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You Still Can’t Judge a Book By Its Cover…

May 17, 2026 by redtreetimes

Let Us Now Praise Famous Men (1995)

You can’t judge a book by its cover.

— George Eliot, The Mill on the Floss (1860)

I’m about a month out from the opening of my 27th annual solo show at the Principle Gallery, which opens on Friday, June 12th. I deliver the show to the gallery in two weeks so I am deep in prepping and framing the paintings for this show. It has been a sometimes grueling process this year as the effects of the fatigue from my treatment and back pain brought on by standing on a concrete floor to build and stain my frames have slowed my pace considerably. Everything is done in short spurts of activity followed by a period of resting. Hard to get a great rhythm going.

The only benefit of this that I can see is that trying to get through this has kept me from worrying about the details of the opening at the Principle Gallery. I used to have pretty high anxiety about the openings, about how I would come off to others in appearance and manner. That train has pretty much left the station in recent times. There are much bigger things to occupy my mind these days than whether I am wearing the “right” clothes or if I might come off as a little crazy to people there.

I have learned that it doesn’t really matter. Some will judge you and many will not, no matter how much effort you put into blending in. So, I don’t give much thought or effort to appearance these days. Right now, I am wearing a dirty, paint splattered flannel shirt along with what I call old man work pants, the kind of khaki chinos that I remember my great-uncle Otto wearing. The ones I wear are well worn with a large horizontal rip across the right knee that includes a long vertical tear that goes halfway down the front of my calf. I might just wear these to the opening.

Thinking about this brought back a story I told here back in 2009, not long after I began writing this blog. I was prepping for what was then my tenth show at the Principle Gallery. I have told this story a couple of times at Gallery Talks but can’t find any mention of it here after that 2009 post.

In it I recounted an episode from an opening I attended there in 1998. In my early days at the Principle Gallery, I was included in a group of five artists called the Finger Lakes School. It included Tom Buechner, Marty Poole, Tom Gardner, Rudy Gyr, and me.  With Marty Poole’s recent death, only Tom and I remain from that group that was named for the lovely region in which we live.

I was kind of the oddball in the group as the others were all more traditional representational painters with much longer careers than mine. I was just glad to be included on equal footing with this group of esteemed artists.

We did two shows as the Finger Lakes School at the gallery before I broke off and began my solo shows there in 2000. There is one moment from our first show that stands out for me. There was a great turnout for the show and the gallery was crowded as several of us from the group mingled, answering questions and such.

I had a small break in conversation and stepped back to take it all in. I then heard a female voice from behind me ask her companion where we were from, where the Finger Lakes were. Her friend answered that the Finger Lakes region was in western New York. He explained that it was a mainly rural area with a lot of wineries and farms.

“Well, you know, they do look like farmers,” she replied.

I think I might have done a spit take on hearing that. Maybe not but I chuckled pretty hard at that moment. Over the years I often think back to that lady’s comment and still sometimes laugh. Maybe we shouldn’t have all worn our overalls and John Deere caps that night. Or maybe it was the piece of straw I kept in my mouth.

It just reminds me how we often judge others by that initial glimpse and how we often end up being wrong. If people judge me to be a farmer, I’m okay with that. Though I am more comfortable in calling myself an artist than I once did, I still generally think of myself as workingman. To be honest, I am always a little suspect when someone has the deliberate look of being an artist, like they are trying too hard to play the role.

So, if you can make it to the opening, don’t look for someone who looks like an artist. I’ll be the uncomfortable guy there who looks like a farmer.

That brings me to this week’s Sunday Morning Music. It is You Can’t Judge a Book, that was originally written by blues great Willie Dixon and made popular by Bo Diddley.  My favorite version is from Long John Baldry, one of the pioneers of the British blues/rock movement in the early 60’s and a guy who had real panache. Both Rod Stewart and Elton John, both mentioned in this song, started their careers with Baldry’s band. My brother introduced to me to his music in the early 70’s and I have enjoyed it ever since.

Plain good stuff. Now git– I need to get out in the fields. Got to get those crops in.

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Ashes to Ashes

May 16, 2026 by redtreetimes

The Sky Is Always the Sky (1995) – Coming to Principle Gallery, June

One of the few things I know about writing is this: Spend it all, shoot it, play it, lose it, all, right away, every time. Don’t hoard what seems good for a later place in the book, or for another book; give it, give it all, give it now. The very impulse to save something good for a better place later is the signal to spend it now. Something more will arise for later, something better. These things fill from behind, from beneath, like well water. Similarly, the impulse to keep to yourself what you have learned is not only shameful; it is destructive. Anything you do not give freely and abundantly becomes lost to you. You open your safe and find ashes.

