Redtree Times

Flow: Yin and Yang– At West End Gallery

Every body perseveres in its state of being at rest or of moving uniformly straight forward, except insofar as it is compelled to change its state by forces impressed.

–Isaac Newton, The Principia: Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy (1687)

I’ve done about 72 or 73 solo exhibits over the past 30 years. Hard to keep track of them at this point. But in every show, there is usually at least one piece that I know has little chance of finding a new home. It is not because they are not the equal of the other work in the show nor lacking in any aspect. They are actually often some of my favorites from these shows. They are usually those paintings that are a little outside of the normal range and vocabulary of my work.

Some are slightly abstracted yet still representational. Most lack the Red Tree or many of the typical elements that populate my paintings. Most are focused solely on rhythm and color.

Almost all have eventually come back to me in the studio.

Yet time and time again, I feel a compulsion to follow through on some innate need to paint these pieces without any regard for their appeal to potential collectors. They are simply pieces that have to be painted for some inexplicable reason. As though there is some Newtonian force compelling a change in the course of my work. It is a mystery.

This painting, Flow: Yin and Yang, is one of those enigmatic pieces.

I shared it here early this year. It was intended to be in my June show at the Principle Gallery but something about it did not feel complete or right though I was still immensely drawn to it. Months later I went back into and heightened the colors in both the sky and in the landscape. It really began to click for me then.

I don’t know that I can explain its appeal to me. Actually, I am not even going to try. It doesn’t need my feeble explanations. because, though it feels outside the range of my recognizable work, it is as ingrained in and of me as any Red Tree piece.

It is what it is. And what it is is exactly what it should be.

Isn’t that the definition of art?

Maybe my inability to explain paintings such as this is part of the appeal for me. They sing in a range beyond my normal voice, one that leaves me looking at them in wonder.

Why is that?

As always, I don’t know. And that’s okay.

I can live with not knowing in my mind what I know in my heart.

Here’s a song. Two versions of a favorite, Even Flow, from Eddie Vedder and Pearl Jam.  The first is from their appearance on MTV Unplugged in 1992.  The second is an acoustic guitar version without lyrics.

Pick your poison. Or not.

Pax Omnis– At West End Gallery

I too am not a bit tamed,
I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp
over the roofs of the world.

–Walt Whitman, Song of Myself (1855)

In the last few days, I have had some trouble focusing in the morning as I try to write for the blog. I attribute this to the fact am a lot more tired than I was in the past week or so, most likely as a result of a course of steroids I had been on coming to an end. For the week I was on them life seemed to be close to normal once again, as far as energy is concerned. Made me aware of what I have been missing.

But now, sitting here trying to actually write something I want to say seems like too big a task. So, I went looking for something I could replay or maybe rework a bit. I have tried not to do that much this past year as I endeavor to write something new each day as part of an agreement I have with myself. Rerunning a post feels a bit like I am cheating.

But I came the post below that speaks of a short verse from Whitman that is vital to my being and thus, my work. I thought it would fill the bill well this morning. Plus, it works well with Pax Omnis, shown here on the right, another painting from my current West End Gallery exhibit. For me, it is a painting that very much represents rising above the everyday– over the roof of the world– and asserting your voice and place in the larger realm of being beyond the earthy plain.

These lines from Song of Myself have rang in my ears for decades and are at the core of my desire to paint and in the formation of my voice as an artist, long before I picked up a paint brush.

Before painting, I tried my hand at wood carving. I did a number of bas-relief carvings that were fairly crude in a folksy kind of way. I was untrained and just went at it, much as I did later on with my painting. I believe that the painting worked out much better, but the carving had a part to play for me at the time. It just felt like it had to be done.

One of the first things I carved was a rough-hewn face with the four lines– poorly executed– from Whitman next to it. It was nothing to write home about, carved as it was from the end of an old 2×12 pine board. I was not originally particularly proud of it as a piece of art.  But it has great meaning to me, staying near me in the studio, and I have come to really appreciate it. It makes me wonder what might have been if I had followed that path of expression. For some reason I like that the centers of some of the R’s and B’s have fallen out. It adds a dimension of some sort that I could not have planned.

