Ring of Fire #1– At West End Gallery

No one today remembered why the war had come about or who, if anyone, had won. The dust which had contaminated most of the planet’s surface had originated in no country, and no one, even the wartime enemy, had planned on it.

–Philip K. Dick, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? (1968)

There’s no real reason for today’s theme which I guess seems pretty dystopian. Part of it came from looking at some of the work from the Ring of Fire series from early this year such as the piece shown here.

This series came about as both an exercise and a way to use up a huge pile of photo paper that had accumulated over the years. It felt much too wasteful to just chuck it out. As a result, I began doing these quickly done faces.

This was the first of the series. It was painted quickly with an economy of strokes. That was part of the exercise, to use just a few expressive strokes to create a recognizable reality. If you were to zoom in on this piece, you might be surprised at how few and simple the brush slashes are.

It was the speed and the unconsidered manner of these pieces that attracted me. There was little time taken to prettify them and it gave them an immediacy and rawness that fits the emotional content of these people in obvious crisis.

Maybe it’s war or a natural disaster. Or maybe it’s just their own inner world being set on fire. It depends on what perspective from which one looks.

For today, I am seeing as being in wartime. That allows me to set up today’s Sunday Morning Music which is David Byrne and the Talking Heads with their 1979 classic Life During Wartime. This performance is from their 1984 film Stop Making Sense. As with most David Byrne/Talking Heads songs, it is enjoyable in all aspects and has aged well.

Hopefully, the same can be said for most of us…

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MARK YOUR CALENDAR!

GALLERY TALK

With

G C  M Y E R S

Returns to 

P R I N C I P L E  G A L L E R Y

Alexandria, VA

Three weeks from today

Saturday, September 30, 2023

Stay tuned for further details!

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Soloist– At Principle Gallery, Alexandria,VA

Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies within us while we live.

–Norman Cousins

I wanted to play the song below today coupled with the painting above, Soloist, and wanted to add a short quote or passage to complete the triad. I wasn’t sure what the theme of this quote should be.

The song, She Slips Away, from one of my longtime favorites, guitarist Martin Simpson, was written about the death of his mother. I felt that there was an elegiac quality to the painting, that it was concerned with loss of some sort. But it didn’t feel like it had to be death that was being grieved.

Maybe lost love? Perhaps the landscape indicates the loss of our connection to the natural world? Or maybe it is something else– the loss of innocence or hope? Or maybe it is the grief that comes with losing one’s memories or losing a loved one to Alzheimers?

The song title She Slips Away always reminds me of the 2006 film Away From Her, which starred Julie Christie. It was about an older couple dealing with the wife’s Alzheimer’s. She is placed in a nursing facility where she loses all memory of her husband and develops a close relationship with another resident of the facility. That loss feels somehow greater than death itself.

I don’t know if that was what meant by the quote above from the late journalist/peace activist Norman Cousins. It is one of those quotes that is widely distributed whose original source is not easily found. I searched through all sorts of Cousins’ writings on the Internet Archive this morning and could not find a source. As a result, context is lacking.

So, I am taking it for what it is this morning, that there are losses greater than death.

Loss of identity. Loss of self-respect. Loss of confidence. Loss of friendships. Loss of trust. We continue to live despite these losses and so many others, often struggling to get beyond the often-overwhelming grief that comes with it.

I can see that in the painting and can hear it in Simpson’s song now. It all fits together.

Well, for me, at least…

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Island Getaway— Now at the West End Gallery

If isolation tempers the strong, it is the stumbling-block of the uncertain.

—Paul Cezanne

Here’s a post from several years back:

I spend a lot of time alone in the isolation of my studio. Fortunately for me, it is the place in the world where I am most comfortable and feel completely myself.

It is the place where I can feel unrestrained to free the mind and go wherever it takes me. The place where I can shed the uncertainty I find in the outer world and feel free to daydream. The place where I can summon up landscapes that exist only inside myself. A place to study. To listen. To see.

It is my university, my library, my theater, my monastery and my place of refuge.

