite of mine. I have told the story many times of the first exhibit in which my work was shown but have often edited out the part where this show represented an existential crossroad in my mind. It felt at the time that if there had been nothing but indifference that first night, I would have been back in the wilderness. Pathless and lost.

But thankfully, there were inquisitive eyes and kind words that kept me on my path. Because of the grace contained in those eyes and words, the indifference I experienced that night did not overwhelm or defeat me. It only made me even more determined to make my voice heard.

I still think my experience is a poor example of Wiesel’s words but if it makes a single person question the times that they have easily chosen indifference in their lives when a kind word or a helping hand may have changed someone’s day or life, then I am okay with my use of it.

Also, I have to point out that the sentiment behind the Wiesel quote is not new. I would like to go into it now but don’t have the time. You can read about it at Quote Investigator.

Here’s a song that gets to the point here. This is the great Etta James with her version of I Wish Someone Would Care. I love the original. written and performed by the Soul Queen of New Orleans, Irma Thomas, but Etta James puts some extra hurt in her cover.

I hear you and I see you. Now you have to leave. Git.

Edge of Doubt- At Principle Gallery

I hope you live without the need to dominate, and without the need to be dominated. I hope you are never victims, but I hope you have no power over other people. And when you fail, and are defeated, and in pain, and in the dark, then I hope you will remember that darkness is your country, where you live, where no wars are fought and no wars are won, but where the future is. Our roots are in the dark; the earth is our country. Why did we look up for blessing — instead of around, and down? What hope we have lies there. Not in the sky full of orbiting spy-eyes and weaponry, but in the earth we have looked down upon. Not from above, but from below. Not in the light that blinds, but in the dark that nourishes, where human beings grow human souls.

~Ursula K. Le Guin, A Left-Handed Commencement Address, delivered at Mills College, May 1983

I’ve read the commencement address that author Ursula Le Guin delivered to the 1983 graduating class of Mills College, a historic women’s college in Oakland, CA, several times and find something new and wonderful with every read. It is definitely not your typical commencement address. It is a radical rejection of the patriarchy and the definition of success that it imposes on society, and particularly on women. Powerful stuff.

I especially like the last section shown above, but the whole of it speaks clearly in a language I best understand, one that is written from a place of both exile and defiance. Of dealing with failure and darkness, learning how to find one’s own place in such an environment. Brutally honest without a single word of puffery.

Because you are human beings you are going to meet failure. You are going to meet disappointment, injustice, betrayal, and irreparable loss. You will find you’re weak where you thought yourself strong. You’ll work for possessions and then find they possess you. You will find yourself — as I know you already have — in dark places, alone, and afraid.

What I hope for you, for all my sisters and daughters, brothers and sons, is that you will be able to live there, in the dark place. To live in the place that our rationalizing culture of success denies, calling it a place of exile, uninhabitable, foreign.

I don’t exactly know why I am sharing this today. Maybe it becomes obvious when I look around and see the glorification of the ultra-wealthy while so many others see themselves losing ground both financially and, more importantly, in terms of personal freedoms.

As someone who exists in that darkness Le Guin describes, I think her words should be read again and again.

Maybe that explains the compulsion to share this today.

I don’t know.

Maybe it came from the song I wanted to share for this week’s Sunday Morning Music. I recently came across a cover of Lose Yourself, the megahit from Eminem, that really caught my attention. It was performed by Aussie country(?) star Kasey Chambers. I enjoy hearing cross-genre covers of many songs, finding that they often yield surprises that sometimes aren’t readily apparent in the original. This performance does not disappoint. It falls in line with Le Guin’s address, of finding your own definition of success in your darkness. It is a surprisingly powerful version of the song.

The same but much different in many ways. Just the way I like it.

Dark Eye of Quiet (2019)

“…that country where it is always turning late in the year. That country where the hills are fog and the rivers are mist; where noons go quickly, dusks and twilights linger, and midnights stay. That country composed in the main of cellars, sub-cellars, coal-bins, closets, attics, and pantries faced away from the sun. That country whose people are autumn people, thinking only autumn thoughts. Whose people passing at night on the empty walks sound like rain.”

