Redtree Times

In the Eye– Now at West End Gallery

The spring without a leaf to toss, bare and bright like a virgin fierce in her chastity, scornful in her purity, was laid out on fields wide-eyed and watchful and entirely careless of what was done or thought by the beholders.

–Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse

I always have a problem in choosing which pieces to highlight here in the days right before an opening. I want them to strongly emit the theme that particular show. Since the exhibit opening tomorrow at the West End Gallery is titled Eye in the Sky, this new smaller painting made my decision this morning much easier.

It is titled In the Eye.

The title is partly taken from the saying beauty is in the eye of the beholder, something which is hard to argue with. That’s the basis for all of art. But, given the show’s title with its emphasis on the sun/moon serving as an ever vigilant and silent witness as well as a source of cryptic wisdom, I saw the crows here as being in the eye of the beholding moon.

But it also referred to the eyes of the crows, who in much the same way as the sun/moon, serve as witness to the natural world and humans around which they reside.

There are a number of things in this piece that stand out for me. The color of the sky around the moon has the feel of the dream from which I derived the show’s title. It gives the moon that effect of it being an eye looking through a hatch which is the break it creates in the dense cloud bank before it. The clouds themself have a slate grayness that I seldom employ. But here it serves as a wonderful contrast to the the light around the beholding Eye as well as the vivid orange of the field in the foreground and the icy blue from fields in the mid-ground.

As always, that’s my read on it. You do what you will with it. You are the beholder here.

I have included a Brandi Carlile song from several years back below, mainly for the title but also because it’s just a lovely tune. It’s called The Eye.  Not the same eye mentioned here, instead referring to the eye of a hurricane. Doesn’t matter to me though. Give a listen, if you’re so inclined.

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Eye in the Sky, my 22nd annual solo show at the West End Gallery is now hanging and is available for previews. The show opens tomorrow, Friday, July 21, with an Opening Reception from 5-7 PM. I will be there for questions, comments, or insults, if that’s what you really want to do. Hope to see you there!

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Humility– At West End Gallery

“He that has been a servant
Knows more than priests and kings,
But he that has been an ill servant,
He knows all earthly things.

“Pride flings frail palaces at the sky,
As a man flings up sand,
But the firm feet of humility
Take hold of heavy land.

“Pride juggles with her toppling towers,
They strike the sun and cease,
But the firm feet of humility
They grip the ground like trees.”

-G.K. Chesterton, The Ballad of the White Horse

This is a new painting from my Eye in the Sky exhibit now hanging at the West End Gallery in Corning. Called Humility, it’s an 11″ by 23″ painting on paper, matted and framed in a 16″ by 28″ hand-built frame.

This painting is in line with the theme of the show but is also an anomaly, with its gray and muted tones and very simple composition. Much of the show features stronger colors and textures as well as more elaborate design. This piece almost feels like a palate cleanser.

I struggled for a bit with its title as I wasn’t sure what I was reading in it even though it seemed to be speaking directly to me. The scale of the tree and the house made the central figure here seem small by comparison and that was what caught my imagination. It was this idea of our smallness before the largeness of nature (the tree), history (the house), and the universe (the watchful eye of the sun.)

The figure making its way through this immensity is humbled in the comparison yet is grounded in the knowledge that it has a path to follow, a part to play.

It is what it is, no more and no less. And that is good enough.

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Eye in the Sky, my 22nd annual solo show at the West End Gallery is now hanging and is available for previews. The show opens on Friday, July 21, with an Opening Reception from 5-7 PM.

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The Elevating Eye— Now at West End Gallery

What we truly and earnestly aspire to be, that in some sense we are. The mere aspiration, by changing the frame of the mind, for the moment realizes itself.

–Anna Brownell Jameson, A Commonplace Book of Thoughts (1854)

This bit of wisdom from 19th century British author Anna Brownell Jameson might be the first mention of the visualization techniques of modern self-help gurus. I am not sure and I don’t have the time to look it up this morning but let’s just say its idea of envisioning yourself as the person you wish to be is bedrock advice in any time and place.

And it is sort of the same idea that I see in this new painting, The Elevating Eye, which is part of my West End Gallery exhibit, that opens Friday. I see the Red Tree here as aspiring for more, to move beyond the sameness and worldliness that surrounds it. It desires higher ground for itself, where its sense of uniqueness and purpose can find clear air and wider views in which to function. 

Where it can be what is sees itself being.

Where its true being is exposed to the all-seeing Eye in the Sky.

