Redtree Times

Jubilee Waltz (2023)

Soon we shall die and all memory of those five will have left earth, and we ourselves shall be loved for a while and forgotten. But the love will have been enough; all those impulses of love return to the love that made them. Even memory is not necessary for love. There is a land of the living and a land of the dead and the bridge is love, the only survival, the only meaning.

–Thornton Wilder, The Bridge of San Luis Rey (1927)

I’ve had this passage in my draft files for a long time. I pull it out every so often and read it several times. Did just that this morning.

It only has four sentences but those four say plenty.  It always sets my mind in motion, sparking thoughts and questions.

To begin with, Thornton Wilder‘s book, The Bridge of San Luis Rey, did just that around the world when it was published in 1927. It tells the story of the 1714 collapse of a rope bridge in Peru in which five people fell to their deaths and how they came to be on the bridge at that moment. The novel follows a friar who sees the bridge collapse then goes on a search into the lives of those five, seeking some sort of deeper, spiritual answer that would justify why this tragedy had to occur.

Is there ever a justification for any tragedy?

That is one of the questions that came to mind but not the overriding one this morning. Today, the last line in this short passage is the one that got me: There is a land of the living and a land of the dead and the bridge is love, the only survival, the only meaning.

It made me wonder that if there was indeed a bridge between the land of the living and the land of the dead that only existed for each of us based on how much we have loved, will that bridge be there for me when that time comes?

If not, do I tumble into the void, falling forever in darkness, taking with me all memory of my existence?

Each of those is difficult question. For myself, I would like to think the bridge will be there for me.

But then again, how can one ever be sure?

I don’t think you can ever know with any degree of certainty. Just saying that you have loved enough does not make it so. It is much like those who claim religious piety then live their lives in ways that are in complete opposition to the religious tenets they espouse, believing that they are absolutely assured of a place in whatever their idea of heaven might be. As though they have earned enough points and don’t have to do any more, like it was a shopping rewards program.

I can only shake my head at the certainty they display. I used to envy those with such certainty. I no longer do.

I guess the best one can do is to love more in the time they have left on the runup to that bridge. Put in the time and effort so that those who you love will have no doubt. Think of it as adding a brace to the bridge you believe you have built.

But keep that question of whether you have loved enough to build that bridge forever in mind.

If you are unsure, as you should be, let your certainty spur you to love more.

And if your answer is yes, that you have loved more than enough, I would advise you to be careful when you come to that bridge. It might be a little wobblier than you expected.

I am not sure if this is what I expected to write from this Wilder passage. It’s one of those that could send you in a number of different directions. But I did what I did and will have to live with that.

Here’s a song that that has a bridge in its title. I guess I could have used the obvious choices today, the old Judds‘ song Love Can Build a Bridge being the first that comes to mind. It’s a fine song but a little too on the nose for me this morning. I am feeling a little spicier, like Red Hot Chili Peppers spicy. This is an acoustic version of a favorite, Under the Bridge. I think it might actually have to do with trying to build that metaphorical bridge.

That’s good enough for me this morning.

Now, git.

Laughter has something in it in common with the ancient winds of faith and inspiration; it unfreezes pride and unwinds secrecy; it makes men forget themselves in the presence of something greater than themselves; something… that they cannot resist.

–G. K. Chesterton, The Common Man (1950)

In the wake of yesterday’s post about mental health issues and how coping with it often inspires our art, a reader reached out thanking me for sharing my experience. More importantly, he briefly mentioned his own issues and how they had provided material for his routine as a comic. I rolled his brief comments around in my head for a while yesterday, thinking how laughter has provided me so much relief in the past.

It reminded me of a question asked recently of me by a good friend. We were discussing those memories that are triggered by sensory sensations such as smell and sound. It is much like the madeleine cookie in Remembrance of Things Past from Marcel Proust. In it, the book’s narrator dips a madeleine cookie in is tea and the cookie’s texture and taste open up the floodgates of instant, involuntary memories, some buried under the weight of his history.