–Ray Bradbury, The October Country

Running late this morning. Overslept. Not something that happens often with me. I don’t mind except that it busts up the routine that is my mental anchor. Days like this have me scrambling and everything seems a bit scattered. It takes a while to get settled and back on an even keel. It makes writing this blog a difficult task since time becomes a factor. There is a self-imposed pressure that makes getting something cogent down with a time clock running seem like a Herculean task.

This morning instead of taking on that task fully head on, I am employing an old tried-and-true workaround– rerunning a post from several years ago. I chose this post from 2019 because the painting, Dark Eye of Night, rests against the wall behind my seat here at the desk. It is a piece that never fails to grab my eye and one that I always felt was greatly underappreciated in its short forays out into the world. I think a lot of us can relate to that.

I liked the connection to Ray Bradbury’s words outlined in this post, felt that they captured this painting’s tone. And with the dog days of summer officially beginning tomorrow, my aversion to the heat and slow burning drag of summer, made me yearn for the dark coolness and mystery of October. I tend to recognize myself as one of his autumn people, thinking only autumn thoughts.

And this painting was definitely painted for the autumn people.

I am adding Blue in Green from Miles Davis at the bottom. I think it was made for us autumn people, too.

[From 2019]

Every so often you come across something from your distant past that has long passed from memory.  It could be a book, a song, a photo or some small insignificant memento, something once cherished but now tucked away in the piling up of time. Coming across such a thing after so many years illuminates how much that thing meant to you. In some cases, being able to look back at the years allows you to see that it actually influenced your way of thinking and, therefore, your life.

That’s how I felt this morning when I came across the short prologue, shown here at the top, to the 1955 book of short stories from Ray Bradbury, The October Country. I probably read this book last in the late 1970’s at a time when I devoured most of Bradbury’s books. They were all great and interesting reads and Bradbury had a poetic nature to go with his active imagination that often found feelings of isolation and fear at the edges of the mundane.

I don’t know how I reacted when I read the words above forty years ago but reading them now, I felt like he was describing me. Or at least, describing the occupants of the world I depict in my paintings, those folks who, by extension, are built from parts of myself.

They are definitely the autumn people, thinking only autumn thoughts.

Lingering in twilight, tucked in dark niches inside, facing away from the sun.

The painting at the top, Dark Eye of Quiet. When I read Bradbury’s prologue to The October Country, I could see in this piece how his words, perhaps unbeknownst to me, had stayed with and filtered through me over the time. It’s a painting that aptly illustrates this point, from its title to the doorless and windowless houses that reside in shadow, seeming to be avoid the gaze of the dark sun. It has the wistful isolation of a Bradbury story.

I went through a stack of old paperbacks in a closet and dug out my dog-eared copy of the The October Country. Leafing through it, I saw a few titles in the list of contents that I had circles eons ago. I don’t remember doing this, of course, but I obviously saw something in it that made me do this. One was titled The Wind and turning the pages to that story I was greeted by a black and white illustration for the story from artist Joe Mugnaini.

I didn’t recognize or remember it but even so, it had a familiarity that made me smile.

I found an image of it online and am sharing it here. Maybe it was not only Bradbury’s words that influenced me forty some years back?

The mind works in weird and wonderful ways, eh?

Exiles at Gmeiner Art Center Wellsboro PA January 1997

Nourish beginnings, let us nourish beginnings.
Not all things are blest, but the
seeds of all things are blest.
The blessing is in the seed.

–Muriel Rukeyser, The Green Wave (1948)

The blessing is in the seed…

Everything we accomplish or attempt has a seed, a beginning.

My career path as an artist had such a seed, which was when the West End Gallery graciously invited me to show my humble little paintings in their gallery. It’s a well-worn story, one that I’ve recounted hundreds of times. I’ll spare those details now except to say that my career there, as it were, began with no intention, no thought that it would ever grow beyond the shell of that seed. I was ignorant like most seedlings, reacting and moving toward whatever stimuli that would nourish and help me grow.