In the past, I have described what these four lines from Whitman have meant to me. One was written for another painting but I think it fits equally with Pax Omnis:

…the four lines above have been a guiding beacon for me throughout the past 25 years as I have tried to be an artist. These words instructed me to be only myself, to openly and boldly express my feelings without fear or shame. To not hide my scars, my fears or my weaknesses because they are part of my wholeness and keep me in balance. To not be underestimated or devalued by myself or anyone else. To claim a foothold in this world and bellow out the proof of my existence in my own voice:

Here I am.

There are paintings that I do that are meant to represent this thought, paintings that are meant to be plainly expressions of that Here I am. I consider them icons in my body of work, pieces that fully represent my work and what I want from it. This painting definitely falls in that category. It’s simply put but not a simple expression.

When I look at this painting I personally see myself and all my hopes and aspirations, all that I am or desire to be.

What I hope for this painting is that someone else sees that same here I am in it for themselves, that they see in it those things that make them a whole and perfectly imperfect person with a place in this world and a voice that demands to be heard.

Is that asking too much?

I don’t think it is. We all need to have our barbaric yawp heard.

Here’s The Who with a song very much in line with this post, See Me Feel Me, from their classic rock opera Tommy.

By the Heart’s Firelight– At West End Gallery

Oft in the silence of the night,
When the lonely moon rides high,
When wintry winds are whistling,
And we hear the owl’s shrill cry,
In the quiet, dusky chamber,
By the flickering firelight,
Rising up between two sleepers,
Comes a spirit all in white.

–Louisa May Alcott, Our Little Ghost (1875)

Tired this morning and having some trouble starting the engine that drives this contraption of a blog. There are lots of things I want to talk about, some very important. But I’ve chased so many of them down dead-end streets this morning that it has left me with little time and no focus. As a result, I am just going to leave this painting now hanging at the West End Gallery as part of my current show there.

The painting is titled By the Heart’s Firelight. There are a handful of these wintry sorts of pieces in the show, and I am always drawn to their mix of warmth and coolness accented by the underlying colors beneath the snow’s white surface. I also like the way these pieces highlight the underlying texture of the painting. In this case, the strokes of my finger through the wet gesso when I was prepping the surface are plaint to see.

There’s something in seeing the hand of the artist so clearly that gratifies me. Something very human. Isn’t that the purpose of art?

Let’s just cut this short today and listen to one of my all-time favorites, River, from Joni Mitchell. It’s been a couple of years since I last shared it here and it fits the tone of my morning.  That might be the river in the painting…

Ten Moons of Wonder– At West End Gallery

You yourself are in an ecstatic state to such a point that you feel as though you almost don’t exist. I’ve experienced this time and again. My hand seems devoid of myself, and I have nothing to do with what is happening. I just sit there watching in a state of awe and wonderment. And it just flows out by itself.

–Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, FLOW: Studies of Enjoyment (1974)

The passage above from Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi (the last name is roughly pronounced Cheek-Sent-Me-High) captures the words of a composer describing the state of mind they enter when they become fully immersed in a composition. Their self and ego recede into a distant point outside of what is being created.

The creative flow.

Been there, done that, and have to say there isn’t anything more wondrous than it. The outside world is far removed, and you are almost like a point in space witnessing what is being created. Picture the beam from a light pointer zipping around. It is a sense of weightlessness and timelessness. In the words of a poet also interviewed by Csikszentmihalyi:

It’s like opening a door that floating in the middle of nowhere and all you have to do is going turn the handle and open it and let yourself sink into it. You can’t particularly force yourself through it. You just have to float. If there’s any gravitational pull, it’s from the outside world trying to keep you back from the door.

As I said, it is a feeling I have encountered many times over the years. In this past year it has been, I have come to appreciate the special quality of this creative flow as there have been times when my mind has been consumed by health concerns. I have often felt overwhelmed in the outer world yet once I have floated through that door into nowhere, those things that disturb me fade away and are replaced by a feeling of wonder at what is before me. Worries and fears, aches and pains, thoughts both negative and positive, all dissipate for a time.

The creative flow has been a saving grace this past year.

The painting shown at the top, Ten Moons of Wonder, is symbolic of the being in that creative flow. It’s as though I am on remote island, far removed from the chatter and drone of the world. My mind becomes clear and with that clarity I am able to see beyond the what is. and into the what might be where the ten moons crowd the dark sky.

And I am filled with awe and wonderment.

I’ve struggled to describe the meaning of my paintings with multiple moons, but this might well be the best explanation I can offer. There is a certain alchemy that comes into play with them that never fails to thrill me when I am working on them.