–Annie Dillard, A Writer in the World (1989)

It seems to me that most everything Annie Dillard writes about the act of writing has some application to all the other arts. I read so much from her that could pertain to painting. At least, in the way I paint. Every artist has their own way of working.

This particular passage didn’t really apply to my painting. I seldom hold back anything when I am working, never withhold something for some later and hopefully better painting. I view whatever I am working on at the moment to be the only thing that matters. It is the most important thing to me then and receives every potentiality I can offer it. I think that is why I generally don’t do studies in my work. What might start out as study usually turns into a full-bloomed painting.

What caught my eye and mind in this passage was sparked by my recent excavation of older work to fill out my upcoming solo show, Flow, at the Principle Gallery in June. Pulling out these older pieces, I had long held assumptions on so many that I felt were untouchable, pieces I could not possibly give up. 

But this time it felt different. Maybe it was the reminder of the impermanence of this life that I took from my recent health issues. I don’t know. But much like Annie Dillard wrote, I found myself feeling as though I was hoarding them. For what reason or purpose, I do not know. 

Her last two sentences struck a chord with me: Anything you do not give freely and abundantly becomes lost to you. You open your safe and find ashes.

What good were these pieces serving for me now? I do like going through them periodically and having them reignite memories of how they came about or how they were painted or how I felt when they were done and how I feel about them now. But I do the same thing with images of paintings that left the studio long ago. I didn’t need to have these in my grasp to do that.

And if I were to die tomorrow, what then becomes of these works?  What assurance do I have that their voices, small as they may be, are heard in the future beyond me?

Will these be the ashes found in my safe?

I don’t know. Maybe.

The thought of that irks me. After all, the reason I began painting was to communicate, to give expression and air to some inner voice that I felt needed to be heard. To live and speak in the open air is the ultimate purpose for every piece I have ever painted. They were not meant to dwell in the stale air of boxes, folders, or shelves in the small back bedrooms of my studio.

And they are not meant for me since they are already of me and will always be so. They are meant to be sent out into the world, like little space probes sent into distant galaxies with the hope of making contact and letting the voice of my planet be heard and not forgotten.

They are not meant to be ashes.

So, as I prepare for my show, I look at each piece with a different eye than in the past.  And the thought from Annie Dillard echoing in my mind that what I do is not for me to hoard but should be given freely and abundantly so that it might live and speak long after I have ceased to be.

That being said, I’ve decided to include the small painting at the top, The Sky Is Always the Sky from 1995, in the Principle Gallery show. A few years back, I wrote about this painting, saying: I stumbled across it the other day and it thrilled me, much as it did when I first painted almost 28 years ago. I see things in it that I would struggle in recreating. The colors, the sedimentation of the pigments, and even the organic feel of the linework would be much different.

I went on to mention that I had no reason to give for why it had never been shown. And I have no reason now that it shouldn’t be seen and heard. 

It is not meant to be ashes.

Okay, here’s a song about ashes that has absolutely no bearing to what I have written. But it does have ashes in it. This is an impromptu acoustic cover from Glen Hansard in what appears to be a hotel room of Ashes to Ashes, the David Bowie song from way back in 1980.

Wow, time flies. Speaking of time, my 27th annual solo show, Flow, opens in less than four weeks, on Friday, June 12, at the Principle Gallery in Alexandria, VA. That might seem like a long time, but I have much still to do while working with reduced energy levels.

So, get the hell out of here and let me get to work, okay?

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The Infectiousness of Art

May 15, 2026 by redtreetimes

all present and accounted for— At West End Gallery

The chief peculiarity of this feeling is that the receiver of a true artistic impression is so united to the artist that he feels as if the work were his own and not someone else’s, —as if what it expresses were just what he had long been wishing to express. A real work of art destroys, in the consciousness of the receiver, the separation between himself and the artist — not that alone, but also between himself and all whose minds receive this work of art. In this freeing of our personality from its separation and isolation, in this uniting of it with others, lies the chief characteristic and the great attractive force of art.

–Leo Tolstoy, What Is Art? (1897)

The 1897 book, What Is Art?, from Russian author Leo Tolstoy is an interesting treatise, one that I have mentioned here once before. The book decried the elitist nature of art at the time when it was predominantly the domain of the powerful — the rulers, the ultrawealthy, the academies of higher learning, and the church– as well as the wealthy art dealers who chose what was suitable for these elite few. The artists who thrived at that time catered solely to the elite few and were richly rewarded for their efforts, thus becoming members of the elite themselves.