Which begs the question: How close do we ever come to being that which we envision ourselves being? Do we view ourselves realistically, fully recognizing all our deficiencies? And if so, are we truly willing to change and grow in order to become what we think we are? 

It raises lots of questions that can’t be answered by anyone but each of us within ourselves. That’s something that could be said of all effective art. It creates reactions and emotions, raises questions without easy answers. It becomes a mirror showing dual images of who we are and who we wish to be. Artists can never say that their work is that mirror for anyone but themselves.

So, I leave it at that. It is what it is and what you want it to be.

Here’s song that sums up the thought and fills out the triad for today. It’s a 2005 song, Changes, from the ethereal Tracy Chapman. She has been in the news lately as her iconic song Fast Car became a #1 country hit for Luke Combs. He did it well and with great respect for the song but for my ears, the original is unmatched. It did, however, bring her work to a group of people who might not have ever heard it and that is a good thing. Here is her Changes:

The Elevating Eye is a 20″ by 30″ canvas which is included in Eye in the Sky, my annual solo exhibit at the West End Gallery in Corning, NY. The show is now hanging in the gallery and available for previews. The exhibit opens Friday, July 21, with an Opening Reception from 5-7 PM. I will be in attendance to field questions or just say hello and chat for a few minutes. Or maybe you can answer my questions– I have a lot. Whatever makes you comfortable.

Also, we will be having an in-person Gallery Talk at the gallery on Saturday, August 19 beginning at 11 AM. It should be fun, with the usual (or should I say, unusual) giveaways and drawings. We are asking that if you plan to attend you reserve a seat since space is limited. Here is a link to the contact form at the West End Gallery where you can let them know if you are interested.

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Jubilee– Now at the West End Gallery, Corning

The year of jubilee has come;
Gather the gifts of Earth with equal hand;
Henceforth ye too may share the birthright soil,
The corn, the wine, and all the harvest-home.

–Edmund Clarence Stedman, The Feast of the Harvest, 1869

The painting at the top is Jubilee. At 30″ by 48″ on canvas, it is the largest painting in my new solo exhibit, Eye in the Sky, which is now hanging at the West End Gallery in Corning. The exhibit opens this coming Friday, July 21, with an Opening Reception from 5-7 PM.

It is what I call one of my Baucis & Philemon paintings. I have retold the mythic tale, as I know it, many times here. Here is one retelling from a number of years back:

Baucis and Philemon tells the tale of a poor but happy couple who are unknowingly visited by Zeus and Hermes disguised as dusty travelers. Beggars, really. The two gods had gone door to door among their neighbors seeking hospitality and were rebuffed in every attempt, often with harsh words. Zeus became angry as door after door was slammed in his face. Finally, they came to the door of the shack of Baucis and Philemon, by far the poorest home they had yet approached. 

Upon knocking, they were greeted warmly by an elderly couple who welcomed them into their simple but clean home and treated them with what little they had in the way of food and drink. They were gracious and hospitable, seeking to give comfort to the strangers. As the night wore on, the couple, who had been serving their simple wine to the travelers from a pitcher, noticed that the pitcher stayed full even after many pours. They began to suspect that these were not mere beggars but were, in fact, gods.

They apologized to the gods for not having much to put before them then offered to catch their prized goose, which was really a pet, so that they could cook it for them. The old couple chased the goose around the shack until finally the frightened creature found sanctuary on the laps of the gods. Stroking the now safe goose, Zeus then informed them of their identities and, after complimenting on their hospitality and of the mean-spiritedness of their neighbors, told them to follow them. They climbed upon a rise and Zeus told them to look back. Where once their town had stood was nothing but water,  from a deluge that had washed away everything, including all who had insulted Zeus. From where their poor home had been, a majestic golden-roofed  temple with sparkling marble pillars rose from the receding waters.

Zeus told the couple that this was their new home and asked what wish he could grant them. They asked that they be made priests, guardians of this temple and that they should always remain together until the ends of their lives. Seeing their obvious love for each other, Zeus readily agreed. The couple lived for many more years together, reaching a prodigious age. One day they stood together and all the past moments from their life and love together flooded over them. Baucis saw leaves and limbs sprouting from Philemon and realized that the same thing was happening to her. On the plain outside the temple, they transformed into two trees, an oak and a linden, that grew from the same trunk, their limbs intertwined, eternally together.

I’ve painted a number of these pieces over the years and they always feel special to me. Maybe it’s the iconic stance of the two trees or simply the idea of such a long-lasting bond that attracts me.  I don’t know and I don’t really need to know.

