Redtree Times

Part of me wants to start celebrating Festivus early this year and begin the Airing of Grievances that traditionally (well, as traditional as you can get from a Seinfeld-based celebration) kicks off the holiday.

There is so much about which I could scream my lungs dry.

I mean, come on. I saw a stat yesterday that approximately 350,000 Americans have died of covid-19 since the vaccine became freely available. Well over 90% –most likely closer to 98%– of those deaths, probably 325,000 or more, were among the unvaccinated, most who were intentionally misinformed of the dangers and evils of the vaccine by media types who themselves were vaccinated. 

325,000 dead. To put that in perspective, the cities of St. Louis, Cincinnati, Pittsburgh, and Orlando all have populations of less than that. And all happening when there is a way to avoid it.

Senseless. It’s like someone starving to death even as food is readily available and free because they are being told, by someone with a full belly from eating the very same food, that the food is somehow tainted and will kill them. So, they refuse to eat the food and starve. 

And they have the nerve to call those who are vaccinated sheep. Well, better a living sheep than a lemming plunging over the cliff.

There’s so many more grievances. You have the failed and current coups to overthrow our once great democracy, the climate change denial still taking place even as tornadoes devastate the midwest — the footage from last night’s storms are horrifying–and other climate change related disasters occur with increasing frequency, the gun fetishists in this country who place the protection of their guns over the safety of their children, or the manner in which white supremacy has risen to the surface and taken control of a major political party.

I could go on. Trust me on that. But I will spare you and myself that agony. I just checked my blood pressure and it read 345/285. The cuff burst into flames. I think that might be bad.

Guess it’s time to move on to another subject, though I wish it were a rosier one.

Michael Nesmith died yesterday at the age of 78. He was my favorite Monkee, always appearing lethargically calm and cool with his trademark stocking cap and Gretsch guitar. He wrote a number of songs for the Monkees and others, including Different Drum that was a big hit for Linda Ronstadt. He also produced a lot of videos and films including the cult classic Repo Man. Just a talented guy, His death is a loss for this crazy world.

Thanks for listening to my airing of grievances. Maybe this will help ease your own tension. Here’s Different Drum as performed by the late Michael Nesmith.

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Absorbing Light— At the West End Gallery

I am only one,
But still I am one.
I cannot do everything,
But still I can do something;
And because I cannot do everything,
I will not refuse to do the something that I can do.

–Edward Everett Hale, Lend a Hand

Small things count.

That’s it. That’s the message for today.

Though there seems to be a lot of folks out there right now who believe only their voice and their opinions and actions are valid, most of us sit at the other end of the spectrum. We often believe that we are small and insignificant, that our thoughts and actions are of little consequence.

That like Hale pointed out, we are only one and cannot do everything.

But one is still one. One is something. One possesses the potential for growth. It can become two, then three and on and on.

Everything starts at one.

Every great idea, every great movement and accomplishment of humanity, began with the thought of one person. And sometimes that one thought was belittled and dismissed. It often took time and persistence before that one became two.

And even if that one doesn’t aspire to greatness, it still has the potential for great meaning and purpose. It might be a small thought or action that could have great consequence for the next person.

The next one.

It might be a small act of kindness or generosity that inspires them to do the same for others going forward.

Do what you can and don’t focus on what you cannot do. And never give up or give in. Persist.

Because small things count.

Sorry to preach. But that’s my sermon for today, though most of it comes from the thought of another one.

New Englander Edward Everett Hale was born in 1822 and died in 1909. He was a clergyman and a writer, best known for his book, The Man Without a Country. The short verse at the top was written near the end of his life and was based on an earlier statement of his:

I am only one, but I am one. I can’t do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do. And by the grace of God, I will.

They both basically say the same thing but the statement is a bit more defiant, that moral rightness sometimes requires us to take a stand even though might do so as one, alone.

I think I like the statement a bit more…

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Patience and perseverance have a magical effect before which difficulties disappear and obstacles vanish.

-John Quincy Adams

I run the post below, a favorite of mine, every few years. While I rerun it because, like this morning, I am short on time, I do it mainly for myself. It’s a short essay that always gives me a boost and reminds me that I still have the ability to adapt to and overcome adversity. Knowing this takes away a lot of fear and anxiety. Hopefully, it can do the same for others.

I don’t what made this pop into my head but I was thinking about a conversation from a few years back that I had with a friend who is also a painter. He has been a working artist for almost his entire adult life, fairly successful for much of that time. We both agree that we are extremely fortunate to have found our careers, one that feels like a destination rather than a passageway to some other calling.

For me, I knew this was the career for me when I realized I no longer looked at the job listings in the classified section of the paper. For most of my life, I felt there was something else out there that would satisfy me but I didn’t know what it was or how to find it. Maybe it was as simple as finding the right job.