It’s an engrossing read for an artist and I found myself particularly interested in chapter 15 of this book, which deals with the quality that determines whether a work is or is not art, which he defines as its infectiousness. It has nothing to do with subject matter nor with expertise or the quality with which it is crafted. This infectiousness is how it reaches out and connects the minds of the artist and the receiver. Tolstoy laid out three conditions that any work had to meet in order to be called art: The strength of emotion of the artist in its creation, the clarity in how this emotion is expressed, and the sincerity of the artist in creating it.

As someone who often struggles with confidence, wondering if my work will be seen as true art by others, this was most satisfying to read. The three conditions he mentions are qualities I have often written of here, all things I strive for in my work.

I use my work as a vehicle of emotional expression, first and foremost for myself. I am an artist (if I am even such a thing) who is, as Tolstoy puts it, infected by his own production, and writes, sings, or plays for himself and not merely to act on others. I have often mentioned in talks and here that my primary goal in the studio is to first create an excitement in myself for the work I am doing. Or as Robert Frost put it: No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. No surprise in the writer, no surprise in the reader.

I also pride myself on clearly expressing that emotion in my work. I want people, me included, to easily move into and connect with the emotion in that work.

And as for the third condition, sincerity, I believe that to be my most important asset as an artist. I believe my work is honest. I am forever vigilant in trying to keep it from being clever or manipulative. I see it as being representative of who I really am, all masks stripped away.

As I say, it made me feel better knowing that Tolstoy may have viewed my work as being art. Then again, maybe he wouldn’t have. You can never really know about such things. But for now, I feel justified in having spent the past thirty or so years trying to create work that satisfies some inner need of my soul and having it, much to my surprise, infect others.

So long as I am infecting others, that time has not been wasted.

That’s quite of a loaded sentence, isn’t it? But, hey, there are worse infections in this world that I could be spreading.

Below is the section that came immediately after the passage at the top of the page. You can read What Is Art? for yourself on Project Gutenberg. This is, as I wrote above, from Chapter 15.

If a man is infected by the author’s condition of soul, if he feels this emotion and this union with others, then the object which has effected this is art; but if there be no such infection, if there be not this union with the author and with others who are moved by the same work—then it is not art. And not only is infection a sure sign of art, but the degree of infectiousness is also the sole measure of excellence in art.

The stronger the infection the better is the art, as art, speaking now apart from its subject-matter, i.e. not considering the quality of the feelings it transmits.

And the degree of the infectiousness of art depends on three conditions:

(1) On the greater or lesser individuality of the feeling transmitted; (2) on the greater or lesser clearness with which the feeling is transmitted; (3) on the sincerity of the artist, i.e. on the greater or lesser force with which the artist himself feels the emotion he transmits.

The more individual the feeling transmitted the more strongly does it act on the receiver; the more individual the state of soul into which he is transferred the more pleasure does the receiver obtain, and therefore the more readily and strongly does he join in it.

The clearness of expression assists infection, because the receiver, who mingles in consciousness with the author, is the better satisfied the more clearly the feeling is transmitted, which, as it seems to him, he has long known and felt, and for which he has only now found expression.

But most of all is the degree of infectiousness of art increased by the degree of sincerity in the artist. As soon as the spectator, hearer, or reader feels that the artist is infected by his own production, and writes, sings, or plays for himself and not merely to act on others, this mental condition of the artist infects the receiver; and, contrariwise, as soon as the spectator, reader, or hearer feels that the author is not writing, singing, or playing for his own satisfaction,—does not himself feel what he wishes to express,—but is doing it for him, the receiver, a resistance immediately springs up, and the most individual and the newest feelings and the cleverest technique not only fail to produce any infection but actually repel.

 

Posted in In the Studio | Leave a Comment »

A Little Peace in the World

May 14, 2026 by redtreetimes

A Little Peace in the World— Coming to Principle Gallery

Peace is not an absence of war, it is a virtue, a state of mind, a disposition for benevolence, confidence, justice.

–Baruch Spinoza, Theological-Political Treatise (1670)

I was surprised this morning to find that I had never shared this painting, A Little Peace in the World, on this blog. Though it has been around for a while, it is one of those pieces that jumps out at me– simple but with a strong profile and immediacy of message. But it somehow existed under the radar at the few galleries where it had shown.