The title of this piece, Jubilee, generally denotes the celebration of the anniversary of something, a marriage or reign of a monarch, often 50 years or 75 years, which are the Golden and Diamond Jubilees, respectively. It is also attached to the celebration of harvest feasts and in the Old Testament, the Jubilee was the 50-year mark when slaves were freed and debts forgiven. The word is derived from the Hebrew word jobel which translates as the ram’s horn which was blown in celebration in such times.

I get the feeling of celebration here in this painting. It might be the anniversary of the two trees or it might be a celebration of the bounty the Earth has provided. I don’t think it matters. It is the joy and jubilance (same derivation, see?) of the whole, the clarity and brightness of its colors, that makes it work for me.

Makes me happy.

Here’s song from Long John Baldry, off his 1972 album Everything Stops For Tea, which has provided me a lot of joy over the years. The song is Jubilee Cloud. I guess the clouds in this painting would be Jubilee Clouds, right?

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Anticipating Dawn— Now at West End Gallery, Corning, NY

We are independent of the change we detect. The longer the lever, the less perceptible its motion. It is the slowest pulsation which is the most vital. The hero then will know how to wait, as well as to make haste. All good abides with him who waiteth wisely; we shall sooner overtake the dawn by remaining here than by hurrying over the hills of the west.

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

I am a dawn person, always up in the early morning darkness, forever anticipating the coming light. Can’t remember the last time I woke up with full sunshine streaming through the windows. I’ve written a number of times here about this period of time and the giddy but satisfying wait for the day to begin.

Filled with potential for the new. The possibility of some extraordinary occurrence.

Of course, it often seems like the same day, the new day often only separated by mere degrees of difference from the one before. But that’s okay. Because, even in these small degrees, there is always a change taking place., much like the incremental and often imperceptible change that Thoreau mentions above.

I know that in our world where most want instant and complete gratification, that doesn’t sound as appealing to most folks as I find it. But I have learned, bit by bit, to be patient with the day. To take whatever gift it has to offer and to appreciate the subtler points of its sameness.

Even if it is something small and seemingly insignificant, there is always something new to find in the new day. It may not add up to an earth-shattering day but how many of those days can one tolerate, really?

That’s pretty much the feeling that I see in this new 18″ by 24″ painting on canvas that is included in my West End Gallery show, Anticipating Dawn. I see the fields in the middle distance representing that which is regular and seemingly unremarkable. The Red Tree’s perch on the mount suggests to me the patience referred to above. The rising Sun, of course, represent the coming day while the path that runs through the picture is the possibility of arriving at something new.

I could probably go on but let’s just leave it at that for now and try to find the new in today.

For this week’s Sunday Morning Music, here is something that is most likely new to most of you. It’s a song from back in 1972 called Watch the Sunrise from Big Star. They were a group fronted by the late Alex Chilton who had earlier sang lead for the 60’s rock group, The Boxtops. Despite positive reviews of their records at the time, Big Star didn’t have great commercial success. However, they and Alex Chilton had great influence on future bands such as REM, the Replacements, and a number of others.

Enjoy.

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Pull of the Moon— At West End Gallery

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

—Pablo Neruda, If You Forget Me

I originally didn’t think of this painting, Pull of the Moon, in romantic terms. It has warmth but it seemed to me to be more about the attraction to the moon with its steadiness and its light breaking through the dark of night. But that sort of attraction provides a basis for romance, doesn’t it? Are we not attracted to those who provide light into our darkest nights, to those who are steadily at hand?

It makes me see this painting in a much different way. A much different light, you might say.

I am not going to say much more this morning except to say that this 12″ by 24″ painting is part of my new solo exhibit, Eye in the Sky, which is now hanging at the West End Gallery in Corning. The exhibit opens next Friday, July 21, with an Opening Reception from 5-7 PM. I will be there to chat and answer questions. Hope to see you there.

Let’s end this now so I can get to some busy work. Here’s a lovely video set to a reading by Madonna of the Pablo Neruda poem, If You Forget Me. The video itself are scenes taken from the 2010 animated film, The Illusionist. Beautiful work.

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Eye to the Future— Now at West End Gallery

We can pay our debts to the past by putting the future in debt to ourselves.

–-John Buchan, Address to the people of Canada on the coronation of George VI, 1937

Governor General John Buchan‘s words to the people of Canada in 1937 foreshadowed the sacrifice they would be asked to make in the world war that would be upon them in the years that followed. We, as a future generation to the people of that era, certainly owe a debt for the effort they made in defeating the Nazism and Fascism that threatened the world.

That raises the question: Is there anything we can do today to put future generations in debt to us?

