Redtree Times

Monde Parfait— At West End Gallery

It is a pity indeed to travel and not get this essential sense of landscape values. You do not need a sixth sense for it. It is there if you just close your eyes and breathe softly through your nose; you will hear the whispered message, for all landscapes ask the same question in the same whisper. ‘I am watching you — are you watching yourself in me?’ Most travelers hurry too much…the great thing is to try and travel with the eyes of the spirit wide open, and not to much factual information. To tune in, without reverence, idly — but with real inward attention. It is to be had for the feeling…you can extract the essence of a place once you know how. If you just get as still as a needle, you’ll be there.

― Lawrence Durrell, Spirit of Place: Letters and Essays on Travel

I have used a portion of the above passage from Lawrence Durrell here before. But witnessing from afar the devastation of Lahaina from the Hawaiian wildfires, made me think about it again this morning. It was on that island and in that place that I first recognized that I was looking for something intangible in my life, something that couldn’t be quantified or easily demonstrated.

Home. A sense of place and belonging. Where you feel embraced in the landscape and it takes on an almost human quality, becoming a fleshed-out character in your story.

I felt this first there on that island. It was much like Durrell describes. Well beyond experiencing the normal touristy things, being an early riser in a place many time zones behind my own, I was often up at 3:30 or 4 AM and out exploring the island in the early morning hours. I would drive for hours, sometimes circling the entire northern part of the island along the remote coastal road. I was usually the only car on the road and could take my time, watching the first light break on the ocean and against the rough coast and the west Maui mountains.

It was unhurried, silent, and reverent watching. Eyes and mind open. It was an intimate conversation with that place, one that left me feeling as though I understood the spirit of that place. And with that came a sense of belonging. Of home.

We had planned to move there for a number of years after that, but things in one’s life happen and it never came about. But those embracing conversations with an entity of place resonated forever with me. I think that’s why the landscape is and will remain the preferred subject of my work.

I paint landscapes and they are, to be sure, travels of the spirit and conversations with place, one where the painted landscape asks the viewer, as Durrell wrote: I am watching you — are you watching yourself in me?

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Lahaina Waterfront, Maui

It makes no difference where I turn
I can’t get over you and the flame still burns
It makes no difference, night or day
The shadow never seems to fade away
And the sun don’t shine anymore
And the rains fall down on my door

— It Makes No Difference, Robbie Robertson/ The Band

Sad day yesterday. Watching the news reports from the Hawaiian Island of Maui was shocking. The wildfires ravaged the island and more specifically, the historic town of Lahaina. The town has seemingly been burnt to the ground and 36 lives have been lost thus far. What a tragedy.

We spent quite a lot of time on that waterfront in Lahaina years ago on several trips to the island. Many memories from that place of many great meals and good times. I was even offered my first job in the field of art there. Didn’t take it, of course, but it may have been the impetus for me becoming an artist several years later.

All those places gone now.

My heart aches for that place and its people. It will take years and great effort to rebuild the town. But it is a place with wonderful people that is worth the effort.

Yesterday also brought the news of the death of Robbie Robertson, the guitarist for The Band. who wrote many of their best-known songs. It sounds sophomoric, but in my mind, he might have been one of the coolest people on this planet. I don’t think about being other people often, if ever, but more than once I told myself I would give anything to be that guy.

We lost another good one.

Here’s one of my favorite of his many great songs. This is It Makes No Difference which he wrote specifically for bassist Rick Danko‘s voice. The song’s opening verse, shown at the top, seems fitting for the day. This is their performance of it from the Martin Scorsese film, The Last Waltz, which documents their legendary final concert on Thanksgiving Day in 1976.

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Silent Crossing— At West End Gallery

Unicorns and cannonballs
Palaces and piers
Trumpets, towers, and tenements
Wide oceans full of tears
Flags, rags, ferry boats
Scimitars and scarves
Every precious dream and vision
Underneath the stars

Yes, you climbed on the ladder
With the wind in your sails
You came like a comet
Blazing your trail
Too high
Too far
Too soon
You saw the whole of the moon

-Mike Scott/The Waterboys, The Whole of the Moon (1985)

Have a lot to do this morning but felt like sharing a painting from my current West End Gallery show and a song that I feel works with it. The painting is Silent Crossing, an 8′ by 16″ canvas and the song is The Whole of the Moon from the Scottish band, The Waterboys.

The painting, for me, is about pursuing a larger objective and the solitary toil it takes to move toward that objective. Here the moon represents that goal and the ferryman the singular toil.

The song, from 1985, is about how people have differing perceptions and aspirations. One might have no expectations for themself from the world while another might grander desires. One might have limited vision of the whole that is before them while another might see the larger picture and well beyond.