That was in February of 1995. My seed was planted then. Little did I know that it would take root and grow rapidly, thank in great part to two encounters with a lovely Art Center located in the Northern Tier of Pennsylvania. In the summer of 1995, just a few months after first showing my work publicly, I decided to enter a well-known regional art competition held by the Gmeiner Art Center in Wellsboro, a bucolic rural village in northern PA, about forty-five minutes from my home.

The Sky Doesn’t Pity (1995)

I had never entered my little paintings in a competition of any sort. It was all new to me and, to be honest, I expected absolutely nothing. I had only sold a few paintings at that point and still was unsure that this painting thing would ever be more than a happy pastime. I wasn’t even sure I could take decent photo of my painting for the entry. But I somehow managed to send it out with my slides. That painting, The Sky Doesn’t Pity, is shown here on the right

Soon after I was notified that I had taken one of the top honors in the show. It might have only been a third-place award but it felt like Olympic gold.

I was shocked. And filled with encouragement. To have someone see something in my work that made it stand a tiny bit above the other submissions from a variety of artists, including many pros that I knew of, made me feel seen and heard in a way I had not expected. Maybe there was something in this work that could speak to others as it did to me.

My seed was now nearly fully sprouted thanks to that show at the Gmeiner in 1995. The Gmeiner would soon provide an even greater boost in my growth.

Exiles: A Prayer For Light (1995)

My mom was diagnosed with metastatic cancer around that same time. She went through a hard and ugly battle with it that ended with her death in November of 1995. Her battle inspired a group of personal work that I called the Exiles. They were primarily the faces of the afflicted and the estranged, each showing the effects of illness or grief. They were, as I said, personal expressions of my own grief for my mom.  One piece from that group that felt important to me, A Prayer for Light, is shown here on the left.

By mid 1996 I had completed a large number of these Exiles paintings. I didn’t feel as though I could put them up for sale at that time. The feelings were still deep and raw for me. But I felt that they need to be seen. But where? I was, after all, still a part-time artist with a pretty short track record.

The Gmeiner came to mind. It had a wonderful exhibition space, clean and open. Perfect for my work. And I had a tenuous connection in that they at least knew my work. That was not much but it was something. I decided to approach them. What was the worst that could happen?  They might reject me. I fully expected that.

But I also knew that things didn’t happen unless you made them happen. I had to at least ask for what I wanted.

I had written business plans for my own business a few years before so I used that as template for my proposal, describing in detail why they should offer me a spot in their exhibition rotation. I made an appointment with their director with my plan along with photos and examples of the work that would make up the exhibit. Much to my surprise, she loved the proposal.

In January of 1997, over 29 years ago, the Gmeiner Art Center hosted my first solo show.

My seed was breaking the surface and reaching ever upward. It felt like a huge deal to me. It still does. I have done over 70 solo shows over the decades, but that first solo show in Wellsboro may well be the most important for me in so many ways up to this point.

The Gmeiner holds a special place in my heart. And now, over 29 years later, I get to show my work there again. Next month, beginning on July 18, the Gmeiner Art Center in a collaboration with the West End Gallery will host Big Gems It is a take off on the West End’s very popular annual show, Little Gems, but here will combine the larger and much smaller works of artists from the West End Gallery. I will be the featured artist in the Atrium Gallery there.

There is an opening reception on Saturday, July 18th, from 2-4 PM that will also feature Brian Keeler giving a demo of his wonderful work. That is not to be missed.

I am truly thrilled to be going back to the Gmeiner and am looking forward to this show. I feel a deep sense of gratitude to them for the nourishment they provided when I was but a seedling. Without that first award and first show, I don’t know in what manner I might have grown, if at all.

Thank you, Gmeiner Art Center!