He asked what sensory things triggered memories and emotions for me. I thought about it for a while. The aroma of my mom’s roast beef immediately came to mind. I remember the comfort and joy I felt when I walked into the house after being dropped off by the school bus and that gorgeous aroma filled the air. A tiny whiff of that aroma now and I am once again walking through that kitchen door more than fifty years ago.

But the sensory trigger that I answered is one that I have mentioned here before. I said it was the sound of laughter. I explained how when I give a gallery talk and say something that makes the group laugh out loud, it is the most satisfying sensation in the world for me. It is a moment when everyone there is connected, all on the same wavelength, seeing something in the same way, seeing in it the same ironies and absurdities.

In that moment, I feel well embraced.

But it also sent me back through the years when I felt it was my job as the youngest child to say goofy stuff to break the tension in our often-tense household. Hearing laughter like that immediately floods me with numerous incidents when sudden laughter seemed to break the spell of tension, at least for a short time.

I have described laughter here before as a love language for me and causing a group to break into laughter reinforces that for me. It also makes me understand why someone would dare to go on a stage in front of people they do not know and attempt to make them laugh. I would imagine that laughter is the love language of those folks, as well.

They have my deepest respect, even more so on those nights when that connection with the audience is not made. I think the fact that they come back again after facing the silence to try once more is a testament to the power of laughter.

I think that is reflected in the words at the top from G.K. Chesterton. They really hit the mark for me when I came across them earlier, especially where he states that laughter unfreezes pride and unwinds secrecy, connecting them with something greater than themselves.

In my mind those are also vital attributes of good art, at least as I see it. Art is often created when the artist can set aside the pride that keeps their past sufferings hidden to all others and then puts them into a form that is familiar and resonates with experience and sensations of others. Some form that connects the artist and the audience to something greater. That form might be in paint or marble or song or dance– or laughter.

My hope is that my work– my painting, not the once-in-a-while laughter– can somehow serve in much the same way as Proust’s madeleine, connecting them in some way to a strong emotional response still hidden in their past.

I am not going to try to say something humorous here. Not going to tell you to git or get off my lawn. The moment is too ripe. So let me just share a song that was here on the blog seven or eight years back. It is The Laughing Song from Dan Hicks & His Hot Licks from back in 1972.

Do with it what you will.

Passages: Toward Order (2023)- Coming to the Gmeiner Arts & Cultural Center

It is the stretched soul that makes music, and souls are stretched by the pull of opposites-opposite bents, tastes, yearnings, loyalties. Where there is no polarity-where energies flow smoothly in one direction-there will be much doing but no music.

–Eric Hoffer, Between the Devil and the Dragon

This painting from a few years back, Passages: Toward Order, is included in my showcase at the Gmeiner Arts & Cultural Center as part of the upcoming Big Gems exhibit, in collaboration with the West End Gallery. This piece has always held a particular fascination for me so choosing it for this show was an easy decision. When I went back a few years and reread the original post about it, I was surprised what I had written. A subject I seldom speak on, though I often hint at, was broached. Here’s what that post said, with a few minor edits:

Seeing an assembled group of my paintings reminds me of how someone could use an artist’s work as a roadmap or schematic of their mind and thought process, even though the artist, being human, might want to disguise and mask it.

It can uncover things that the artist doesn’t even know they are revealing at first. A body of work can often show many, maybe eve all, of the facets contained in the artist’s personality prism. Flaws and strengths. Loves and desires, worries and fears. Highs and lows.

Art does that. And like the self-taught philosopher Eric Hoffer points out above, the music that makes up all art often comes when the artist is stretched and in tension between these polar oppositions.

That makes sense to me. The life of an artist is a very bipolar one, at least in my experience over the past quarter century. You’re always bouncing between polar opposites, all the time trying to find some sort of balance.

For instance, there is the desire to be isolated in privacy, yet one’s livelihood is dependent on sharing your work– and by extension, yourself– in a very public way.  And artists are often very sensitive to the criticism and judgement of others yet work in a field that is almost solely based on the judgement from others. This, of course, leads to cycles of acceptance and rejection. Overoptimism and excessive pessimism. Periods of highs where the artist overestimates their abilities and value followed by lows where they berate themselves, questioning why they even try. Periods when your work is in sync with the times and highly sought– the flavor of the month– followed by times when you are a bit overlooked and out of favor, seemingly irrelevant.  