Or so I thought.

When you don’t know where you’re going, any direction feels like it might be the right direction.

But during this particular conversation this friend asked, “What would you do if you suddenly couldn’t paint? What if you were suddenly blind?”

For him, it was unthinkable. His entire working life had consisted of the totally visual, based on expressing every emotion in paint.

I thought about it for a second and said simply, “I’d do something else. I’d find a way.”

In that split-second I realized that while I loved painting and relished the idea that I could communicate completely in paint, painting was a mere device for self-expression.

But it was not the only way to go.

I knew then, as I know now, that the deprivation of something that has come to mean so much to me would, in itself, create a new need for expression. And I also knew that knowing of this new need, I had the ability to figure out how it could be satisfied.

I have always marveled at the people who, when paralyzed or have lost use of their arms, paint with their toes or their mouth. Their drive to communicate overcame their obstacles. Mine would as well.

If blinded, I could or do something with words, using them to create color and texture. Perhaps not at the same level as my painting, but it might grow into something different given the circumstance. The need to communicate whatever I needed to communicate would create a pathway.

It was an epiphany in that moment. Just knowing that I had found painting gave me the belief that I could and would find a new form of expression if needed.

I did it once and I could do it again. And I found that greatly comforting.

Yes, I’d find a way…

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Usually, a painting will leave the studio and go into a gallery and that’s the end of the story. They most often feel complete and alive, leaving after being titled, documented and framed.

Sometimes a painting about which I have strong feelings goes out and make the gallery rounds, never finding a fitting home. It comes back to me. I will examine trying to determine if there is something off. If not, if it has that feeling of completeness I want and I am otherwise satisfied, I don’t worry about it at all and am perfectly content with it as it is.

But sometimes a piece goes out the door and I soon begin to feel a little uneasy about it. Something feels off in the whole package. It’s usually not in the painting itself but occasionally there are things I see after the fact that really require an adjustment. In that case I recover the piece and go back in.

Doesn’t happen often but it happens.

But most often the things that make me feel uneasy are things outside of the painting itself. A framing decision, for instance. This was true a little more often early in my career, when I had yet to opt for what would end up being my standard hand-stained frame  with its orangey yellow color.

But sometimes it’s just the title. After a painting has left I find that its given name might not match what I am actually feeling in the piece or that it might send the viewer in a different direction altogether.

I am pleased to say this seldom happens but once every few years there will be a piece where I feel like the title itself might be holding it back. I have changed the titles of several pieces because of this and in nearly every case that painting found a new home soon after. Makes me think I might be on to something.

I think the painting shown above might be a case of the wrong title for a good piece. It left the studio as Dark Eye of Quiet. I like that title and could easily see it working for another painting. But something about it makes me uneasy now, something that doesn’t jibe with what I feel in the painting.

The quiet part is fine. But the dark eye denotes something perhaps sinister, which doesn’t line up with the painting for me. I see quietude in it but also see that red-vermillion sun as a symbol of an unusual moment. But not necessarily sinister. The tone of its title needs to be lightened a bit.

Maybe it would work if I just called it The The Quiet Eye? Same idea just without a dark undertone.

Or maybe go with an old song title like It’s a Most Unusual Day ? It does feel like an unusual day.

Or maybe I should just call it Untitled #A7 or something of that sort?

Nah. Couldn’t do that.

I really don’t know. But I do feel that it is misnamed, that it deserves something that doesn’t detract from one’s perception of it.

Feel free to help me out if you have any ideas.

In the meantime, here’s the song It’s a Most Unusual Day.  It’s a cool jazz version from singer Beverly Kenney, who died tragically in 1960 at the tender age of 28. What a great shame. I think this is a wonderful performance of this song and wish she had stuck around longer.

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Viva Nox (The Vivid Night)— At the West End Gallery

Pay attention. It’s all about paying attention. It’s all about taking in as much of what’s out there as you can, and not letting the excuses and the dreariness of some of the obligations you’ll soon be incurring narrow your lives. Attention is vitality. It connects you with others. It makes you eager. Stay eager.

–Susan Sontag, 2003 Commencement Speech at Vassar

Attention is vitality…

That sure rings true in my limited experience.

I had wrote a whole spiel earlier, spending way too much time on something I finally determined said substantially less than these three simple words.

So, let’s leave it here for today. You determine what those words mean for you.

But I do ask that you do as Sontag advises and take in as much as you can from what’s out there and stay eager and engaged.

We need more people with that sort of vitality…

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From Alpha to Omega— At the West End Gallery

I imagined a labyrinth of labyrinths, a maze of mazes, a twisting, turning, ever-widening labyrinth that contained both past and future and somehow implied the stars. Absorbed in those illusory imaginings, I forgot that I was a pursued man; I felt myself, for an indefinite while, the abstract perceiver of the world. The vague, living countryside, the moon, the remains of the day did their work in me; so did the gently downward road, which forestalled all possibility of weariness. The evening was near, yet infinite.