Inner Sanctum (2002)– Now at Principle Gallery

Child, Sister, think how sweet to go out there and live together! To love at leisure, love and die in that land that resembles you! For me, damp suns in disturbed skies share mysterious charms with your treacherous eyes as they shine through tears.

There, there’s only order, beauty: abundant, calm, voluptuous.

Gleaming furniture, polished by years passing, would ornament our bedroom; rarest flowers, their odors vaguely mixed with amber; rich ceilings; deep mirrors; an Oriental splendor—everything there would address our souls, privately, in their sweet native tongue.

There, there’s only order, beauty: abundant, calm, voluptuous.

See on these canals those sleeping boats whose mood is vagabond; it’s to satisfy your least desire that they come from the world’s end. —Setting suns reclothe fields, the canals, the whole town, in hyacinth and gold; the world falling asleep in a warm light.

There, there’s only order, beauty: abundant, calm, voluptuous.

—Charles Baudelaire, Invitation to the Voyage from The Flowers of Evil (1857)

This sort of an off day here on the blog. Not that I didn’t spend an inordinate amount of time just to get to this point. I don’t consider that time spent looking, listening, and reading wasted time, even when most of what I took in doesn’t find its way to the blog.

It’s more like planting seeds of ideas and thoughts that someday might sprout here. They often do which is not all that surprising given the amount of fertilizer I sometimes spread.

Just kidding, of course.

Today is a personal day that can’t really write about. I know that sounds funny because I pride myself on my transparency and pretty much share everything here. But this remains private. Maybe on this day next year, I will tell you about it.

Probably not.

So, for today let me share the Baudelaire poem above from The Flowers of Evil. It was tricky because the many translations from its original French vary greatly. Some are quite awkward in my eyes though they might be true to the original, for all I know with my limited knowledge of French. I like the version above from Keith Waldrop’s 2006 translation.

Its refrain– There, there’s only order, beauty: abundant, calm, voluptuous— felt right this morning with the painting above. It is Inner Sanctum, a 2002 painting from my current Principle Gallery show. It’s a painting that has an ability to connect with me in a multitude of emotional moments. This morning, it feels like that refrain. This feeling of beauty, abundance, calm, and voluptuousness is my favorite translation of this painting.

Let’s tie this package all together with a song that definitely fits that refrain and the tone of poem as I read it this morning. It’s a bit of bossa nova written by Antonio Carlos Jobim in 1960. This version is from Stan Getz along with bossa nova legends Jobim and Joao and Astrud Gilberto. The song is Corcovado, also known as Quiet Night of Quiet Stars.

Good stuff all the way around.

You know, I am not even going to tell you to get out this morning. Stick around if you like. But don’t touch anything and for god’s sake don’t run your grubby fingers over any of the paintings. I can do that. You can’t!

On second thought, you better leave.

Git…

Only Now (2012) – Now at the Principle Gallery

It has been well said that our anxiety does not empty tomorrow of its sorrows, but only empties today of its strength.

–Charles Spurgeon, The Salt-Cellars (1889)

I took it easy on Sunday after getting home from my short excursion into Alexandria for Friday’s opening of my show, Flow, which now hangs at the Principle Gallery. I was bone-tired in much the same way I had been in the weeks leading up to the show and knew I needed some down time, some rest.

However, yesterday felt different. I had much more energy, enough that I pushed myself harder physically than I had in a long time. And, thankfully, it didn’t result in the heavy weight of fatigue that had pushing down on me. Oh, I was still dead tired and nodded off way too early later in the evening but during the day after several short hard walks and by far the longest workout routine I have done in several months, my body felt alive still.

It still feels that way this morning and I find myself excited and encouraged to get moving again. I began to wonder why there had been this drastic flip on the energy switch. Could it simply be the good feelings that came with the opening? Maybe. I am sure that was a contributing factor.

But the more I thought about it and after doing some cursory investigation, I believe it was my anxiety that was causing my fatigue to linger on in such a large way. It turns out that stress and anxiety can exacerbate the fatigue associated with the aftermath of radiation treatments.