I hope it will always be that way.

Here’s a song, a composition actually, that feels like it could be the soundtrack for some sort of creative flow. Well. at least my creative flow. You might have a different soundtrack, if you have on at all. This is Tout Suite No. 1 in F Major 1 from Moondog performed with the London Saxophonic. Moondog was a truly unique character in many ways, a homeless and blind composer called the Viking of 6th Avenue during his time as a street person in Viking garb from the 1950’s up into the 70’s in NYC. He has made a couple of appearances here in the past and I still want to write more about him here. But for today, let’s just listen to his music.

A Call to Action– At West End Gallery

The waterfalls trinkling like bells to my ear
The earth rolls out before me through smiles and tears
A country lost, a soul discovered
The ruin that I once was will soon recover

And I know a howlin’ wind runs through here
Blowin’ everyday
Yeah a howlin’ wind runs through here
Takes my breath away

–Graham Parker, Howlin’ Wind (1976)

I was surprised that I had not shared the song with the lyrics shown here. It’s the title track from the 1976 album, Howlin’ Wind, from Graham Parker. The album was a big hit with the critics at the time, and it is still considered a landmark record that ushered in the punk era. I loved so many of the songs on this album, many of which have been shared here. Don’t Ask Me Questions is pretty high up on the list of my all-time favorites. Pretty sure I had this album on both vinyl and 8-track, a format that seems incomprehensible in these technologically advanced times. But at the time, carrying a shoebox in your car that held about 8 or 9 of the clunky big cartridges felt pretty posh.

I was listening to this song this morning and that first verse hit me, especially its final two lines:

A country lost, a soul discovered
The ruin that I once was will soon recover

It instantly fell into the context of what is taking place in this country, where every day seems to contain more and more revelations of the madness, the massive corruption that has never been seen before here, traitorous maneuvering that pits us against our allies and in the camp of our longtime foes, and on and on and on and on. As I have said many times before here, it is as though they are battering us with firehoses of awfulness. They know that so long as they keep it coming full force, we will not be able to keep our balance long enough to muster a unified front that can overcome their efforts to strip away the wealth and freedoms of this nation.

We are on the verge of becoming, as the song says, a country lost. But in their attempts to overwhelm us, I believe they have unwittingly awakened a fighting spirit among the masses who are finally beginning to see that they have been played like pawns on a chess board, all for the benefit of an international cabal of the ultra-wealthy who desire to own and control everything. It feels like people are beginning to realize that the things that concerns them are not the same as those who seek to manipulate them.

Maybe that is the soul discovered in that line of the song? Maybe.

And hopefully, the last line– The ruin that I once was will soon recover— is an accurate prediction.

It feels like something is in the air, that people are responding to the call to action. I am not going to use the word hope here today. Though it is a word that shows itself again and again here, in times like these we need the power of hopelessness, something I have written about here before. As I wrote in 2020:

Hope is a promise unfulfilled, a wish without action.

No, in times of doom, hopelessness is your greatest ally.

Hopelessness demands action.

Hopelessness is the greatest agent of change.

Hopelessness is fearless, with nothing left to lose.

That is the thought behind the painting at the top, A Call to Action. Desperate times require that you discard the notion that someone else will bail you out. That’s hope. And as I said, hope can sometimes keep you from taking the action that will save you.

Is this hyperbole? I don’t think so at this point. What has taken place over the past decade provides ample evidence that it is not. There is absolutely nothing normal taking place.

I will use hope just once this morning.

I hope people can embrace the power of their hopelessness and answer the call to action that comes on a howlin’ wind.

Mysterious Night– At West End Gallery

Sweet moonlight, shining full and clear,
Why do you light my torture here?
How often have you seen me toil,
Burning last drops of midnight oil.
On books and papers as I read,
My friend, your mournful light you shed.
If only I could flee this den
And walk the mountain-tops again,
Through moonlit meadows make my way,
In mountain caves with spirits play —
Released from learning’s musty smell,
Your healing dew would make me well!

— Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Faust (1808)

I guess if the healing dew of one moon would make one well then would the light of seven moons work even better? Or would be an overdose? Just wondering this morning. Reading my first sentences here reminds me that my life has become one where doses and meds have become dominant. I didn’t see that coming a year or so back. But it’s just part of the price one pays. I would much prefer to be made well by moonlight’s healing dew. I imagine there might be fewer side effects.