As the song says: I saw the crescent/ You saw the whole of the moon.

Or this line: I saw the rain-dirty valley/You saw Brigadoon. They are a Scottish band, after all.

Good stuff.

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Narrow Passage– At West End Gallery

I have said many times here that I am not a religious person. Oh, I have my own personal beliefs that are both vague and concrete in their formulation.

They may not align with other organized belief systems, especially not to the dogmatic and politicized forms of most religions that abound at the moment.

My beliefs are mine alone. They may not line up with yours. Or anyone, for that matter. And that’s okay–I am not asking you to understand or share them. So long as I am not hurting you or telling you that you must live your life based on my beliefs, that should be acceptable to anyone. In much the same way that you should not expect me to live my life based according to only your beliefs.

But I do respect theology in its purer form, where there is a study and comparison of the multitude of religions, striving to reveal the many commonalities that exist between the belief systems of peoples.

I mention this today because I wanted to share a short essay from C.S. Lewis. Most of you no doubt know him from his wildly popular Narnia books and films. He was also a lay theologian of the Anglican Church who wrote numerous books and essays dealing with his faith, often in a way that was accessible to those whose belief systems might be outside his Christian faith.

The essay below is from his 1940 book The Problem of Pain. It is titled The Signature of the Soul and deals with the uniqueness of each individual and how each of us often seek something we can only define in the vaguest of terms. It very much speaks to aspects of that which I seek for myself in my work.

It’s a lovely piece of writing, even for one as irreligious as myself. I may not completely share his belief system, but he makes clear the point that we– all of us, not just me– share much more than that.

There have been times when I think we do not desire heaven; but more often I find myself wondering whether, in our heart of hearts, we have ever desired anything else. You may have noticed that the books you really love are bound together by a secret thread. You know very well what is the common quality that makes you love them, though you cannot put it into words: but most of your friends do not see it at all, and often wonder why, liking this, you should also like that…

Are not all lifelong friendships born at the moment when at last you meet another human being who has some inkling (but faint and uncertain even in the best) of that something which you were born desiring, and which, beneath the flux of other desires and in all the momentary silences between the louder passions, night and day, year by year, from childhood to old age, you are looking for, watching for, listening for? You have never had it. All the things that have ever deeply possessed your soul have been but hints of it — tantalising glimpses, promises never quite fulfilled, echoes that died away just as they caught your ear. But if it should really become manifest — if there ever came an echo that did not die away but swelled into the sound itself — you would know it. Beyond all possibility of doubt you would say ‘Here at last is the thing I was made for.’ We cannot tell each other about it. It is the secret signature of each soul, the incommunicable and unappeasable want, the thing we desired before we met our wives or made our friends or chose our work, and which we shall still desire on our deathbeds….

This signature on each soul may be a product of heredity and environment, but that only means that heredity and environment are among the instruments whereby God creates a soul. I am considering not how, but why, He makes each soul unique. If He had no use for all these differences, I do not see why He should have created more souls than one. Be sure that the ins and outs of your individuality are no mystery to Him; and one day they will no longer be a mystery to you. The mould in which a key is made would be a strange thing, if you had never seen a key: and the key itself a strange thing if you had never seen a lock. Your soul has a curious shape because it is a hollow made to fit a particular swelling in the infinite contours of the Divine substance, or a key to unlock one of the doors in the house with many mansions. For it is not humanity in the abstract that is to be saved, but you — you, the individual reader, John Stubbs or Janet Smith. Blessed and fortunate creature, your eyes shall behold Him and not another’s. All that you are, sins apart, is destined, if you will let God have His good way, to utter satisfaction… Your place in heaven will seem to be made for you and you alone, because you were made for it — made for it stitch by stitch as a glove is made for a hand.

Let us be thankful that God loves us as individuals and that we can have a personal relationship with Him.

— C.S. Lewis, The Signature of the Soul, 1940

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The Steadying Light– At the West End Gallery

We work in the dark — we do what we can — we give what we have. Our doubt is our passion and our passion is our task. The rest is the madness of art.

–Henry James, as quoted in The Middle Years (1893)

I’ve had sixty-some solo exhibits over the past quarter century and, without exception, the weeks following the shows’ openings are among the most difficult to endure in this artist’s working year.

These weeks are inevitably filled with anxiety and self-doubt. I find myself wondering if the work was as good as I had thought or if I had done enough or given enough of myself. Had I curated the show well enough, choosing work that fit the show? Will the show well enough to satisfy the galleries and pay the bills?

It is one the few weeks in the artist’s working year where the focus is not on the creation of the work but on results, on how it is received and sold. The rest of the year is seemingly done under a shroud, away from intense scrutiny and the pressure to perform in the sales column.