That question came to mind after I had finished the new painting at the top, Eye to the Future. Maybe it was that the dominant colors of this piece, the pure of the blue of the sky over the brightness of the yellow in the fields, reminded me of the colors of Ukraine. That, in turn, reminded me that the result of their deadly struggle will have wider meaning and ramifications for the future, not only for the people of Ukraine but for much of the world.

Their struggle, along with a multitude of other existential threats, put us at the cusp of our future that, in many ways, is not unlike that period in which Buchan uttered his words to the Canadians in 1937. How we react to these times and what future path we follow will be scrutinized by future generations. Will we have done enough to make their future livable and free? Will they feel deeply indebted to us or will they curse our inaction and ignorance?

I can’t answer that, of course. At least, not with words. Words are meaningless unless they are coupled with action. It’s what we do that will make the difference in the future that is ahead for our descendants.

And that is what I see in this simple painting. The Red Tree watches with interest as the yellow of the field meets its future in the form of the rising Sun. But it watches from a distance though that same future might soon be its own. Behind the Red Tree are a group of Red Roof Houses that here symbolizes a sense of disinterested isolation by those that don’t see that their future is intertwined with the futures of many distant others.

However, beyond that, I find great hope in this painting. In it, I still see the possibility to avert a darker road to the future– if we do more than witness from afar or turn away altogether.

It’s a piece that presents the viewer of a choice, depending on how one looks at it. And I like that when I see that in my work. Eye to the Future is a 12″ by 24″ canvas that is included in Eye in the Sky, my annual solo show at the West End Gallery. I delivered this piece along with the rest of the exhibit yesterday in advance of the show opening next Friday, July 21. The reception on that day runs from 5-7 PM and I will be there to answer your questions. Anything. Just don’t ask me about calculus, okay?

Additionally, we will be doing a full-fledged in person Gallery Talk this year for the first time since 2019. It will take place on Saturday, August 19, beginning at 11 AM and will have all the frills and fun of the pre-pandemic talks. Well, I am going to try to give you that.

That is a future I can control– somewhat.

With a little optimism, here’s a song from the past, from Timbuk 3 in the mid-1980’s. It was one of those one-hit wonders that dominated the radio waves at the time but faded from memory pretty quickly. I hadn’t heard the song in many, many years until a week or two ago and it made me remember how quirky and fun it was. It has a goofy 80’s style video plus it seems to fit this post. Here’s The Future’s So Bright, I Gotta Wear Shades.

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Insula Solitudo— Coming to the West End Gallery

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

—Henry David Thoreau, A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers

Aah, islands.

Islands appear quite often in my work. For example, there is the new painting at the top. It is included in my upcoming solos show at the West End Gallery, which opens next Friday, July 21. It’s title, Insulata Solitudo, translates as Island of Solitude.

Maybe this idea of combined isolation and solitude is behind the appeal of islands for me. I very much like this idea of a private space that doesn’t have borders with any other land. Nothing grand.  Just a small and simple islet where it could be, as it was with Thoreau, my own tiny continent and place in the world with me bothering nobody and nobody bothering me.

Not too much to ask, is it?

Of course, while there are no borders, there are shorelines. Borders to the sea. So, the larger the island the longer the shoreline which means greater access to your island. I came across two very different views on shorelines. One was a positive spin from the late pastor of Christ Church in NYC, Ralph Washington Stockman:

The field of knowledge which even the best of us can master is like an island surrounded by a limitless ocean of mystery. And the larger the island of knowledge, the longer the shoreline of wonder.

Shorelines of wonder. Hmm.

The other has s lightly more pessimistic take on islands– and us as whole. It is from the late theoretical physicist John Archibald Wheeler:

We live on an island surrounded by a sea of ignorance. As our island of knowledge grows, so does the shore of our ignorance.

Shorelines of ignorance. Hmm.

I would guess that if you wanted to retreat to a private island, free from all others, you might be more aligned with the second quote’s bit of misanthropy. After all, something made you want to be there. If you see your time on the island as a temporary getaway, you probably agree more with the first.

Potato, potata?

I don’t know. Maybe. If I were on my little island, I wouldn’t have to face such questions. I would just be there. And that would be good enough for me.

Here’s a fine acoustic version of the well-worn Police song, Message in a Bottle from Sting to complete the triad. Maybe I am on my island and these blogposts are my messages in bottles?

Hmm. Let me think about that while you get off my island. Just keep walking– you’ll find the shoreline pretty quick.