I am tired this morning, something I can see in that first paragraph. Unfocused and a bit rambling. As is the case with every solo show that I have done over the past 26 years or so, which includes 70 shows, the days after the show opens are filled with a mix of emotions, something I have documented here many times in the past. There is, of course, relief in that the obligations for the show have been met and my time is freed up a bit. Sometimes there is elation in that the show was wildly successful but even for those shows there is also a sense of a big letdown, bringing with it an almost depressive state.

The carrot that lured this mule forward has been removed and I stumble around in a somewhat aimless state. It often takes a few weeks to shake the blahs that appear during this time. But after 70+ shows, I don’t fret too much when they do appear now. Like the tide, they come then go. A natural occurrence.

I can imagine how difficult if must seem for a young artist encountering this for the first time. I have heard from a number over the years expressing how this feeling surprised them as they expected the exact opposite reaction, that they would feel like life had changed somehow. That the tide would come in and somehow stay there for them. And maybe there are the fortunate few for which this happens.

I don’t know. As it is with so many things, the breadth of my knowledge is limited. On this subject, I can only speak of my experience.

The experience of one befuddled mule with a mysterious disappearing carrot.

I am going to go lay on the floor now. My studio cats are gathered and demanding attention. Maybe I will find the missing carrot down there. Who knows? You never can tell when or where it will reappear.

Here’s hoping…

Here’s also this week’s Sunday Morning Music. It’s Moonlight Mile from the Rolling Stones, a favorite of mine from their 1971 classic album, Sticky Fingers. There’s something in this song that matches up really well with the Mysterious Night at the top and Goethe’s lines— and my own mood this morning.

Now, let me gets to my cats. Don’t step on me on your way out.

The Hallelujah Garden— Now at the West End Gallery

Let us be grateful to people who make us happy; they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom.

–Marcel Proust, Pleasures and Regrets (1896)

Count me in as a blossomed soul.

I am so grateful for those folks who made their way to the West End Gallery last night for the opening of my show, The Jubilee Dance. Their presence and the happiness they brought and created made it a very pleasant evening. It was so good to see old friends and meet the many new folks who showed up. Overall, the show seemed to strike a chord with most of those in attendance.

As an artist, it’s all you can ask for.

I’ve written here many times before about the shock to the system that comes in doing events like this. I spend almost 99% of my time by myself in the studio with only Cheri as my only human contact during the day. When an opening or gallery talk comes around, it sometimes feel as though I am an inmate who has been in solitary confinement (self-imposed, mind you) for a long period who has been suddenly thrown into a crowd. I almost have to consciously remember how to interact with others so I don’t seem as awkward as I feel.

Generally, it works out and most folks don’t recognize that my mind is racing out of control the whole time. It is all kind of kept in check by the extraordinary warmth and kindness I encounter at these things, which is both soothing and gratifying.

It makes me happy and like Proust’s admonition, I am grateful.

There’s a lot more that could be said. In the usual course of these things, I will spend the day after overthinking last night’s events. That’s normally has me second-guessing and regretting some of the things I said and didn’t say or the folks I wasn’t able to get to or spend much time with.

It makes for a curious mix here back in solitary confinement– both happy and fretful.

Today I will try to focus on the happy part.

Again, many, many thanks to everyone who came out last night. And as always, a special to Jesse and Linda at the West End Gallery for everything they have done for me with great friendship and affection over the past thirty years. My life would be much different without them.

Okay, let’s have a song, shall we? This is an R.E.M. song from 1991 that features Kate Pierson of the B-52s singing with Michael Stipe. I haven’t heard this tune in several years and it came on while I was writing which I took as a tiny bit of serendipity. It works this morning. This is Shiny Happy People.

The Elevating Spirit– Now at West End Gallery

We are adapted to infinity. We are hard to please, and love nothing which ends: and in nature is no end; but every thing, at the end of one use, is lifted into a superior, and the ascent of these things climbs into daemonic and celestial natures.

–Ralph Waldo Emerson, Swedenborg; or the Mystic (1850)

Well, my annual solo exhibit at the West End Gallery opens tonight.

Finally. Phew.

This was a tough one in a lot of ways, as I have noted here in the past few weeks. It really took it out of me and even after the work for the show was delivered, it didn’t end or bring the expected relief. As it is with every show, the time between delivery and opening is stressful as I wait to see how the show will be received.