When it recently came back to me after a long sojourn out of sight in storage at a distant gallery, I was thrilled to see it again.  I knew immediately that it had to be part of my June solo show at the Principle Gallery, especially since the show is a hybrid retrospective, combing new and older work. It fits perfectly as when it was painted in 2008, I had been painting a small series of similarly composed pieces. It well represents that time and the work I was then producing yet fits snugly in the continuum of my work. That makes sense as that is the basis for this show, titled Flow.

When it was painted, the overwhelming feeling I took from this was one of calmness and a peace of mind. I still get that feeling from this painting, along with a sense of a warmth of spirit. The Red Tree here actually has a more golden appearance, as though the years it has seen have awarded it a precious sort of wisdom. I don’t know that I saw it that way when I painted it. It was 18 years ago so I was still but a child, as far as wisdom is concerned.

The attitude of the Red Tree here reminds me greatly of the state of mind mentioned in the passage above from Spinoza— a disposition for benevolence, confidence, justice. I would like to say that same disposition applies to myself and all my work but one can never be sure how one comes across, both as a person or in a painting. My painting definitely displays more confidence than I do most times, but I would like to think that most of it possesses a warmth of spirit.

Getting back to Spinoza’s words, the world would be far better off if more of us, particularly those we choose to lead, this virtuous state of mind. There would certainly be more peace, both in the absence of war and in the state of mind of most people.

Imagine a world where benevolence, equality, tolerance, and justice were the ruling passions.

It seems like such a far-fetched notion at this point, doesn’t it?

But it has to be kept in mind as an ideal and a goal if we ever hope to achieve even a fraction of such a world. And we will have to accept that small fraction with gratitude. Such a transformation only occurs one person at a time.  Humans, as we know all too well, generally learn and follow the behaviors they witness. Let Spinoza’s disposition for benevolence, confidence, justice be that example we follow.

Like a pebble thrown into a vast pond, its ripples will spread and reach others, causing more pebbles to be tossed into the pond. Soon the ripples will cover the whole pond.

Sounds like a plan to me.

Okay. Let’s attach some music to this thing, shall we? Here’s a longtime favorite from Cat Stevens that, like this painting, I am surprised to have never shared here. This Peace Train from 1971.

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A Look Back: The Misfits

May 13, 2026 by redtreetimes

I do not know of any salvation for society except through eccentrics, misfits, dissenters, people who protest.

–William O. Douglas, Discussion on the Free Society, 1961

I’m not sure the words from the late Supreme Court Justice William O. Douglas have anything to do with the paintings shown at the top, I just really like his quote on the need for the freedom of speech that enables and nurtures the eccentrics, misfits, dissenters, protesters, and all the other oddballs and weirdos. They are often the engines of progress and always the ones who add spice to this life.

I was working in the basement of my studio yesterday. It’s where I now do my framing. The space has a retro 60’s vibe with its cheesy wood paneling and carpet that looks like it may have come from an old casino. I don’t even notice the carpet or paneling anymore. I also realized yesterday that I also no longer notice the things hanging on the walls down there. But yesterday took a moment to look at some of the things hanging on the wall.

It’s a group of paintings that feels like they are oddballs, kind of a basement version of the Island of Misfit Toys. There is a painting from 2000 called Memento Mori that doesn’t deserve to be relegated to this space. It has a sort of regal feel amongst the other pieces, as though it knows this. Like an exiled monarch waiting to return to their throne. Then there is a folk-art painting of a black lab curled up that I call Winston Churchill for reasons I can no longer recall. I’ll sj=how these two pieces some other times along with another painting from 1998 that, like Memento Mori, deserves a better place to rest its weary self.

The pieces I wanted to talk about are the two shown at the top. Yes, I know there are four images. You’re not telling me anything I didn’t already know, smart guy. They are from around 1998 from a short period in which I was interested in some way of creating two side paintings. I’m not sure why it so interested me at the time. But it did. I actually did one of these two=sided pieces that found a home. It was painted on both sides of an old cabinet door and was hung with a black iron chain that ran between wrought iron hooks attached to the side of the door panel. Its current owners hang it in a open through window (is that the right term?) where one side can be seen from each of the two rooms.

The pieces above were experiments. I say experiments now but at the time I didn’t view them as such. It was just an idea to be chased and I would use whatever was at hand to reach it. They are painted on gesso-coated pieces of plain plywood which is not an ideal surface in any way. Though that didn’t stop me, I knew pretty quickly that these were destined to be experiments. Even so, I painted them with all earnestness and effort. I believe in maximum effort when it comes to my work. That’s probably why I don’t do studies.