― Jorge Luis Borges, Ficciones

I was dropping off some new work a week or so ago at the West End Gallery. I came across the piece shown above, From Alpha to Omega, while going through some my existing work that was in their inventory. Painted on paper, it’s a fairly subtle piece in composition and color, with muted, watery tones. Perhaps not the most dramatic or boldest piece in my body of work.

But there’s something about this piece that always captures my attention, that makes me stop and ponder it for a few moments when ever I come across it, as I did that day. It undoubtedly has some sort of personal meaning for me that triggers that response.

The title refers to the Alpha and the Omega, the first and last letters of the Greek alphabet which together also commonly denotes the beginning and ending of anyone or anything. I saw the person coming upon the Red Tree as seeing something– it’s life and existence, for example– come full circle.

Which was the Alpha and which was the Omega remains a mystery.

But I also saw the figure as coming to the end, the center, of a labyrinth to find the Red Tree. Again, the labyrinth might symbolize one’s life and existence, one which a person enters at birth and comes to the center at death.

But perhaps in this case death isn’t the center of the labyrinth, the end that is inferred. Perhaps the Omega is the finding of some truth, some sort of self-awareness or realization. In this scenario, this would symbolize an evolution from one state of being to another, with the figure representing the first state– the Alpha– and the Red Tree signifying the final and furthest state of growth that resides at the center of the labyrinth.

The Omega.

I say this feels personal but I can’t say that I am anywhere near the center of my own labyrinth. I don’t believe that we have the ability or self-awareness that allows us to recognize our own potential for being. I can say that most days I feel like I am far from the center of whatever labyrinth I am wandering around in and that if I could just get a glimpse, a tiny momentary peek, at the Omega, I would be satisfied.

Funny what meaning a small, simple painting can hold for a person. I guess making us consider these things, to make these connections so that we can see a direction or pattern in our actions, is the purpose of art.

Sounds about right early on this Monday morning…

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In a Corner– At the Principle Gallery

We never live; we are always in the expectation of living.

― Voltaire

After you find out all the things that can go wrong, your life becomes less about living and more about waiting.

― Chuck Palahniuk, Choke

I used two quotes to kick off today’s post. They are from two very different sources, one the intellectual leading light of the Enlightenment of the 17th century and the other the hard-edged contemporary author of Fight Club.

But both say pretty much the same thing, albeit in different terms: Life is often mainly a matter of waiting.

Waiting for things to begin. Or end.

Waiting for signs or a proper time. Or conditions to change.

Waiting for the Muse to visit.

Waiting for the sun to shine or the dark clouds to recede.

Waiting for justice.

Or the next shoe to drop.

Waiting for things to get better. Or worse.

Waiting for hopes or horrors.

That’s certainly how the last couple of years have felt, like I have been treading water in a deep pool. Not going forward in any way but paddling like hell to just stay afloat, waiting for something to which I can’t even name.

Not even sure I will recognize whatever it is if when and if it appears.

The scary thing about this time is that feels like the normal state of being now even though deep down, something tells me this should not be so.

So, I wait in my corner trying to appear as patient as possible to see if this will soon change. All the while, my brain is furiously treading water, nervous and impatient.

Here’s this Sunday Morning music, going way back with the Rolling Stones. Here’s one of my favorite Stones songs, I Am Waiting, from 1966.

Now, time for me to get back to my chair in the corner. Gonna get some good waiting in today. Close the door on your way out, okay?

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Peace Vigil– At the Principle Gallery

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

— Wendell Berry, The Peace of Wild Things

I haven’t shared the above poem, a favorite of mine from Wendell Berry, for a few years but felt that it paired up well with the new painting at the top. It’s a small piece called Peace Vigil which is part of the Small Works show that opens today at the Principle Gallery in Alexandria.

Besides that, I needed words like those to settle a mind troubled by the angers and indignities of the outer world, words that remind me that there is peace out there, a freedom found resting, as Berry puts it, in the grace of the world.

I try my very best to keep to myself, to not bother others or ask much of them.  I try to keep my infringement on the lives of others to a minimum.

I know that sounds funny coming from someone who writes a blog and depends on people buying his paintings for a living. That seems like a big ask of people. But I am not forcing it on anyone and am surprised when anyone does either of those things.

Plus, everyone is totally free to ignore my words and paintings. And they often do just that. Sometimes to my dismay. But sometimes to my delight. Being ignored or overlooked sometimes comes with a great sense of freedom. Nobody expects anything nor holds me responsible for their care or their woes and wobbles.