And when I am not fretting, I am promoting the show here and on other social media platforms which in its own way is equally tiresome. But it is mandatory since artist is basically much like any other small business; it needs the eyes and ears of people if it is to be successful. It is one part of doing what I do that gets old fast. After the day of the opening, the pressure to promote lessens somewhat but doesn’t go away fully.

I have to admit that promoting this show, even with the stress and health issues, has been made much easier by the work that populates this exhibit. There are so many pieces in it that I am eager to point out and say a few words about. Even with the constant drumbeat of my promotion the past month or so, I have only shown a portion of the work from this show. There are so many pieces in the show that I consider extremely strong in all ways that I just won’t be able to get to here.

Take for example, the painting shown here, The Elevating Spirit. I was surprised when I realized that I hadn’t yet featured it here. It’s a richly colored painting that has a gorgeous glow on the wall that comes with a message, as I see it, that could easily be the theme for this show. It’s pretty much summed up in the passage at the top from Ralph Waldo Emerson.

We are adapted to infinity…

Damn, that’s a fine line! it sure fits what I see in The Elevating Spirit. I see the Red Tree being lifted above the earthly and into the celestial.

And just for your information, daemonic as used by Emerson above is not the same as demonic. A daemon is an ancient Greek guiding spirit, inner voice, or lesser divine power that acts as an intermediary between gods and humans. A demon is a daemon– an evil one– but not all daemons are demons. Try to keep that straight, okay?

I am going to say it one more time: Phew. My 25th annual solo exhibit, The Jubilee Dance, opens tonight at the West End Gallery in Corning with an Opening Reception that runs from 5-7 PM.

I will be there to answer questions and generally be in the way. Hope you can come and be in the way with me for a while.

Here’s a song about elevating the mind, body, and spirit. It’s a favorite of mine, The Rising, from Bruce Springsteen written in the aftermath of the 9/11 attacks. The song is performed here by Sting from the 2009 Kennedy Center Honors. There’s a political/cultural statement to be made here but I am going to leave that for another day. But it will be made, you can count on that.

For today, I am going to be inspired and elevated by this performance.

The Far Outpost— Now at West End Gallery

An island always pleases my imagination, even the smallest, as a small continent and integral portion of the globe. I have a fancy for building my hut on one. Even a bare, grassy isle, which I can see entirely over at a glance, has some undefined and mysterious charm for me.

–Henry David Thoreau, A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers (1849)

I share Thoreau’s fascination for islands, especially those small ones that you can take in, as he wrote, entirely with a glance. I see that same mysterious charm in them. But I also see them as a place of refuge and quietude as well as a symbol of one’s own sovereignty.

Apart from all things and people with their intrusive noise and nosiness, an island can feel like its own kingdom or nation or even universe.

A place to call one’s own.

I suppose in some part that is why islands show up in many of my paintings. They have become so much of an ingrained element that I am not even aware of how often that they do appear in my work. They just show up and I happily work around them. For example, in my solo show opening at the West End Gallery tomorrow, there are no less than eleven paintings with islands as the central focus of my landscapes. And there are several other that might be either islands or long promontories. I leave that up to your imagination.

The painting shown here, The Far Outpost, leaves no doubt that it is indeed an island. It is a piece that exudes a certain contentment that pleases me greatly. It comes no doubt from the warm blend of colors and light in the sky and the burnt orange of the island itself. The Red Tree also adds to this sense of contentment with the golden tone in its red crown and its almost relaxed posture, as though it is casually standing with one hip out, at ease with the world and its place in it.

I could be very happy on this island.

Now a word from our sponsor. Here’s the obligatory promotion of my show.

The Far Outpost is included in The Jubilee Dance, my 25th annual solo exhibit at the West End Gallery, the very place where I first started showing my work. The show begins tomorrow, Friday, October 16, with an Opening Reception that runs from 5-7 PM. I have promised to come off my island for the reception so if you want to talk a bit, come on in.

I will also be off the island for a Gallery Talk at the West End on Saturday, November 7. The Gallery Talk begins at 11 AM but we are advising you to get there early to insure you get a seat. Doors open at 10:30 AM. If you do come early, I will be there to chat. I will also be bringing some goodies including at least one of my paintings that will be given away in a free drawing at the conclusion of the talk.

Both the Gallery Talk and the drawing are free and open to one and all.