These paintings have knocked around with me for about 28 years now, so they have seen some rough conditions at times. The pair on the left with the horizontal orientation is a favorite of mine, probably as a result of the coffee stain that shows on the lower right side of the bottom image. I probably should be more irritated by this obvious flaw but it actually makes me kind of happy. I have mentioned how I like to see the hand of the artist in works– a stray bristle, hair, or scuff on the surface that captures a moment when the artist at work. This sort of falls in that category though this happened well after it was painted.

The left-hand image on the vertically oriented pieces on the right is probably the best, most fully realized, of all the images. I think it is a beautiful image. Unfortunately, the piece of plywood on which it is painted experienced a bit more expansion and contraction which caused the gesso surface to crack. It also has numerous drilled holes from some crackpot idea I probably had at the time about mounting this piece.

But I don’t care too much. That just gives them a little character.

I feel bad for often working down there without noticing them at all. And when I do look at them, I am only seeing one side. But, even so, they give me a lot of pleasure in that funky space when I do pause to take them in.

They are my misfits, after all.

And I have a special place in my heart for the eccentrics and misfits, the weirdos and the oddballs that make this world a special place.

Bill Doulas would know what I mean by that…

Posted in Early Paintings | 2 Comments »

Colours

May 12, 2026 by redtreetimes

Born Into Color— At West End Gallery

Oliver rose next morning, in better heart, and went about his usual occupations, with more hope and pleasure than he had known for many days. The birds were once more hung out, to sing, in their old places; and the sweetest wild flowers that could be found, were once more gathered to gladden Rose with their beauty. The melancholy which had seemed to the sad eyes of the anxious boy to hang, for days past, over every object, beautiful as all were, was dispelled by magic. The dew seemed to sparkle more brightly on the green leaves; the air to rustle among them with a sweeter music; and the sky itself to look more blue and bright. Such is the influence which the condition of our own thoughts, exercise, even over the appearance of external objects. Men who look on nature, and their fellow-men, and cry that all is dark and gloomy, are in the right; but the sombre colours are reflections from their own jaundiced eyes and hearts. The real hues are delicate, and need a clearer vision.

–Charles Dickens, Oliver Twist (1838)

Very short on time this morning but wanted to share the above lines from Oliver Twist to accompany this painting. It’s a great reminder that our own attitude affects how we perceive this world. Not everyone notices the variety and depth of colors or the graceful lines and forms that are around us every day. These unfortunates miss perhaps the greatest gift of this world, its inherent beauty, and live in a world that lacks subtlety and room for imagination and thought.

When I think about it, I feel so fortunate to know and be moved by color and beauty.

There’s a lot more that could be said but that’s all I will say today. Like I said, much to do and I am working with a battery that runs short on power too quickly lately so I must go. hang around if you like and listen to this song, Colours, from Donovan in 1965.

Just don’t touch anything or bother my cats. You’ve been warned…

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Flow

May 11, 2026 by redtreetimes

 

Flow– Coming to Principle Gallery, June

Quiet friend who has come so far,

feel how your breathing makes more space around you.
Let this darkness be a bell tower
and you the bell. As you ring,

what batters you becomes your strength.
Move back and forth into the change.
What is it like, such intensity of pain?
If the drink is bitter, turn yourself to wine.

In this uncontainable night,
be the mystery at the crossroads of your senses,
the meaning discovered there.

And if the world has ceased to hear you,
say to the silent earth: I flow.
To the rushing water, speak: I am.

— Rainer Maria Rilke, Let This Darkness Be a Bell Tower (1922)

My annual solo exhibit at the Principle Gallery opens in a little over a month, on Friday, June 12th. I have been in getting things together for the show in recent weeks, as I normally would though at a much slower pace. Still battling fatigue which requires that there be an almost equal amount of rest for any real effort made. This was to be expected after my recent radiation treatments so early in the year, the Principle Gallery and I decided that this year’s show would be a hybrid retrospective exhibit, a mix of new work and older work, covering the nearly thirty years my work has been showing there, as well as some representing my earliest work.

 I would prefer a show of only new work for this show, my 27th at the Principle. There’s something exciting about unveiling a group of new work. Sometimes it’s exciting like opening a wrapped Christmas present and sometimes it’s more like being handed the gun during a game of Russian Roulette. You never know.