It is much as author Henry James spoke of above during one of the low points in his career, when he had ceased being the favored flavor of the moment. You do what you do and give all that you have in relative darkness, all the time fighting to reveal some sort of truth that lay beyond all doubts, inner and outer.

What becomes of it is out of our hands and is left to, as James puts it, the madness of art. That madness — recognition, sales, critical acclaim, etc.– is something far beyond our control, try as we might. You do the work and let fate do the rest.

Time has taught me that lesson. But even that lesson etched in my mind does little to alleviate the doubt and anxiety that arise in these post-opening weeks.

I sometimes make the analogy in my mind that during most of the year I am an ant working in the darkness beneath a big flat stone. Out of sight and unharried. But a couple of times year some little kid lifts that big flat stone and exposes me suddenly to the harsh light. I, as an ant, am suddenly in panic mode, racing madly around, all the time trying to get back to the shaded security of my flat stone.

If you ever lifted a big flat stone as a kid, you know what I am talking about.

It’s a hard thing to describe, this weird aftereffect that takes place in what should be a time of celebration. I can’t say that all artists experience this. I expect this is not unusual among artists, with maybe the exception of those with greater self-confidence than my own. But, in reality, I just don’t know.

Like I said, most of my time is spent in the darkness under my big flat rock.

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A Private Word— Now at the West End Gallery

There is no privacy that cannot be penetrated. No secret can be kept in the civilized world. Society is a masked ball where everyone hides his real character, then reveals it by hiding.

–Ralph Waldo Emerson, Worship

I am going to just hide out today. Maybe you want to do the same thing. Long as you’re not hassling me, not my business what you do or don’t do.

And vice-versa. Just as it should be.

Here’s a song from Taj Mahal. It’s a live version of Ain’t Nobody’s Business from 1971. There are a couple of songs with kind of the same title perfformed by a host of artist with many variations that I believe are all derived from a tune from the early 1920’s.

I could be wrong. Wouldn’t be the first time.

That’s enough. Take a hint. Or to quote W.C. Fields: Get away from me, kid, you bother me.

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Eye in the Sky— Title Painting from the West End Gallery show

People parted, years passed, they met again- and the meeting proved no reunion, offered no warm memories, only the acid knowledge that time had passed and things weren’t as bright or attractive as they had been.

–Jacqueline Susann, Valley of the Dolls

I was looking for a short passage or quote to kick off this post about the upcoming Gallery Talk at the West End Gallery two weeks from today. I’ve been looking forward to this Talk for a long time since the last in-person was four years ago, in pre-pandemic 2019. If memory doesn’t fail me, it was a very good and fun talk. Lots of folks and lots of laughs with some art talk thrown in for good measure. I believe the term “a good time was had by all” could apply to that talk.

Why wouldn’t I look forward to doing that again?

Then I came across the short paragraph above from Valley of the Dolls this morning.

My enthusiasm has turned to terror.

It is four years later and, as Jackie points, things aren’t as bright or attractive as they had been. I certainly am not. Some days, I think I am the next Wild Man of Borneo.

And those turbulent four years have not been easy for any of us. The world is different in so many ways and we, in turn, are different as well. I have the desire to rekindle that feeling of fun and unity from four years back. But will it remain just a warm memory?

That passage made me imagine scenes with me standing up there and having my less bright and less attractive mind go absolutely blank. Or just start yammering nonsense, speaking in art tongues. I can’t tell which is worse.

I was feeling just fine about it until these words from that crappy book freaked me out. Now, who knows what’s going to come out of my mouth when finally faced with a group of folks? I don’t know on the best of days.

Maybe I will freak out? Who knows?

Let’s use that as just another reason to come back for the Gallery Talk at the West End Gallery on Saturday, August 19. In addition to the potential for a public freakout, there will definitely be prizes and a drawing for an original painting.

One of mine. They don’t like it when I give away other artists’ paintings.

Please take note that the Gallery Talk will start at 11 AM and finish up sometime around Noon.

Seating may be limited so if you plan on attending, please contact the West End Gallery via their Contact link to reserve your seats.

Freakout talk aside, I am looking forward to seeing you all in two weeks. Might not be as bright or attractive but the effort will be there. Guaranteed.

Hope you’ll come back again.

And right on cue, here’s a song called Come Back Again. I first heard a great version of this song from Long John Baldry who I have played here a number of times. But it turns out the original is from 1971 from an Australian band called Daddy Cool. I am partial to the Baldry version but the original is fun.

Here are both.