Then there is the most obvious comparison to bipolarism, the exuberance of those highly productive, manic periods of creativity followed by the times when the artist experiences creative blocks, leaving them feeling uninspired and in despair.

For some, it’s too much of a burden. Too much of a stress being stretched between those polar opposites. I understand why someone would question whether to become an artist, thereby putting themselves through that kind of tension and perpetual imbalance. It is certainly not for everybody.

For me, it a way of living that makes sense since it mirrors what I would be going through in any other field in which I might be employed. In art, those tendencies that make life difficult when following a normal path have a place and even a purpose– if you can come to see and accept it in that way. 

And I guess it’s evident at this point that I have. Maybe you can see it in my work as whole. Maybe not. The control in creating the work versus the lack of control in how it is received is yet another part of the bipolarism of the artist.

I don’t think I had read this post since it was written. The fact that I shared so much surprised me even though I am probably exceedingly transparent here. But like many people, I was not eager to reveal my own struggles with mental illness. I hesitated a long time before I could write that last sentence. Mental illness carries so much baggage and remains a stigma. I wasn’t sure I wanted to openly enter the conversation.  Continuing to wear a mask is so much easier.

But over the years I have begun to feel that hiding my own problems behind a mask was a grave disservice to those who struggle with similar issues. Maybe sharing it should be part of my duty as both an artist and a human. I have learned how to cope with my own issues and perhaps seeing that will help someone in a dark place find some hope that they can find their way out.

Those dark places are lonely, after all.

The hard part in dealing with mental illness is that when you are in those dark places, you become very protective of that place. You feel that it is yours alone and because you have made it such, nobody can share or understand it. Well-meaning words and advice often push you even further into the darkness that is your place.

So, I have no words or advice that will lead anyone out of darkness. My path out was, like that dark place, mine alone. But I will say to those trapped in darkness now that though you might not yet see it, there is a way out. That path is there for many of you.

Really wasn’t planning on this for today’s post. I am almost regretting it already. Taking down one’s mask is sometimes a scary proposition. But something in this painting, the path to the Red Tree in the light after going the darker woods, speaks metaphorically to my time in the darkness and rereading that earlier post just triggered something.

I’m going to stop now. I’ve said enough and maybe too much. There’s a lot to say so I may revisit it again someday soon.

Or not. I don’t know.

I was pretty comfortable in that mask though I imagine many folks could see through it.

Here’s a wonderful instrumental cover of the R&B classic Dark End of the Street from Ry Cooder. His guitar speaks with real deep feeling here. Doesn’t need words.

Railroad Ave (1994)

The sky was dark and gloomy, the air was damp and raw, the streets were wet and sloppy. The smoke hung sluggishly above the chimney-tops as if it lacked the courage to rise, and the rain came slowly and doggedly down, as if it had not even the spirit to pour.

–Charles Dickens, The Pickwick Papers (1837)

It’s been really interesting, even enlightening, going through my earliest work. I can see points where the work turned and took the next step. Can see the development of my process and my use of color. Can see failed attempts at contrived ideas. Can see pieces that surprised me then a me then and now, some making me chuckle and some that simply make me nod in remembrance.

But the overriding thought I have lately when looking through them is how ridiculously prolific I was then. There are literally several hundred these small pieces dating from 1994 alone. When you consider that I was working a full-time job while also finishing up construction on our home — which is a misnomer since it is still a work-in-progress– it means that I was painting several pieces a day. I look at this production today and am amazed. I am actually tired just considering it now, let alone trying to repeat it. I must have had the energy of a desperate squirrel that had been fed a lot of amphetamines.

Of course, many of those pieces from that time were total crap and should have had a match set to them long ago. Why I hold on to them is a mystery. But they somehow linger.

Rail Station (1994)

This one that I like a lot from that era. It was from a short time when I attempted working from photo references, something I never do now. This is called Railroad Ave, depicting a short bit of a street that ran along the railroad tracks as they cut through downtown Elmira. It was once a rough and tumble, bustling area filled with bars when the railroads still ran and stopped at the station just up the street. Here’s an image, a sketch, of that building that I did around this an area around the same time. Though I explored what I could of the closed station many times, it never sparked my imagination, as least in a visual way.