But things being as they are, I am happy to put together this hybrid show. It’s been really interesting going through my older work and reexamining them with a newly critical eye. Fortunately, it’s gone pretty easily thus far.  The hard part is not in trying to determine which pieces fit into this show as I see it but rather which pieces I cannot include.

I believe that is because the title and theme for this year’s show is Flow. I wanted this show to show how the work has changed over the last thirty years but also how it has maintained a throughline in its identity and feeling.

A continuum.

A flow.

Like drops of water in a stream that moves forward and merges with and grows as it runs toward its place in the great waters of the earth.

I cross a small footbridge every morning while walking to the studio. It’s a runoff creek that dries up in the summer, much more often now than it did thirty years ago. But on those days when the creek is running, the thought that this humble trickle of water is destined to someday move through the Chesapeake Bay and merge with the Atlantic brings to mind the unity that makes up this world.

It seems small but contains greatness.

That’s how I would like to have this work come across, as part of the flow that sees small drops merging into a greater body.

I think the final lines from the poem at the top, Let This Darkness Be a Bell Tower, sums it up beautifully:

And if the world has ceased to hear you,
say to the silent earth: I flow.
To the rushing water, speak: I am.

These were, fittingly, the final lines of the final poem in his 1922 book, Sonnets to Orpheus. These lines spoke to me because when I began painting, I felt unheard in the world. Small and insignificant.  Each painting was a small droplet put out into the stream. Over the years, these droplets moved from stream to river, bay, and ocean, continually gaining momentum, proclaiming in its voice that comes from its humble origins in a tiny creek running through the wood: I flow, I am.

I flow, I am…

 

 

 

 

Posted in Early Paintings, Event, Painting, Poetry | Tagged , , , | 4 Comments »

Mother Knows Best

May 10, 2026 by redtreetimes

Mother’s Day, 1994

So you think you knowHow to wipe your own noseYou think you knowHow to button your clothesYou don’t know shitIf you hadn’t already guessedYou’re just a bump on the log of life,Cause mother knows best

— Mother Knows Best , Richard Thompson  (1991)

All that I am, or hope to be, I owe to my angel mother.

-Abraham Lincoln

It’s always hard on Mother’s Day, as it probably is for most whose mothers have long passed. It’s an unfortunate fact that most of us experience our parents’ passing at some point so my bit of sadness is no greater or different than that of most other folks.

My Mom passed away back in 1995 at age 63. It’s hard to believe that it has been so many years now and that I’m now several years older than she was when she died. Hardly a day goes by that the thought of her doesn’t enter my mind in some way. A memory of her movement, her voice, her good and bad points– they are all set off by suddenly noticing how deeply they are all ingrained in myself. When I am walking, I see my mother walking. When I am angry, I see her anger.

For me, it is often a day filled with regrets for words, both said and unsaid, and actions. Regrets for not speaking more words of love and appreciation. Regrets for speaking words as a selfish child that may have unknowingly hurt her. But, like most days, these regrets fade away and are replaced with only the memory of her– a simple yet complex woman to whom I owe all that I am or hope to be, as Uncle Abe said.

A Hard Past (2006)

When I am sitting alone in a pensive mood, I see her sitting at her kitchen table with a cup of tea and her ever-present Camel cigarette, in absolute stillness with a thousand-mile stare. I often wonder where she was in her memory in those moments. That look is one that makes this piece from my 2006 Outlaws series, Hard Past, forever remind of my mom. It’s not a flattering painting but it captures what I consider to be a poignant and important aspect of her.

She was an interesting case. As I said, simple and complex, a mass of paradoxes. She was battle-hardened from what I can only describe as a hard life, one that gave her an extraordinary toughness that was well-known to those who knew her. But she was also fragile and generous to a fault. Uneducated but highly intelligent. Stubborn but always willing to change. Deeply private yet still loved parties. Loyal and surprisingly fair-minded and principled.

She was also funny and loved to laugh. I often felt that my job as kid was to make her laugh. I think that is where I first realized that laughter was love.

I wish I could have seen her live into old age–it would be wonderful to sit with her once more and have a cup of her coffee. Ask her all the questions that went unasked, to say all the words of love and gratitude that should have been spoken but went unsaid.

But life is like that, leaving us a handful of memories that leave us feeling both empty and full. While it is often bittersweet to look back on them, it’s been good doing just that this morning.

Most of the above was pulled from earlier Mother’s Day posts. The painting at the top was one I did in my earliest days of trying to paint, one of the few of mine that she ever saw. I had been showing my work publicly at the West End for only a few months when her cancer was diagnosed. She never got to see my work hanging in a gallery or museum. I think it would have made her very happy.