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Garden of Delight– At the West End Gallery

The man of wisdom delights in water; the man of humanity delights in mountains. The man of wisdom is active; the man of humanity is tranquil. The man of wisdom enjoys happiness; the man of humanity enjoys long life.

–Confucius, Analects, Book 6

At first blush, I thought that Confucius was somehow putting wisdom versus humanity in a competition to prove that one was somehow better than the other. But after thinking on it, I believe he is saying that the two act as complements to one another, that human fulfillment is attained by combining the strength of each.

I have attached this passage to the painting shown at the right, Garden of Delights. It is a 36″ by 18″ canvas that is included in my Eye in the Sky exhibit now showing at the West End Gallery.

I think the Red Tree here represents all the facets that Confucius laid out. Delighting in all nature– mountains and water, trees and flowers. Active in the world yet tranquil within. Filled with the joy of happiness and of being alive.

It appears to me as a painting of fulfillment attained.

And there is delight in that for me, both as a human and as the painter of this piece.

All I can ask of it.

Here’s a song that isn’t really about reaching any level of personal fulfillment but does mention a Garden of Delight. Actually, a nightclub/bordello named the Garden of Earthly Delights.

There are a lot of paths you can take on the way to fulfillment, right? Doesn’t matter where you start. It’s where you end up that counts.

Here’s Entella Hotel from Peter Case.

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Island Getaway— Now at the West End Gallery

Real life is, to most men, a long second-best, a perpetual compromise between the ideal and the possible; but the world of pure reason knows no compromise, no practical limitations, no barrier to the creative activity embodying in splendid edifices the passionate aspiration after the perfect from which all great work springs. Remote from human passions, remote even from the pitiful facts of nature, the generations have gradually created an ordered cosmos, where pure thought can dwell as in its natural home, and where one, at least, of our nobler impulses can escape from the dreary exile of the actual world.

—Bertrand Russell, The Study of Mathematics (1902)

The painting above is a late addition to my current West End Gallery show. I call this 8″ by 24″ canvas Island Getaway.

Islands have been prominent in many of my paintings over the years. There’s probably a psychological basis for this, something about it representing a withdrawal from the outer world, about finding a space for personal autonomy. Or maybe it symbolizes, as Russell puts it above, an escape from the dreary exile of the actual world.

The Exile as a symbol has always been close at hand in my work. I can see the figure in this painting as some sort of exile. Perhaps a self-imposed exile, driven by the desire to be free of the bonds of society.

Or maybe the figure needs a break from wearing their public mask and retreats to a solitary place where they can just be.

Maybe.

I don’t know exactly what they mean. I do know that they feel like core work when I am painting them. By core work, I mean that it feels like they come from and represent some central location within myself. They feel absolutely natural and organic in the way they emerge.

Little thought, all reaction. That’s often the recipe for what I consider good work.

Here is a song from Laura Marling that came on just as I was writing this. Felt like a good fit for the painting. It’s called Goodbye England (Covered in Snow).

Now leave my island, please. Thank you.

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Say Hallelujah– At the West End Gallery

The deepest feeling always shows itself in silence;
not in silence, but restraint.

—Silence, Marianne Moore (1887-1972)

I am taking my cues this morning from the line above from poet Marianne Moore and her poem Silence. There’s a lot I would like to say this morning about the events of the last day or so but I feel restraint is best right now. Perhaps the painting at the top from my current West End Gallery show best expresses my feelings.

It’s titled Say Hallelujah.

Oddly enough, it’s not a painting that feels quiet even though it presents a bucolic scene, most likely one devoid of all boisterous sound, if any at all. But it presents a silence that is jubilant.

I am going to stop right there because I could easily go off on a long spiel.

Restraint is the word for the day.

Two things below. One is the whole poem Silence from the late Modernist poet Marianne Moore. The other is the version of the song Silence Is Golden from the Tremeloes in 1967. It was originally a Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons song, serving as the B-side to their hit single Rag Doll. The Tremeloes actually had a bigger hit with the song. I thought I would play their rendition because they also performed another fave of mine, Here Comes My Baby, written by Cat Stevens.

So, on to silence. Good advice for all concerned. Some folks would be wise to heed the words they will be hearing again tomorrow afternoon: “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

_______________________________________________

Silence

My father used to say,
“Superior people never make long visits,
have to be shown Longfellow’s grave
or the glass flowers at Harvard.
Self-reliant like the cat—
that takes its prey to privacy,
the mouse’s limp tail hanging like a shoelace from its mouth—
they sometimes enjoy solitude,
and can be robbed of speech
by speech which has delighted them.
The deepest feeling always shows itself in silence;
not in silence, but restraint.”
Nor was he insincere in saying, “Make my house your inn.”
Inns are not residences.

— Marianne Moore

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