Redtree Times

Harmonium  – Now the Principle Gallery

The purpose of life is to obey the hidden command which ensures harmony among all and creates an ever better world. We are not created only to enjoy the world, we are created in order to evolve the cosmos.

― Maria Montessori, The Absorbent Mind

Don’t think I can add anything here…

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The Abiding— At the West End Gallery

The beginning of hardship is like the first taste of bitter food—it seems for a moment unbearable; yet, if there is nothing else to satisfy our hunger, we take another bite and find it possible to go on.

― George Eliot, Adam Bede

First rule of abiding: Put down your head and do whatever you have to do to get through to the other side.

Your anger, your frustration, your fatigue, your nostalgia for the way things were, your beliefs about the why’s and how’s that brought you to this point, your desire for mercy, or your sense of victimhood and tantrums– they are meaningless.

They only serve to prevent you from getting through to the other side.

I am not sure there is a second rule of abiding.

However, perhaps we can draw one from the experiences of those who have endured in the past, people who somehow endured holocausts, enslavement, natural disasters and a host of other horrors to make it through to the other side.

While these survivors followed the First Rule of Abiding, they also often created a goal for the future, some purpose or task on which they focused as they trudged forward through whatever served as an obstacle in that moment.

Something that acts as a rope to use to pull yourself forward to the other side.

Oh, I am frustrated and angry. I want things to be the way they were– well, kind of. I am certainly fatigued and on edge.

But I will abide. I have things I want to do, things I need to do and goals to fulfill. So, I will follow the First Rule of Abiding. My head is down and I will do what it takes to get through to the other side.

Hope to see you there.

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Christmas is built upon a beautiful and intentional paradox; that the birth of the homeless should be celebrated in every home.

― G.K. Chesterton

Leave it to G.K. Chesterton, creator of the Father Brown series of detective novels and a famed debater, to point out the built-in paradox of the coming holiday.

I am not going to add to or comment on his thought this morning. You can do that bit of work for yourself.

I am just going to add this week’s Sunday Morning Musical selection which is a version of God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen from Ian Anderson accompanied by a German youth orchestra from back in 2006.

For those of you not familiar with Ian Anderson, he was the flamboyant front man and flutist for Jethro Tull. He maintains a bit of his rock star animation in this version and there are moments when I expect him to end one of his flute solos with a bellowed Aqualung! or Locomotive Breath! 

He doesn’t, of course. Nevertheless, it is an entertaining piece of video. Enjoy.

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Bold & Determined— At the West End Gallery

“The foolish man seeks happiness in the distance. The wise grows it under his feet.”

― James Oppenheim

One of the benefits of writing this blog is that it often allows me to find out more about people and things that might otherwise have gone unnoticed by me. Granted, a lot of this stuff is just trivial knowledge that doesn’t hold much importance for most folks.

But I like it and figure I can’t hurt anyone by throwing out these little bits of info every so often.

Take for example the aphorism at the top. I came across it and liked what it said and felt that it paired well with the new painting shown here, Bold & Determined. The idea of making the most of what is at hand, of seeing the native richness and beauty in one’s surroundings is a theme that runs through my work. I think this new piece is strong and fits into that vein of thought perfectly.

The author of that short bit of truth was James Oppenheim, a name that was not on my radar. Looking him up, I found that he was an American author/poet who was born in Minnesota in 1882 and died in New York City in 1932. I found it interesting that he had published several novels, founded an influential literary magazine of he early 20th century, The Seven Arts, and was an early follower of Carl Jung.

He also wrote a popular poem, Bread and Roses, whose title echoed a slogan of the women’s and labor rights movements at that time. In 1912, it was attached to the famous Lawrence, Massachusetts textile mill strike and set to music, becoming one of the most enduring songs of the labor movement. I have included a version below from Joan Baez and her sister, Mimi Farina, who recorded a prominent version of the song.

So, a new bit of trivial knowledge enters the system this morning. I am sure there’s more than enough room in there for James Oppenheim. If not, hopefully it will push out some of the crappy songs from the 1970’s that somehow have hung on in there after all this time. Like a fungus.

Hello, James Oppenheim– goodbye, Afternoon Delight. And take Muskrat Love with you, too!

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“In Radiance“- Now at the West End Gallery

“I am so far from being a pessimist…on the contrary, in spite of my scars, I am tickled to death at life.”

― Eugene O’Neill

I came across the words above from Eugene O’Neill and they made me smile. The idea that the playwright who defined the darkness of the soul having even a sliver of optimism is funny.

But I understand it.

I certainly carry scars. And I spend the better part of my time decrying the awfulness of this world, bitching about the abject selfishness, ignorance, and cruelty of humans, myself included.

But despite my often doomed outlook for our prospects as a civilization, I also have moments of total joy and, yes, optimism.

It usually comes in the form of seeing young kids who haven’t yet absorbed the prejudices and destructive habits of the adults around them. They have such obvious wonder in this world and are not bound by long entrenched thought and belief. Their faculties are sharp and constantly absorbing everything, allowing them to see and sense things clearly.