My haven.

When I am out of the studio, I am all the while trying to get back to it.

When others come into my studio, the dynamic of that place changes and I feel myself suddenly self-conscious and a bit uncomfortable, like I am standing in someone else’s home.

The visitors’ eyes become my eyes and I notice things I never see on a day-to-day basis. The cat hair on the floor that needs to be swept up. The paint splatters on the wall or a fingerprint in paint on the wall switchplate. The windows that need cleaning. The piles of papers that I have been meaning to go through for too many months. The paintbrushes soaking in murky water scattered throughout the place or the start of a not-too-good painting that will most likely never see the outer world.

In that moment, my perfect castle of isolation becomes a hovel of uncertainty.

But the castle remarkably reappears once I am alone again. The uncertainty recedes and I begin to feel myself once more.

My isolation is my default state of being.

I understand exactly what Cezanne is saying at the top. I have been more comfortable alone than in the company of others since I was a child. I don’t know if that is a strength or just a neurotic peccadillo. But I know that if I ever find uncertainty in my isolation, I will have lost my footing in this world.

But thankfully, that hasn’t happened yet…

The post above is from several years ago. I noticed this morning that it had received quite a few views here in the past days so I thought I would read it again for myself. Sometimes I go back to read something that has slipped from memory and it seems new to me. I recognized this one, most likely since it ran again here three years back. Plus, it was centered around a theme of isolation as a desired state of being, something I have wrote about a number of times before.

I’ve been experiencing periods of uncertainty in recent times so it seemed pertinent to me. In these down times, the inviting warmth and light I normally find in the isolation of my studio departs. The space feels as though it has been replaced by a cool and empty darkness as I struggle to find that creative spark that will once again provide the missing warmth and light.

As I have noted many times before, I know this feeling well. I have gone through it too many times before. Having done so, I know that it is a temporary thing so long as I persevere and keep lighting matches against the darkness.

Inevitably, one of those matches will eventually turns to a roaring flame and my splendid isolation will once again be as I desire it– invitingly warm and filled with light.

That is my certainty.

Speaking of Splendid Isolation, here is a favorite Warren Zevon song with that title which has been played here before. He mentions Georgia O’Keeffe who knew a bit about isolation.

Now, get out of here, you’re blocking my light…

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Passages: Beyond the Trees– At Principle Gallery, Alexandria, VA

WHEN I AM AMONG THE TREES

When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness.
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.
I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
but walk slowly, and bow often.
Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, “Stay awhile.”
The light flows from their branches.
And they call again, “It’s simple,” they say,
“and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine.”

–Mary Oliver

It’s been my privilege and good fortune to spend much of my life among the trees. I have climbed and played on them as a child and there are many memories of specific trees from my childhood. I have planted multitudes of trees and nurtured them. I have lived under their watchful cover and have built a studio among them where I worked for many years. In fact, much of my livelihood has been derived from a certain Red Tree.

Throughout it all, there has been a sense of them as beings, unlike us humans but living beings nonetheless. I think that sometimes that we are the aliens living among their native race here on earth. I also like to think that I have a neighborly friendship of sorts with the trees around me. An understanding it might be called.

I try to not harm them and try my best to protect them, that it is becoming harder as invasive species become more and more prevalent. The ash trees in our area are on their last legs, for instance, from the emerald ash borer beetle. It is tragic to see them begin to fail from the onslaught of the beetles. But they maintain their stoic dignity until the bitter end, as they slowly dissemble with their upper limbs falling first. Eventually, all that remains is a tall sheared off trunk standing as a memorial to the life that once stood proudly in that space.

I do mourn for the trees. There is a white pine that stands by our drive. It is probably 20-25 years old and watching its growth over the years has been a delight as it grew large and full in that time. But this year, this goddamn 2020, its needles suddenly went brown. It died quickly and completely. Each time, we pass it as we go down our drive, I feel a great sense of loss, a deep bite of anguish over the fact that it died on my watch.