This might not seem like the most sentimental of Mother’s Day songs, but I like it and, for this morning, that’s all that matters. I think Mom might have liked it since it has a driving beat– she loved to hear a drumbeat. Plus, the lyrics like this might have brought a smile from her. Hope so.

So you think you knowHow to wipe your own noseYou think you knowHow to button your clothesYou don’t know shitIf you hadn’t already guessedYou’re just a bump on the log of life,Cause mother knows best

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Epiphany?

May 9, 2026 by redtreetimes

Epiphany (2015)

I think a lot of people have unreasonable expectations because they never stop to consider what life actually has to offer them. They’re always looking for some great epiphany from the skies. They never stop to consider the fact which human beings find hardest to recognize: “Maybe I’m not worthy of an epiphany.”

–Robertson Davies, Conversations with Robertson Davies (1989)

The painting above, Epiphany, is another painting that will be heading to the Principle Gallery for my June show. It’s a painting that satisfies me on several levels. The contrast of the corona of light around the Red Tree against the underlying darkness of the black underpainting and the deep reds and yellows are right in my sweet spot. It also connects with me on a personal level, bringing to mind a very early painting that I might consider my one true experience with epiphany.

The word epiphany, of course, denotes someone experiencing a sudden and profound realization. A Eureka! moment. I never really thought about such things before. I mean who has time to seek something like epiphany when you’re just trying to get by in this world? And even if I had thought about it, I would have no doubt ascribed to the words above from the late Canadian man of letters, Robertson Davies, that you could waste your life seeking something that will never be available to you while the miracle of this world and our existence in it is in plain sight all the time. I am pretty sure I would not have seen myself as being worthy of an epiphany.

But you never know, do you? After my accidental fall from a ladder brought me to painting in late 1993, I began to spend several hours a day painting in between my job as waiter in a pancake house and working towards completing the construction of our home. I didn’t have any expectations at that point, never saw it doing anything other than providing an outlet for expressing pent up emotions in a constructive way. I would have been happy with that.

Well, I think would have been. It didn’t turn out that way so how can I really know what I would felt if that had been the case?

Anyway, as I worked in our back bedroom for several months, I began to feel that my painting had something more to offer me but I wasn’t seeing it. And to be honest, I had no idea what it might be or what it would even mean if I were to come across it. How would I know such a thing?

I tried to not think about such things and just focused on what the painting was giving me in the moment. Just seeing it develop and progress seemed to be enough.

One evening that summer, after doing my morning shift then working for a few hours on our house, I went home and sat down to paint. I was working on a small painting and suddenly it beckoned on me that what I was looking at was exactly that thing I was looking for. It suddenly had form and substance. More than that, I could see it in a flash that it instantaneously opened a path forward for me. I didn’t know where it would lead but I knew that it had to be followed.

I remember so distinctly that moment. I felt a giddy excitement that was a shock to me. The hair on the back of my neck was raised and my heart was racing. I didn’t know what to do. I mean, what do you do when something hits you like that? Nobody told me that something like this might happen. I needed to tell someone about this, but Cheri was still at work.

First View (1994)

I paced anxiously for a couple of hours, waiting for Cheri to return. I met her at the door and made her follow me into the back bedroom. I picked up the small piece of watercolor paper that held the painting. I can’t remember exactly how it was phrased but I said something like, “Look at this! Look at this!”

She looked then replied, “Yeah. It’s nice. What is it?”

“You don’t see it? That’s IT!”

“What’s it?

“This is what I have been looking for. This means something. I don’t know where or what, but this is going to take us somewhere.”

I told her how it came to be and my explosion of emotion when it appeared. I still am not sure she was impressed or convinced by what I was saying that night. In retrospect, I can understand that. It’s a quiet, simple little piece. It doesn’t yell or wave its arms to grab your attention.

But that didn’t matter to me. In my eyes that night– and even now– it set off explosions in me that blew down walls that had been hindering me from seeing the path that was now before me. It felt like it had opened up a whole new section of synapses in my brain that I had not been using up to that point.

I later titled it First View since it felt like I was looking at a newly discovered and unexplored vista. This unassuming little painting still retains its power for me. Every painting since this piece has been an attempt to recapture that explosive reaction that I felt on that summer night in 1994. There have been potent and wonderful moments from other paintings but none that came close to the feeling this painting provided.