Certainly clearer than those of us who eventually come to a point where that sense of wonder has faded and everything is viewed through glasses colored with our own biases and beliefs.

Their wonder, their potential, their willingness to embrace the new, and their unconditional acceptance of the diversity of others, gives me hope that might reject the reality we have forced upon them and remake the world in a more positive manner.

That little bit of hope is far more potent and joyful than the whole of the darkness that usually hovers over me. It makes me realize that there is no time and place in which I’d rather be.

Like O’Neill, I am tickled to death at this life.

For all I know, this life might be our — my– one chance at some form of heavenly existence.

And maybe that’s why I sometimes feel pessimistic. This world has the potential to be a paradise for all and we continually fail to recognize or act on that notion.

But the potential is still there and even seeing brief glimpses of it once in a great while are enough to maintain my optimism.

Tickled to death. Not a bad way to go…

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Luna Eterna– Now at the West End Gallery

Without love, our earth is a tomb

― Robert Browning

Enough said. Here’s a song from Sharon Jones & the Dap-Kings that captures the spirit of love and the holiday season. The late great Sharon Jones, who died back in late 2016, doesn’t provide the vocals for this song but they are ably handled by her longtime guitarist Binky Griptite. What a great name and a fine performance..

Give a listen. It’s good stuff.

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“Rings and jewels are not gifts, but apologies for gifts. The only gift is a portion of thyself. Thou must bleed for me.”

― Ralph Waldo Emerson, Gifts: An Essay

I came across this essay, Gifts, from Ralph Waldo Emerson which is actually a practical guide to gift giving and receiving, well suited to the time in which it was written in 1844. It struck a chord with me because, while I have never looked upon a gift as an apology for not giving more of myself, there seemed to be some logic involved in his words.

It is so much easier, so much less revealing to not truly give from ourselves and to simply go to the shops (or online these days) to acquire what often amounts to a poor symbol of what we might really feel for the person receiving that gift.

We’ve become accustomed to accepting these apologies because it excuses our own apologies to others. It’s to the point that we don’t know how give of ourselves nor do we know how to accept or acknowledge a gift that is really a true portion of the giver.

How do you do that? How do you bleed for someone else? Is it in the words of Emerson, as he continued after the quote above: Therefore the poet brings his poem; the shepherd, his lamb; the farmer, corn; the miner, a gem; the sailor, coral and shells; the painter, his picture; the girl, a handkerchief of her own sewing. This is right and pleasing, for it restores society in so far to its primary basis, when a man’s biography is conveyed in his gift…?

I don’t know.

I used to think that giving my paintings were like giving a piece of myself. It certainly fits in with Emerson’s words as he used just that as an example. It certainly seems like it is a piece of the person creating it.

But is it any more than a different sort of apology? Maybe an apology for not giving of my time and self to people directly? An apology for keeping my distance?

Sometimes I think that’s true. But there have been times when I have been given something made by another and I certainly don’t look at it as an apology in any way. I am just touched that they took the time and made the effort to even think of me in any way.

For example, I received a Christmas card from a friend whose two daughters drew red trees inside the card. That is as precious as any gift I could have received.

So where does that leave us?

I don’t know.

I am just thinking out loud this morning. Tomorrow I might look at this and ask myself what the hell I was thinking. You can never tell.

Bottom line: You can’t go wrong by truly giving of yourself. Bleed for someone, okay?

This post first ran a couple of years ago. Like most things written quickly in the dark of the morning, there is usually some afterthought or outside comments that make me reconsider some parts of what I have put down in print. Sometimes it warrants an addition or corollary to the original post.

I have been given a couple of bought gifts early in my life from my parents that have as much meaning as any poem or painting given from their hearts. These gifts took considerable thought and consideration on their part that still touches me deeply.

And I have given gifts that were bought that were filed with as much thought and consideration as I had at that time. My friend in Texas, Linda (shoreacres), relayed a story when this post originally ran about a small wooden box that now sits on her dresser. It was one that she had purchased for her mother the first time she was allowed to go shopping on her own for the holidays. The whole experience of that day and buying that box is a memory filled with, as she put it, mindfulness and love.

That reminded me of my own similar memory, one that concerns a wooden bowl in my possession. It’s nothing grand or expensive, just a simple green painted wooden bowl with a handle and painted flowers on the inside of its bowl that was a Christmas gift to my mom when I was about 12 years old or somewhere in that range.

I remember agonizing over that bowl, wanting to give her something that was really beautiful that showed her how much she meant to me while still staying within the budget of a 12 year old with nothing more than a tiny allowance. I remember the saleslady at the card shop smiling at my choice and me digging out a couple of dollar bills and some change then asking if I wanted her to put it in a gift box. I didn’t know that was even a thing at that point and was thrilled at the prospect. It made me feel that it was even more special.

She used the bowl for many years, usually holding bunches of fake grapes. It was one of the few things from my mother after she died and it still brings back that complete memory of buying it every time I see it.