The area of Railroad Ave depicted at the top were just south of the station. It was now in disrepair with boarded up windows and a grimy feel that echoed Dickens’ streets as described above. It felt dirty and a bit dangerous but held an air of stories waiting to be told from its past, which seemed to be caught in its current state of being like a bug in amber.

That the probably the attraction for me when I was in junior high school and haunted this area and the blocks around it. After school, I spent many hours walking the streets, playing pinball at the bus termina or at Newberry’s, a now defunct five-and-dime, where I also honed my shoplifting skills. I am not proud to admit that, but it was part of that time for me.

That area felt like human life to a thirteen-year-old kid who lived in the country. There was a hustle and bustle to it that sometimes bordered on danger, which made it irresistible. I moved through it surreptitiously like rat, seldom drawing attention though occasionally I would draw the attention of someone on the street. I remember vividly being approached by an older guy in front of the bus station.

“Hey, Slim! I only need fifteen cents to get a pint. Can you help me out?”

I did. It was worth it just for the memory of his words in that place in that time.

The thing that strikes me about Railroad Ave is how I was obviously seeking to capture the type of feeling evoked by an Edward Hopper painting, hoping it would have that same moody and somewhat alienated atmosphere so evident in his work. It has that mood, for me at least. I don’t know if it’s the painting or the memories. It doesn’t matter.

I also like the signature, done in pencil. I hadn’t yet adapted the GC in my name. That would come several months later when I discovered in an early internet search at the library, which was only a block or so from the site of this painting, that there were a couple of other artists already going by Gary Myers. Glad I found that info then.

Okay, I have to run. Spent far too much time on this already.

Here’s a song that is about the lure of the railroad for some desperate folks seeking to escape their situation and themselves. Probably many who found their way down Railroad Ave here and in streets just like it around the country. This is BW Railroad Blues from the late singer/songwriter Townes Van Zandt.

Light and Wisdom (2018)

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.

― T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets

A large portion of my painting year thus far has been devoted to looking back at earlier work, caused, as I have explained too many times before, by my recent health issues. Though it has been mentally difficult in not being able to create and release the new work I know is in there, it has been deeply satisfying to explore once more the paths I have trod before.

Much of the work remains somewhat fresh in my mind but the revisit seems to deepen my appreciation for it, as though I have gained added perspective with the time that has passed.

Some of this work has slipped from my mind and surprises me as though it were new to me. This fills me with gladness.

And there are a few pieces like the one shown above, Light and Wisdom, that never left my mind, always seem to be near the surface. Not sure why except that it checks so many boxes for me. Rich and dark colors. A rhythm in the landscape. Great depth into the picture plane. A unity of all its elements. And most especially, an underlying personal meaning that seems to whisper in my ear whenever I look at it.

It feels like the me I hope to be. It reminds me that I am on a path and there is still some distance to go before I reach that desired end. But it also reminds me that I have already come a long way and have been changed by that journey.

That the desired end is something accumulated along the way, not a pot of gold waiting for me at the path’s end. That’s something not recognized when you take your first steps on the path.

This painting and so many others that I have reexamined recently from past years bring that point home to me. They were hints that I was indeed on the right path and had already been somehow transformed.

Light and wisdom had been accumulated…

This painting, Light and Wisdom, oddly enough for all its personal meaning to me, had only a brief time out in the public before it came back to me. Maybe that was the way it was intended. I don’t know.

It is going out in the world once more as part of my showcase, A Seedling Returns, as part of the Big Gems exhibit at the Gmeiner Art & Cultural Center in Wellsboro, PA. This exhibit is first of its kind collaboration between the West End Gallery and the Gmeiner. The exhibit opens Saturday, July 18 with the official Opening Reception taking place on the following Saturday, July 25 from 2-4 PM.

Here’s this week’s Sunday Morning Music. It’s from one of my favorites, Rhiannon Giddens, and is fittingly titled I’m On My Way.

J.C. Leyendecker 4th of July Saturday Evening Post cover 1930

If you can’t say something nice, don’t say nothing at all.