That made sense since I have been anxiety-ridden and easily stressed out and emotionally triggered since I was a kid. I don’t like writing that since it is something that might be viewed as a weakness. And it has often been that. But it is also what I consider to be a strength in what I do. Much of what I do is in response to my inner anxieties. Without it, my work might be something altogether different.

The weeks leading up to this show were extraordinarily stressful for me. The idea that I couldn’t produce enough work due to my fatigue added an extra layer of anxiety to those other stress layers that come with every show: fear of failure, fear of letting the gallery and myself down, fear that I won’t have enough time to properly finish what needs to be done, fear that my work had somehow become irrelevant, anxiety from the break the show and its associated travel causes in my heavily entrenched daily routine which serves as my primary stress buffer, fear of inadvertently saying the wrong thing or something inappropriate or just plain stupid while at the opening, and every petty little worry about every single detail. I know that much of it is irrational, but its effect on me is real.

When I am in the best of health, this stress can be exhausting for me.  I had wondered why my fatigue had increased so dramatically in the weeks leading up to the show without factoring in how this would affect the fatigue caused by my treatment.

I think I have my answer.

Once those preshow stresses were removed, I had a much quieter mind. Everything seems to have been following the mind’s lead. Maybe I can now get to building myself up physically and get back to some serious painting in preparation for my October show at the West End Gallery along with a smaller role as Featured Artist in a West End Gallery curated exhibit, Big Gems, at the Gmeiner Art Center in Wellsboro, PA in July. I will write about the Gmeiner show in the coming days.

So, the plan is to get my body and mind in better shape to handle the coming stresses. The results of the show at the Principle Gallery might well bolster my self-confidence so that it helps reduce the self-inflicted stresses.

But for the moment, I am enjoying a less troubled mind as I ease back into my much-loved routine, with the hope that this will lead to a less stressed body.

Okay, I have to run. Things to do. Movement. Activity. It’s all good.

Here’s a tune from one of my favorites, the exquisite Rhiannon Giddens. It’s her rendition of an old Dolly Parton song, Don’t Let It Trouble Your Mind.

Seems about right, doesn’t it?

I won’t be offended if you leave now.

In the Weave of Time– Now at Principle Gallery

Even when poetry has a meaning, as it usually has, it may be inadvisable to draw it out … and perfect understanding will sometimes almost extinguish pleasure.

–A. E. Housman, The Name and Nature of Poetry, Cambridge lecture May, 1933

One of the things I worry about in the weeks leading up to a show, as well as at my openings and Gallery Talks, is creating too much of an emphasis on the meaning I attach to any single painting. That is, of course, vital to me in creating my work but as the poet A.E. Housman points out above: perfect understanding will sometimes almost extinguish pleasure. 

In short, my meaning may not be your meaning.

And that’s the way it should be, especially in my work, which is most often not representative of any single place or time or narrative. Every piece of art I create has meaning in it that speaks to me in terms of feeling and mood that come from the experience and sensations of my own life. My own narrative.

Ultimately, my personal narrative is not the most important aspect of my work. It is that feeling and mood that is communicated to the viewer and resonates with their own experiences and sensations. That speaks in a poetic manner to their own narrative.

I often compare my work to poetry or music here. Maybe because both work with rhythm and movement. The meaning is left to how the reader or listener fits into that rhythm; in the form of the feeling and mood it creates within them.

The meaning–the poetry and music of it– is in the eye of the beholder.

That’s what I hope occurs in my work. I know that it sometimes does, enough so that I think those who follow my work have come to trust that meaning of some sort exists in it.

I am grateful for that. It keeps me going.

I write this because so much on my own meaning is described in this blog and in talking to folks at openings and Gallery Talks that I fear it might overshadow their own poetry and music they could otherwise take from it. I don’t want anyone to experience the work based solely on the meaning I place on it.

The meaning is theirs to give.

This probably appears as a wobbly mishmash of words and phrases. It might be one of those posts that I revisit years from now and say, “What the hell does this even mean?”