So, maybe a gift doesn’t have to be made by your own hands so long as it is chosen and given with mindfulness and love…

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Fleurs du Soleil– Now at the West End Gallery

Anthropocentric as [the gardener] may be, he recognizes that he is dependent for his health and survival on many other forms of life, so he is careful to take their interests into account in whatever he does. He is in fact a wilderness advocate of a certain kind. It is when he respects and nurtures the wilderness of his soil and his plants that his garden seems to flourish most. Wildness, he has found, resides not only out there, but right here: in his soil, in his plants, even in himself…
But wildness is more a quality than a place, and though humans can’t manufacture it, they can nourish and husband it…
The gardener cultivates wildness, but he does so carefully and respectfully, in full recognition of its mystery.

― Michael Pollan, Second Nature: A Gardener’s Education

We live a world, one that is often virtual rather than real, that is increasingly far removed from wildness and blinded to its revelations and mysteries. We don’t notice the wildness hidden in the grasses and trees around us. We pay little attention to the movement of the stars in the night sky or the sounds of a trickling stream or the creaking of the trees in the wind.

And that is a great loss for us. I don’t think we can know ourselves until we clearly see the wildness of the natural world around us.

We may not fully understand it and maybe that’s the point. Maybe being aware of that bit of mystery keeps our sense of wonder alive.

And isn’t it a sense of wonder that makes life worth living?

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Seeking Imperfection– 2001

Up too early this morning. In the studio at about 5 AM. Music playing and a song from Robert Plant and Alison Krauss comes on. I’ve played a track from their new album a while back, a remake of an old song whose title, Last Kind Words Blues, I borrowed for a new painting.

This song is another remake called Trouble With My Lover. It was written by the great Allen Toussaint and first recorded in the late 60’s by Betty Harris.

I really like this remake and thought it might pair well with the painting above, a piece from 2001 called Seeking Imperfection, which was also the title of my 2001 Principle Gallery show. 20 years ago! Jeez…

That show and title remain a favorite of mine probably because it best describes my own relationship with perfection. Actually, about finding truth in imperfection.

I have written about this recently and also this, in a post back in 2012:

I’ve always been somewhat uncomfortable with the idea of perfection or the search for it. Perfection is  an endpoint, a finality, and the antithesis of our humanity, at least in how I view it. To seek only it is to deny our imperfect natures. We are flawed and scarred characters in a world that is definitely not perfect except in those rare moments when all of these flaws coalesce into instances of harmony and beauty.

The perfection in imperfection.

That’s kind of what I hope for and sometimes see in my paintings– harmony and beauty despite the inherent imperfections. I can find flaws in any of my paintings but I don’t cringe at the sight of them. Instead, they make me glad because in seeing them I recognize my connection to them, can see the struggle in trying to create these moments of harmony. A pit here, a dot of stray paint  or a rough edge there, a bristle from a brush trapped in the paint– it all speaks to me, saying that it can be whole and harmonious-  beautiful despite the flaws. Perhaps not a bad way to view one’s life.

How this relates to the song is a little fuzzy. Perhaps it is the realization that there is no such thing as perfection in any relationship, that we all live with the flaws and imperfections of our mates. We sometimes even learn to embrace these flaws over time.

I don’t really know. Maybe I’m just spitballing here and wasting too much precious time, both yours and mine. I have things to do, imperfections to find, places to go and people to meet.

Same with you, I’m sure so let’s just listen to the song and enjoy it for what it is.

By the way, the musician I featured yesterday, JD McPherson, is serving as guitarist backing Plant and Krauss for this tour. That’s him in the leather jacket and the yellow Telecaster.

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We make a living by what we get, but we make a life by what we give.

–Winston Churchill

Moving into the season of giving. And receiving. I might be wrong, but it feels like when you’re an adult you focus on the giving part. That’s been my experience, at least.

But for a kid it’s the receiving part of the equation that stands out. Undoubtedly, many of us have memories of tearing into neatly wrapped packages on Christmas morning. Our minds were reeling with giddy expectation that our greatest desires were contained within it. It could be the perfect toy that would make us whole, that would make our drab kid lives worthwhile and exciting like those smiling, happy brats we envied on the TV ads as they played with the toy.

But shredding the wrapping reveals only a pair of socks. Dress socks.

Plain yellow dress socks. A sickly pale yellow, the color of jaundice, and for a kid, just as desirable.

I had that experience many times as kid and remember feeling disappointed at the time. But I also remember  telling myself that the grandmother or aunt that gave me these things were not well-to-do and were buying gifts for many other kids in the family.

Sure, a new bike would have been great but even with those sick yellow socks, I sometimes felt like I was lucky to be included at all.

And ultimately, these socks were worn. Inside of my snow boots where they were out of sight.

I know I didn’t show the appreciation then that I have now for those gifts. I wish I could go back to tell my grandma or aunt how much I appreciated the thought, that they were great socks and I couldn’t wait to put them on.

Maybe they knew that someday I might feel a little more gratitude and that was enough for them then.

I don’t know. Hope so.

That brings us to this week’s Sunday Morning Music which is, of course, named Socks. It’s from JD McPherson’s Christmas themed album of the same title from a few years back. I enjoyed many of the songs from that album and played this song back then. Thought I might regift it to you this morning.

If you don’t like it, you can do the same…

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