Here’s a song, Island in the Sun, from Weezer. Not to be confused with the Harry Belafonte song of the same name. Hard to believe this song is 25 years old. How time does fly.

But it still sounds good on my little island.

This Place, This Life— Now at West End Gallery

Every soul is engaged in a great work—the labor of personal liberation from the state of ignorance. The world is a great prison; its bars are the Unknown. And each is a prisoner until, at last, he earns the right to tear these bars from their moldering sockets, and pass, illuminated and inspired into the darkness, which becomes lighted by that presence. We can only escape from the world by outgrowing the world. Death may take man out of the world but only wisdom can take the world out of the man. As long as the human being is obsessed by worldliness, he will suffer from the Karmic consequences of false allegiances. When however, worldliness is transmuted into Spiritual Integrity he is free, even though he still dwells physically among worldly things.

–Manly P. Hall, The Lost Keys of Freemasonry (1923)

Manly P. Hall was only 22 when wrote the book The Lost Keys of Freemasonry. In fact, he was not even a Freemason at that point. That didn’t happen until 1954. Hall was an interesting character, the head of a church in Los Angeles when he was also still 22 who went on to a 70-year career as a prominent lecturer and author of over 150 books, essays and volumes dealing mainly with world mythology, secret societies, and esoteric philosophy. He believed that all world religions, mythologies, and philosophies point to a single, underlying spiritual truth and that service to others, unselfish living and a mastery of our emotions was the key to attaining universal truth.

To be honest, I had not heard of Hall before encountering the passage above and don’t know much about him outside of a quick and cursory search.  Not sure if his teaching were controversial or have been widely discredited but the passage above felt right for this new painting which I call This Place, This Life.

It’s a painting that seems to brim with mystery and symbolism. I see the Red Chair here as being the stand-in (or should I say, sit-in?) for the soul that is engaged in its great work of freeing itself from its inborn state of ignorance.

The trees represent the bars of the soul’s prison, those things Unknown that keep the Red Chair trapped in darkness.

The path symbolizes the passage from darkness past the prison bars into the presence of the moon’s light which serves as the symbol for the illumination that comes with wisdom.

The Red Roofed house represents the soul that has been liberated– free though it still dwells physically among worldly things.

As for its title, This Place, This Life, it was anointed that long before I came across this passage. But even that title seems to fit Hall’s words. We are put into this place at birth, emerging from the darkness in a state of ignorance and with no choice in the matter. Our life then becomes a labored journey on the path from darkness and ignorance to light and wisdom.

That pretty much sums up what I was seeing in this painting when it came off the easel.

Or in the words of Manly P. Hall: We can only escape from the world by outgrowing the world.

Of course, you may not see that in this painting at all. It might not appeal to you in any way. That’s fine. That’s art.

This feels like one of those paintings that might be for me alone, though I can never be sure of these things now. I have pretty much lost the ability to predict how others will react to my work. That’s okay, too. Being able to predict how people will react would make it feel too much like a manipulation rather than an honest expression.

And I believe this is an honest expression. So, who knows?

This Life, This Place is included in The Jubilee Dance, my 25th annual solo show at the West End Gallery. The show is now hanging and is available for previews and presales. I saw the show the other day and I think it looks great but then again, what do I know?  Plus, I also am more than a little biased in my opinion on this subject.

The show officially opens this coming Friday, October 16, with an opening reception that runs from 5-7 PM. Hope you can make it.

There is also a Gallery Talk accompanying the show that takes place on Saturday, November 7, beginning at 11 AM. Details forthcoming though I have to hint that there will be some major giveaways.

Here’s a song that, like most of the songs I share here, has only the most tenuous connection with the painting or words of that day’s post. The song is The Mercy Seat, a Nick Cave song performed by Johnny Cash. It is from Cash’s final years when he produced what I consider to be a group of work that was nothing less than art. The Mercy Seat in the song is the electric chair and the narrator is a prisoner on Death Row about to be executed.

As awful as it is in itself, at least it doesn’t descend into the barbarism of being livestreamed as some sort of bloodthirsty spectacle.

That being said, perhaps the Red Chair here is in some way the Mercy Seat and that we are all eventually condemned to leave this earthly plane. Of course, I could be grasping at straws here. Doesn’t matter. I just felt it was serious song that I wanted to share with what I consider to be a serious painting.

Oaky, I’ve been trying to cut back on saying this but, seriously, you got to git…