–Thumper, repeating the lesson taught to him by his father in Bambi (1942)

Well, it’s the Fourth of July here in the United States of America. Our 250th, which should be cause for celebration among all the people of this country. It’s been a rocky road at times but for our fragile experiment in democracy to have somehow stumbled this far should have us all cheering.

Yet, I am not feeling very celebratory this year. No flag flying as it normally does on this day at our home. No plans to watch high school bands march by in parades. No Sousa marches or Irving Berlin’s God Bless America. No plans to watch fireworks of any sort, though that is not new for this year. Not a fan of fireworks display anymore for a number of reasons, the most notables being my aversion to the sound and seeing how they disturb our pets and the wildlife around us.

The point is that the 4th this year feels unlike any of the others in my increasingly long life. And not in a good way.

I don’t feel like the proud citizen of a mighty, benevolent, and just nation. More like a disturbed captive or hostage, victim of a home invasion.

That’s severe, I know. Probably inappropriate on this day. But it is how I honestly feel. And I believe I am not alone in feeling this way.

I could easily go on a rant listing the awfulness that has been unleashed on the American citizenry in recent years, but I am going to adhere to Thumper’s Rule as noted above and stop here.

Today, instead of focusing on the What-We-Have-Become, I choose to remember fondly the What-We-Were-Meant-To-Be.

I still hold tightly on to that ideal and don’t believe I will ever accept the What-We-Have-Become.

Here’s an unusual choice for a song on this 250th Fourth of July. It’s When the Roses Bloom Again from Billy Bragg and Wilco off the third of their Mermaid Avenue albums. It’s a reimagining of a song written in 1901 by Will Cobb, I’ll Be With You When the Roses Bloom Again, that describes the story of a soldier headed off to battle who promises his sweetheart he will return to her when the flowers return. He is mortally wounded in battle, and his last request is to be buried by the riverside where they first said goodbye.

For some reason this seems to fit this day. Perhaps a melancholy desire to return to the What-Might-Have-Been.

I don’t know. I would normally tell you to git at this point. But to be honest, I am glad to have had your company this morning. Thank you.

I chose the image at the top because, with that profile, the hair and the red and gold of his garb, it reminds me of someone. Just can’t figure out who…

The Internal Landscape (2012)

There is a place called ‘heaven’ where the good here unfinished is completed; and where the stories unwritten, and the hopes unfulfilled, are continued. We may laugh together yet.

–J. R. R. Tolkien, letter to his son, Michael, June 1941

The other day I wrote an entry here, The Paintings We Don’t Paint, that was primarily about artists receiving unsolicited advice from others. I guess it applies to everyone, actually. It is not the sole province of artists. There is always someone out there ready with a You should do this or a Why don’t you do that.

But after hitting the publish button, I felt there was so much more that could be said about the paintings we don’t paint.

I think most artists leave this world with undone paintings still rolling around their mind somewhere. After all, every painting is almost always the prelude to the next. Teh finished piece sparks rhythms and flows and concepts that the artist visualizes being carried to the next or at least some painting in the future. I can’t tell you how many times I have finished (well, finished it to that point) a painting and am itching to immediately start the next with the momentum and tingling senses still fresh in my mind.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t always work out. Time, obligations, and the general details of life sometimes get in the way. There is often a lapse– much more so now than I was younger and working off of a fresh, supercharged battery– before I get to the next piece. I still carry the momentum and thoughts from the last painting but they are not sharply poking at me to, demanding that I move ahead. No, they are more like gentle nudges now.

More like a suggestion than a command. And in that short space between suggestion and command, the painting that might have been is often unrealized.

An unsown seed.

Oh, it is replaced eventually by another painting, maybe even one that creates an even greater rhythm and flow to carry to the next after it. But that other seed is still there waiting to be nurtured so that it might become what it is meant to be.

Every artist has these seeds resting in the nooks and crannies of their mind, most that will go with them to their grave.

Then there are those paintings that remain unpainted not because of a lack of desire or the details of life getting in the way. These are the paintings that an artist holds in their most secret of dreams but do not have the courage or willpower to take on.