It feels like it was our responsibility. We are the caretakers for our trees. Or rather, we serve the trees so that they can complete their destiny on their land.

That being said, the poem at the top from Mary Oliver certainly rings true for me as it recognizes the profound gift that trees often offer to those of us lucky enough to spend time and share space with them.

Here’s lovely reading of the poem from Amanda Palmer.

I have things to do this morning, so I am rerunning this post from a few years back. Reading it this morning reminded me of walking through the woods this spring with a logger who was hoping to purchase some of our trees. While I was okay with him taking the ash trees that were already in their death throes from the borers, his choice of some large oaks and beech trees made my heart sink. One was a sort of anchor tree that stood by our runoff creek, a tree I walked by and admired every day when my old studio was in use. The idea that it would be forever gone for a few fleeting dollars was not something I could tolerate. It was this tree that made us decide that we would turn down the logger’s offer. It was a decision that felt right as the caretaker– or servant– of the trees in my little world.

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Muse, 2009

There is also a third kind of madness, which is possession by the Muses, which enters into a delicate and virgin soul, and there inspiring frenzy, awakens lyric… But he, who, not being inspired and having no touch of madness in his soul, comes to the door and thinks he will get into the temple by the help of art – he, I say, and his poetry are not admitted; the sane man is nowhere at all when he enters into rivalry with the madman.

–Plato, Phaedrus

The painting above is from 2009, painted on the insert panel of an old upright piano. The whole thing is about 18″ high by 60″ wide. Outside of a stint at the Fenimore Museum for my 2012 show there, it has never been out of my sight, hanging as it does on the wall of the studio’s main painting space. I can glimpse now and take it in. It’s one of those pieces that I don’t believe I could part with.

I call it Muse mainly for the Red Tree in the painting that has served as the muse and avatar for my time as a painter. It also refers to the piano aspects of the piece which represents for me the inspiration provided by music and other arts. Muse is, after all, right there in music.

As far as the passage above from Plato, he may have been right. There is at least a bit of madness–and maybe much more– that comes with the Muse’s inspiration. There are plenty of days when I consider the irrationality of what I do. It doesn’t make much sense on those days when the Muse seems to have turned her back on me.

But in short time, I let go of the stasis of rationality and there it is again. Like the panel on the wall, I am back in that landscape– in the temple of my Muse.

Where I am home and recognized. Where I belong…

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I have always regarded manual labour as creative and looked with respect – and, yes, wonder – at people who work with their hands. It seems to me that their creativity is no less than that of a violinist or painter.

-Pablo Casals

I came across this shot of working hands and it made me think of how I’ve viewed hands through my life. I’ve always looked at people’s hands since I was a child. The liver spotted hands of my grandmother had thin ivory fingers that seemed like translucent china, for instance.

Growing up, the hands of our landlord Art, an old farmer [and a onetime bootlegger but that’s a story for another day], were thick and strong and missing at least one digit down to the knuckle on several of his fingers, the result of an ornery, impatient personality and dangerous farm machinery. Not a great match. It was not uncommon to see quite a few farmers with missing fingers and limbs back in the day.

Fat Jack, who I wrote about here a long time back, had hands whose nails were longer than you might expect and permanently rimmed with the black from the oil and grease of the machines and engines on which he was always working. They were similar to the photo above. His hands were round and plump, like Jack himself, but surprisingly soft and nimble, good for manipulating the small nuts and bolts of his world.

There was a manager when I was in the world of automobiles I worked under a manager who was a great guy and fantastic salesman. However, he had extremely soft and damp hands. It was like handling a dead fish when you shook hands.

A cool, mushy, damp, boneless fish.

As a kid and now, I have admired working hands. They reflect their use so perfectly, the scars and callouses serving as badges of honor and the thick muscularity of the fingers attesting to the time spent at labor. They seem honest with nothing to hide. They are often direct indicators of that person’s life and world.