Was that an epiphany? I don’t know. But if it wasn’t, maybe like Davies said, I wasn’t worthy of an epiphany and will probably never experience one. I don’t know that I could physically or mentally handle a real epiphany if that wasn’t one.

But epiphany or not, the painting above symbolizes and very well captures that moment from 1994. It is a direct descendant of First View and being so, carries elements from it that speak clearly to me, providing moments that recall that first epiphany, if that is indeed what it was. Letting me know that I was not mistaken in following the path I was given.

And that satisfies me in all the best ways.

What more can I ask?

 

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Heaven or Hell? Both?

May 8, 2026 by redtreetimes

French Revolution, Execution of Louis XVI, 1793 (by Wm. Dent, UK 1793)

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way—in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.

–Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities (1859)

This famous opening paragraph of A Tale of Two Cities from Dickens echoes constantly in my head these days. It sounds a bit cliche but after reading it again, it’s hard not to see the parallels between our time and that of the book in the time of the French Revolution. It most likely applies to anyplace going through times of extreme civil, political unrest and upheaval.

Times of revolution and war.

Like Dickens’ opening words, there are so many ways in which this should be the best of times.

It is a time that finds us standing at the leading edge of scientific knowledge and technical progress. We possess more knowledge now than at any time in our history. We are better equipped to treat and possibly cure disease than at any time in history. Technology continues to advance at a dizzying pace that often outpaces our own understanding of its potentialities and consequences. Technology allows us to now connect to others around the world in an instant. For example, this blog is the product of these technological advances, not even being possible when I began painting in the 90’s. But today I am not surprised by the number of people who browse it from around the world.

If I had the time or desire, I could make a long list of all those things that should make this the best of times. By that, I mean the best of times for everyone, not just the ultrawealthiest and most privileged few.

Yet, we seem to never choose that option, instead tolerating or ignoring what amounts to being the worst of times for many.

For reasons I cannot fathom, we now glorify the stupid and the ignorant and cheer on the bad behavior of reality TV. It has become acceptable to speak words filled with lies, hatred, injustice, and illogical nonsense. It is even required of some, who are then are placed on pedestals. By that, I mean given high ranking positions in our government.

The quiet and measured voice of wisdom, while still there, is drowned out by of the din of insult, blame, falsehood, and conspiracy produced by our ever-swelling stupidity.

Likewise, light still remains but the darkness of stupidity is dense and deep, smothering all light at times.

Hope still remains in many. But despair seems to grow at a much quicker pace.

It often seems, as Dickens wrote, that we have everything before us and nothing.

And Heaven and Hell? Well, I have always thought that Heaven was not in some lofty place among puffy clouds filled with angels in comfortable robes nor was Hell in some deep, fiery pit brimming with screaming souls and hooved demons.

No, my thought was that both were present only here on Earth. You can see evidence of this on a daily basis. You can easily see Hell existing in the words and actions of many people. And there are those who find Heaven in this world, living lives filled with kindness, generosity of spirit, and goodwill towards all.

These Heavenly few are, of course, harder to detect or find since there are not as many of them. As much as we are taught to fear Hell, its lures are potent.

I can’t remember where I read this, but it is said that because of anticipated slow traffic there is only a Stairway to Heaven while there so many going in the other direction that a Highway to Hell is needed.

What does all this mean? I don’t know exactly. Not even sure we have arrived where I thought would end up when I started writing this. Probably not. Usually don’t. I just put it down as it comes into my head and, every once in a while, it works. Not sure if this is in that category.

Looking back over this quickly, I guess what I am futilely trying to say is that even though it seems like we find ourselves today neck deep in a shitpond (yeah, I know that’s gross image to put in your head early in the morning) we have to take some small degree of comfort in knowing that we as a people have been in this unenviable position innumerable times in the past.

Yet, we are still here. We have survived tyrants and despots and the horrors and holocausts they bring with them from their own Hells.

We always ultimately outlast and overcome them.

This time will be no different. It still remains possible that these will turn out to be the best of times once more.

But it won’t be easy. Never is.

And a hundred or two hundred years from now, the people of that time will find themselves neck deep in that same stinky shitpond and will take comfort in our own endurance and triumph. They won’t even question how we let our stupidity lead us into that shitpond because they will no doubt have followed the same route to their own pond.

Count on it.

Here’s a song from the always wise John Prine. It’s about finding that Heaven exists here if we can only recognize it. This is He Was in Heaven Before He Died.

Now, get out of here. Go find your own Heaven. Or Hell. It’s your call, after all.

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