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Student and Master— Soon at West End Gallery

A life in harmony with nature, the love of truth and of virtue, will purge the eyes to understand her text. By degrees we may come to know the primitive sense of the permanent objects of nature, so that the world shall be to us an open book, and every form significant of its hidden life and final cause.

–Ralph Waldo Emerson, Language

This is a new painting (12″ by 6″ on canvas) headed to the West End Gallery for my annual solo show there. The title, Student and Master, describes a narrative and also presents a bit of a riddle.

The narrative is in the relationship between the three (or maybe four or even five, depending on how you look at it) elements of the scene. Initially, I saw the Red Chair, which represents the human element in my interpretation, and the Crow both serving as students to the imparted wisdom from the Sun, which I saw as representing the force of Nature.

But the more I lived with this piece, the more I began to see it as a riddle, an enigma. Was the Crow student to the Sun but also Master to the Red Chair? Or was the Red Chair somehow Master to the Crow? After all, the Red Chair has its back turned to the Sun as though it is beyond the teachings of Nature. Plus, the Crow often studies us in silent proximity.

But I concluded that the Crow was not the student of the Red Chair since the Crow, while no doubt learning a bit from us, often watches us with bemusement at our fumbling relationship to the natural world. Much like a Master shaking their head at the flailing antics of a poor Student.

I imagine everyone will have their own take on this since we all see the world and our relationship to it in different ways. Which is a good thing. The danger comes in believing that our interpretations are absolute and beyond question. Perhaps we all need to try to change our perspective once in a while and attempt to see beyond our initial reading of things.

Maybe we should all see ourselves as the Students we should be and not as the Masters we believe ourselves to be.

I’ll let you chew on that for a bit. In the meantime, here’s a newer, interesting video of a favorite song from the Beatles, Tomorrow Never Knows. Seems to fit this morning.

Student and Master is included in Eye in the Sky, my 22nd annual solo exhibit at the West End Gallery in Corning, NY. The exhibit opens next Friday, July 21 with an Opening Reception that runs from 5-7 PM. I will be in attendance to chat and answer questions. Maybe to even ask a few myself. Hope to see you there.

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In the High Country– Coming to West End Gallery

The pause—that impressive silence, that eloquent silence, that geometrically progressive silence which often achieves a desired effect where no combination of words, howsoever felicitous, could accomplish it.

—Mark Twain, Autobiography of Mark Twain

I was looking to write something about the painting above, In the High Country, which is part of my solo show at the West End Gallery, opening next Friday, July 21. In doing so, I came across this blogpost from about four years ago that seemed to sum up what I was seeing in it– a high and quiet place.

A place to pause and gather oneself in the stillness of nature. It’s a theme that runs like a ribbon through my work.

I think the following essay and the accompanying composition from Arvo Pärt fit the bill this morning.

We live in a time of chaos and confusion, amidst a constant bombardment of information and misinformation, an indecipherable babble of yelled opinions and enough stupidity to fill all the oceans and flood every coastline of this planet.

And that’s on a good day.

This morning I found myself longing for something, some music or reading, that would take me away from this maelstrom of madness. I came to the music of the Estonian composer Arvo Pärt whose piece Tabula Rasa was a big influence on my early work.

His work is the antidote to the turbulence of our time. It is what I would call slow music. It is the sort of music that requires you to pause to hear it fully. Doing so slows down the elevated heartbeat, syncs it to a pace that seems to be a meditative drone that has forever resided within us though we have long set aside our ability to tune in to it.

For quite some time I have rediscovered that ability to find pause in things with Pärt’s work, including this adaptation of My Heart’s in the Highlands. It is derived from a 1789 poem/song from the Scottish poet Robert Burns. This version is performed by vocalist Else Torp and organist Christopher Bowers.

Listening to it reminds me of the time spent alone wandering in the woods and fields in the hills around our home as a youth. Those times had that same pace, that same heartbeat and silence that made it so memorable in my mind.

Many times I have found my mind wandering back to those times and the spaces and silences that created a sense of home within me. Burns’ words speak a truth for me especially in these times so filled with sound and fury.

Allow yourself to pause for a moment and give a listen. Perhaps you will find your own heart in the highlands…

My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here,

My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the deer –

A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe;

My heart’s in the Highlands, wherever I go.

Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North

The birth place of Valour, the country of Worth;

Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,

The hills of the Highlands forever I love.

Farewell to the mountains high cover’d with snow;

 Farewell to the straths and green valleys below;  

Farewell to the forrests and wild-hanging woods;

Farwell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.

My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here,

My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the deer

Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe;

My heart’s in the Highlands, wherever I go.

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