I have a few of those rolling around in there somewhere. I keep promising myself that one day I will muster up the courage to take a crack at one of two of them. But promises to yourself ate the easiest to break, the easiest to rationalize away. But as of now, I still hold that promise for those undone paintings.

I’ll give you an example. I’ve always wanted to paint on a grand scale, to make very large pieces. I have done a couple bigger pieces, such as the painting shown at the top. Titled The Internal Landscape, it was the titular centerpiece of my 2012 solo exhibit at the Fenimore Art Museum in Cooperstown. It is 54″ by 84″ on canvas.  I am looking at it right now as it fills a small wall in my painting space. I look at it quite a bit, actually. I often feel like I am seeing the folds and creases of my brain in the rolls and rhythms of its field and hills.

It is definitely a place where I live. Home.

I take a degree of pride in that piece. It became what I hoped it would when I first stood in front of its black surface, not knowing exactly where it would go or even what it would eventually come to be. It presented a large challenge. But I am proud to have stood in front of that large canvas without a preconceived idea and to have created a world unto itself using only my limited skills and mind. When I am filled with uncertainty and lacking in confidence, I often turn to this painting for reinforcement.

There are other equally large or larger such pieces in my mind. Undone paintings that remain so because I don’t have the courage or committed willpower to follow through on my promise to myself.

Part of my rationale for not doing these grand pieces is one of practicality. They are hard to move around and difficult to store.  They are not easy to find homes for as they take up a lot more space and have a higher price tag. Their large size would limit their visibility in the galleries that show my work. I have no idea where I would show them or if any venue would even be interested. Not to mention the investment of time, materials, energy, both physical and mental, required to create these works.

Another part of my rationale is just plain old doubt and fear of failure. They are a powerful dual for artists, or anyone else for that matter, to overcome.  It often takes sheer ego to do so. I obviously have an ego. I am writing this thinking that it will be read or that it will somehow make a difference. That in itself takes more ego than I would like to admit having. And even with a larger than desired ego, it is often not enough against one’s own fears and doubts.

So, those epic paintings reside only in my mind.

For now. I still believe I can and will create them.

My promise to myself, for what it’s worth. So far it remains unbroken.

Here’s song about just that. It is Promises, Promises from the dynamic duo of singer Dionne Warwick and the songwriting team of Burt Bacharach and Hal David. No fear or doubt here.

I don’t have the energy to say Git so just do it on your own, okay?

Trio: Waiting For the Fire (2002)

When a child is born its sense-organs are brought in contact with the outer world.

The waves of sound, heat, and light beat upon its feeble body, its sensitive nerve-fibres quiver, the muscles contract and relax in obedience: a gasp, a breath, and in this act a marvelous little engine, of inconceivable delicacy and complexity of construction, unlike any on earth, is hitched to the wheel-work of the Universe.

–Nikolai Tesla, Man’s Greatest Achievement, in New York American, July 6, 1930

When I was born those waves of sound, heat, and light beat upon its feeble body and might very well have made my sensitive nerve-fibres quiver, as old Nikolai describes. Many decades later, however, my nerve-fibres aren’t quivering quite so much at the waves of heat we’re being hit with in recent times.

It’s more like those nerve-fibres are wilting. Never been a fan of the grim heat and humidity of our summers. Even less so now as the heat comes at us in seemingly ever-increasing waves.

Plus, the hormone therapy I am undergoing doesn’t seem to help either. I always enjoy a good hot flash. How’s a little more sweat going to hurt anything?

Nobody told me that the wheel-work of the universe would be so damn hot.

So, for the next few days, my plans are simple: Keep a low profile, keep things simple, avoid the sun, stay hydrated, and sweat profusely.

Actually, that could be any day of the year for me.

I am adhering to the keep it simple part of my plan here today. Here’s a song with a swampy feel. It’s from Robbie Robertson, the late songwriter/guitarist of The Band. This song, Somewhere Down the Crazy River, is from his self-titled 1987 album. I have played this album and this song many times over the many years since it came out and it never disappoints.

I’d tell you to get out but, meh, I don’t have the energy in this heat.