Maybe. Perhaps it’s like those paintings where the meaning I saw in them initially changes subtly– or sometimes drastically– based on changes that have occurred in my perceptions of the world.

Who knows? But for right now it makes sense to me and right now is all that matters right now. I was going to rewrite that last sentence, even as I was writing it, but decided that using right now three times in one sentence fit my mood this morning.

I was initially going to comment on the absurd goings-on at the White House last night. But I don’t know what actually happened and, to be honest, don’t really care. I want no part of the Bread and Circuses we are being offered. I wrote about this at a different point several years ago in a post called Circus of Cruelty. Almost every word of it applies today, even the warning of what might occur if we didn’t to stop them. We are seeing those consequences taking place in real time, unfortunately.

Okay, let’s wrap this up. Here is a song that I loved when the Animals recorded it in the 60’s and equally love when performed by the great Nina Simone. This is Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood.

It’s the concern of so many artists when their work goes out into the world, that it will be seen in ways they never intended nor even saw in it when it was being created.

That meaning will be lost…

Give Me Light– At Principle Gallery

Growth is a spiral process, doubling back on itself, reassessing and regrouping.

–Julia Cameron, The Artist’s Way (1992)

Back in the studio this morning after returning from Friday’s opening for Flow at the Principle Gallery. It went very well, a good opening with the folks there providing plenty of energy, for which I was grateful. I might even call it a great opening, especially in comparison to this same time last year, which was the jumping off point of what I call the Year from Hell. Friday’s energy on a hot, sticky evening in Alexandria gave me hope that the coming year would be much different.

I certainly feel mentally rejuvenated even though my body is still bone tired. That, too, is a hopeful sign for me since I believe in many ways the body follows the mind.

Today I am going to try to let my body catch up with my mind. This day or two after an opening is always a time for regrouping and reevaluating, a time for readying myself for the next step. It is often a time when I am harshly and excessively self-critical, a time that finds me beating myself up a bit.

This morning, I don’t feel like doing that. It’s a nice change. Maybe that is a lesson learned in this past Year from Hell, that I shouldn’t beat myself up, knowing that the world, age, and nature don’t need my help in that task. They can manage that job on their own just fine, thank you.

That in mind, I am just going to let things flow easy this morning and take things as they came over the past few days without taking swings at myself.

Maybe that lesson is for us all?

I don’t know.

And that is perfectly okay.

Shall we just have some Sunday Morning Music from a favorite of mine, Lisa Hannigan? I think it has been at least a few years since I last played this tune but that doesn’t matter since it seems like a fine fit with the joy it finds in its awareness of not knowing. This is I Don’t Know which was recorded in a pub on Ireland’s Dingle Peninsula.

I am going to resist saying Git this morning, but you really do have to leave. My threshold for human contact has been exceeded, and I need to build up my tolerance once again.

Thank you for your understanding.

Oh, what the hell–git!

I would maintain that thanks are the highest form of thought; and gratitude is happiness doubled by wonder.

–G. K. Chesterton, A Short History of England (1917)

I am writing this on my phone so it will be brief since I spend 3 times as much time correcting the text as it takes to write.

Thank you. Plain and simple.

Had a wonderful time at last night’s opening of my show at the Principle Gallery. Was able to spend some time talking with friends, old and new.

Please believe me when I say that it was just what the doctor ordered.

Many, many thanks to all that came out in the heat and humidity.

And special thanks to Michele, Clint, Taylor, and Owen, my longtime friends at the Principle Gallery. They are the best.

Heading home after a couple of hours in the gallery this morning so here’s sone road music from the late great Joe Ely. I first heard his music in 1981 when I came across his album Musta Notta Gotta Lotta. He was the darling of the critics at that point though in recent years he is most likely best known in his home state of Texas. This is his version of Robert Earl Keen’s The Road Goes on Forever. As much as I like the original from Keen, I prefer Joe’s version. Seems right for today.