Nobody bothers me. And that is all I ask in exchange for keeping to myself and not bothering others.

Like the Red Tree in the painting above, I perch myself on my small island, looking forever for peace and quiet.

Can it be found? I don’t really know. Maybe it could if people could constantly keep in mind the simple idea of not bothering others, of respecting the space and existence of others. That like themselves, nobody wants to be bothered or abused.

I guess that falls into the Do unto others as you would have them do unto you category. 

It’s pretty good advice. It was then, back in the times of Moses, and it is now. It’s probably the best, and maybe only, path to true peace and freedom. But it might be too simple and elegant a solution for a culture steeped as it is in greedy selfishness, fear-based hatred and the worship of wealth and power.

But I can do my small part and try to keep that in mind here on my little island, forever on the watch for peace and quiet.

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Calling Me Home– At the Principle Gallery

Everyone must leave something behind when he dies, my grandfather said. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you’re there.

It doesn’t matter what you do, he said, so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that’s like you after you take your hands away. The difference between the man who just cuts lawns and a real gardener is in the touching, he said. The lawn-cutter might just as well not have been there at all; the gardener will be there a lifetime.

― Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451

The painting above is titled Calling Me Home, a little 2″ by 4″ painting on paper that is part of the Small Works show that opens Saturday, December 4, at the Principle Gallery.

Sometimes small pieces can be easily overlooked because of their size. But a diminutive size doesn’t prevent them from speaking with a much larger voice and meaning. I think this piece falls into that category.

In an earlier post about this small painting, I mentioned that I named this piece after a song from one of my big favorites, Rhiannon Giddens. The idea of being attached to a place called home is a powerful one, indeed. I saw that in this piece. But there’s a line in the song that stood out for me:

Remember my stories, remember my songs/ I leave them on earth, sweet traces of gold

It made me think of that existential question: What is it we leave behind?

That immediately brought to mind a favorite excerpt, shown at the top, from Ray Bradbury in his sci-fi/ dystopian classic Fahrenheit 451. It’s those things to which we devote our full effort, our mind and time, that have lasting effect. Often, things that are done with no real expectation of anyone recognizing your thought or effort in doing them.

It doesn’t matter what you do, he said, so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that’s like you after you take your hands away.

This line says a lot. Maybe it’s the reason that home holds such meaning for many of us. It is that place where we were shaped, where we touched and formed by the influence of our parents and other family members.

In many cases there may be no remnants of home left, no door to pass through nor rooms to wander. Nothing left to touch. It may no longer exist and parents and family members might be forever gone.

But the memory remains. It is an artifact, evidence that that place and those people touched and changed your life. We carry many of those changes throughout our lives.

It is a real and powerful thing.

Now, here’s the song from Rhiannon Giddens. 

This post was adapted from an earlier post.

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The Beholder– At the Principle Gallery

The eye you see is not an eye because you see it;
it is an eye because it sees you.

― Antonio Machado, Times Alone: Selected Poems

Another new small piece from the Small Works show at Principle Gallery that opens Saturday. This is called The Beholder.

I’ve always been aware of crows and ravens, and fascinated with their proximity to us. I have long admired their great intelligence and problem-solving skills, their strong family and societal bonds, their ability to survive in a world all too often unfriendly to their existence, and their willingness to occasionally interact with us humans, even if it’s in a distant and wary way.

But it is their watchful presence that piques my interest most. I have been watched carefully forever by the crows around here and in the cemetery we haunt for walks. They sit patiently and usually quietly; their gaze fixed on me as I move around. They are used to me now and their normal wariness is relaxed a bit.

Just a bit. I am still a human in their eyes, after all. And we all know what that crowd is like.

Occasionally they let out a few of their trademark caws.

It all makes me think that they have gained a great deal of wisdom from their eons of being on the fringes of our existence, observing our behaviors and following our movements.

This belief that they possess some greater knowledge is heightened by the fact that they persist even though we have often killed them in great numbers, shooting them when we labeled them as a threat to crops or for sheer sport(?), or poisoned them with our use of pesticides and herbicides on those crops.

What do they know? What have they seen? Could it be something we cannot see in ourselves, something that requires an impartial outside observer?

Maybe they are just fascinated by us, watching us as though we were chimps in a monkey-cage at the zoo, waiting for us to do something goofy or stupid.

They usually don’t have to wait too long.

I see this small painting, The Beholder, as being about that sense of watchfulness, about how we might benefit from simply sitting quietly and observing ourselves.

It certainly couldn’t do any harm…

FYI– The short verse at the top is from renowned Spanish poet Antonio Machado, who died in 1939 at the age of 63. At the time, he had fled to France as he was opposed to the fascist threat posed by the Nationalists in the Spanish Civil War.

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