The Omnipresence- Before and After

I see the spectacle of morning from the hilltop over against my house, from daybreak to sunrise, with emotions which an angel might share. The long slender bars of cloud float like fishes in the sea of crimson light. From the earth, as a shore, I look out into that silent sea. I seem to partake its rapid transformations; the active enchantment reaches my dust, and I dilate and conspire with the morning wind.

–Ralph Waldo Emerson, Nature (1836)

The Omnipresence from 2024 was one of those paintings that really rang the bell for me. The sky in it really drew me in as did the winding river. I figured that the reason it never found a home was simply because it was, at 36″ by 24″, a somewhat larger painting. The size and the corresponding higher price made it less viable for some folks.

But when it came back to me in May, I began to really examine it. It still clicked all my boxes. But seeing it in person made me realize how poorly it was portrayed by my photography of it. The painting I was looking at didn’t seem like the same painting depicted in my in my photo of it. There was a red pall that hovered over the whole thing, especially dulling the brightness of the landscape and the river in the lower half of the painting.

But while I was berating myself for letting such a poor and misleading image go out into the world, I also began to notice that the landscape that ran along each side of the river had a dullness that didn’t match the title which was I originally felt pointed out the brilliance and harmony of all things. Omnipresence means everywhere in everything. It was particularly evident in the empty flower beds which seemed to suck away all brightness from the bottom half of the painting.

I had gone back and forth when I was painting this piece as to whether the flower beds should be filled with color. At the time, I felt that the empty beds were enough on their own as a structural component and complement to the sky, that filling the beds would be too much. Too busy.

Looking at it after it came back into my hands, I realized my mistake in that choice. While I still thought it was a powerful piece as it was in its original form, I could see now that it was begging for more color, more brightness in its bottom half. The Red Tree in the original seemed to me to be trying to escape the drab landscape in which it was bound. It was like looking at a dance where the partners were dancing at different tempos and rhythms.

That was all I could see then. I knew I had to work on that bottom. And my photography of it. I set to work creating colorful flower beds and was immediately rewarded. It felt like an incredible transformation to me as each bed was filled and when I finished them all, I knew I had made the right decision this time.

I then worked on the photography. I don’t know how I had so missed the mark in capturing this piece originally. I would like to blame it on the monitor at the time since I am getting much better results with my newer current model and am finding a lot of my work from past years that have similar imaging shortfalls. But that can’t fully explain it. I simply overlooked something at the time.

I was probably drunk.

I am, of course, kidding.

I was stoned.

Again, kidding.

Whatever the hell was wrong with me at the time, it seemed a moot point after the changes to the painting and its new photo image. You can see it for yourself in the comparative image at the top. There is so much more brightness throughout the painting now and the two dancers, the upper and lower halves of the painting, seem in joyous harmony. And what I am seeing in person comes across much more, as it should, in the photo now.

Like most artists, I don’t like admitting mistakes made with my work. But as it also is with most artists, some pieces reveal themselves in need of something or other after they have left the studio. Many famous artists are notorious for making changes to pieces long after they have left the studio, some going so far as taking work off the walls of collectors to add a touch here and there.

I didn’t have to take it off anyone’s wall but this was definitely the case here. And while I am embarrassed by not seeing my poor choice made in the original, I am thrilled to see it as it is now.

It feels like it now fully lives up to its title.

All I could ask.

Here’s a song that may or may not have anything to do with subject. It’s a longtime favorite from John Lennon, Instant Karma. I think the connection here is that there is good karma in recognizing and rectifying our mistakes.

Now, get out of here before I say something rude and blow all that good karma…

PS- The Omnipresence is available now through the West End Gallery.

Give Me One Reason– At Principle Gallery

We give advice by the bucket but take it by the grain.

–-William R. Alger, A Dictionary of Thoughts: Being a Cyclopedia of Laconic Quotations (1875)

You should really…

Have you ever thought of trying…

Why don’t you…

There are probably a lot more beginnings to sentences than these three examples that are heard on a regular basis by any person toiling in the creative fields.

People telling you that you should try adding something to your work.

Or take something out.

Or do more or less of something.

Or your work should be more like that of someone else. That’s an all-time favorite.

Or try painting some place they know. That was the first unsolicited advice I received about my work, given to me the first time my work was ever shown publicly.

I remember the unpleasant feeling of my sphincter tightening then and that is still the reaction when I am given similar advice, even when it is given in a friendly and seemingly well-meaning way.

Yeah, I know the sphincter tightening thing is probably a little too graphic but, hey, I’m the one writing this, am I not? You get what you get when you read this, much as you do when you view my work.

It is the way it is because that is who I am.

If you don’t like it, then you have the option of not reading or looking at it. Or you could write your own blog on your chosen subject in a way that better suits you, much as you could get out your own damn brushes and paint your own painting that is more like the one you want to see.

Sorry if that sounds harsher than it’s meant to be.

I did actually reply once to such a suggestion that the person should try painting whatever they wanted me to attempt for themselves. That way they would get the painting that they wanted to see.

That sounds rude but it was said in a polite way that let the person know that I had no intention of taking their advice because the painting they wanted to see was not one that I wanted or needed to see. I immediately knew that it didn’t spark the kind of interest and enthusiasm required. Nobody wants to read the words of someone writing about something of which they have no interest, nor do they want to see a painting of something that holds no interest for the artist. You read or write because of the enthusiasm and emotional investment of the writer or artist.

I have been given many dozens of such well-meaning suggestions over the years. I could put together a large show of all those paintings I will never paint. It doesn’t happen as often now as it did earlier in my career. I think that is because I have been around so long that people now just figure that you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. And on those rare occasions when the advice comes, I paste on a smile and say things like that’s interesting, I have to look into that, or maybe I will try that.

I mostly hear these suggestions now from my wife. I used to give the same responses as those above but we’ve been together forever so she knows by now what those terms mean– that I will not be doing whatever she suggested. Now, I just say I don’t think so, it’s not what I do.

More paintings added to my exhibit of non-existent work.

I hope this doesn’t come across as too crotchety. It’s not meant to be.

Well, maybe a little. But it could be worse. One of my favorite stories on an artist receiving unsolicited advice is one I have shared here a few times over the years. Below is as it appeared on the Fenimore Art Museum‘s blog many years ago and concerned the late, great American Folk artist Ralph Fasanella, whose work I have shared here many times.

Ralph Fasanella had trouble painting hands. A lot of trained artists do too, so it is not surprising that a union organizer who turned to drawing suddenly at the age of 40 would struggle with hands early in his career. But he did have something that proved better than years of formal training: he believed that he was an artist and that what he was doing – painting the lives of working people – was a calling that deserved his complete attention and all-consuming passion.

And that made him react when anyone suggested that his paintings weren’t up to snuff. He said that he was painting “felt space,” not real space. His people and the urban settings he placed them in were not realistic in the purest sense of the word, but they sang with spirit and emotion. As Ralph said, “I may paint flat, but I don’t think flat.”

His most memorable quote, and the one that says the most about him, occurred very early in his artistic career, when someone told him that his hands looked like sticks. He ought to study Rembrandt’s hands, they said, in order to get it right.  

His response is priceless: “Fuck you and Rembrandt!  My name is Ralph!”

I probably won’t adopt Ralph’s approach but you can bet his words will be echoing in my head the next time someone says “You should paint like…”

I think the point here is that when you read or view or listen to the works of others, take them for what they are. Even the most well-meaning suggestion carries the implication that their work is somehow lacking.

There’s a lot more that can be said about this subject and I have probably not done a great job thus far. But I have taken up too much of your time already, for you good folks who have read this far.

Maybe I will get to it sometime soon. Or maybe not. Who knows?

Here’s a song that might well be the anthem for most artists, me definitely included. It’s I Don’t Like Being Told What to Do from country singer/songwriter Roger Alan Wade. I had never heard of him or this song before just a few minutes ago. Apparently, his songs, especially the song If You’re Gonna Be Dumb You Gotta Be Tough, appears on most episodes of the TV show Jackass as well all of their movies. Not having seen more a minute or two of the show, I don’t know if that is a ringing endorsement. But I like and understand the idea of this song. That is the only endorsement I can offer.

Now, git before I get really rude.