My own hands have changed over the years. They were once more like working hands, calloused and thickening from many hours spent with a shovel. There are a number of small scars from screwdrivers that jumped from the screwhead and into the flesh time and time again. There’s another on the end of my middle finger from when I cut the very end of it off while trying to cut a leather strap with a hunting knife.

Not a great idea but, hey, I never claimed to be Einstein.

I always felt confident when my hands were harder and stronger. Now, I have lost some of that thickness of strength and the fingers are thinner and a bit softer from doing less manual labor. Plus, the passing years have provided a few more creases and age spots.

I look at them now and wonder how I would have judged them when I was younger, when I would normally measure someone by their hands. That’s something I don’t do now. I now know there are so many more and better ways to measure a life. That was made clear to me once I realized that the work of the mind was a possibility – something that seemed a million miles away then.

But, even now, when I come across working hands, strong and hard, I find myself admiring them still.

This post has ran a couple of times over the years, generally around Labor Day. I have always admired hard workers, people who didn’t swerve away from having to use their hands and backs to get something done. I have been a hard worker at times though in recent years I have spent as much time, maybe more, as a bone-idle slob.

I like myself a lot more when I am the hard worker.

Have a good Labor Day.

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Time has slipped away this morning. I began looking for a piece of music to play on YouTube and got sucked into a vortex of watching reaction videos of people listening to songs for the first time. They have never heard these songs or, in many cases, even heard of the artists and react to the taped performances or just the audio.

I ended up watching a bunch of these video of different folks reacting to Janis Joplin songs. The awe her voice and authenticity inspires is palpable in these videos. Having grown up with this music, I find it hard to believe that someone has missed out on this but the genuine nature of their reactions more than make up for their lack of knowledge.

One performance that knocked most of these folks out was Janis’ landmark performance of Ball & Chain at the 1967 Monterey Pop Festival. It is an astounding performance and deserves the jaw drops it receives. One of my favorite parts of this video is the camera cutting away to Mama Cass who watches spellbound by Janis. In the reaction videos they had no idea that they were looking at Mama Cass and more than likely wouldn’t know who she was since they hadn’t heard of Janis at this point.

Seeing Mama Cass reminds me of the story of guitarist Mike Bloomfield who in the mid 60’s was a hot player in the world of rock and blues. He spoke about going to see Jimi Hendrix at the Cafe Wha ( I think that was the club he spoke of) in Greenwich Village. Knowing Bloomfield was in the audience, Jimi put on an incredible performance of his virtuosity, seemingly pushing it in Bloomfield’s face. Bloomfield left afterward a shaken man and claimed he had a hard time picking up his guitar for a long time. It felt hopeless to him after seeing Jimi.

He got over it, of course, as I am sure Mama Cass did as well. You find your own voice, your own authenticity, and you do what you can with it.

Anyway, here’s Janis and Ball & Chain from that Monterey Pop show. A performance for the ages…

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A Pirate Looks at 40— GC Myers, 1994

Yes, I am a pirate, two hundred years too late
The cannons don’t thunder, there’s nothin’ to plunder
I’m an over-forty victim of fate
Arriving too late, arriving too late

— Jimmy Buffett, A Pirate Looks At 40

I was surprised and saddened to hear that Jimmy Buffett died yesterday at the age of 76. Though I was never what you would call a Parrothead, the name applied to the enthusiastic and hard-partying fans who supported his vast Margaritaville empire, I had been a fan of his early work since his beginnings back in the early 1970s.

I listened to his 70’s albums then and for many years after. There was always something of value to find in the beautifully crafted and insightful songs. It says a lot that Bob Dylan listed him as a favorite songwriter. I drifted away after a while, after the Parrothead craze hit. But I still consider many of his songs as favorites of mine, including The Wino and I, Biloxi, Livingston’s Gone to Texas and several more, including the song whose lyrics are at the top the page, A Pirate Looks At 40.

Hearing of his passing made me dig through some old work to find the piece shown above. Also titled A Pirate Looks At 40, it was a very early experiment, done in the first months of 1994 when I first began painting after my accident. One hint to its age is the signature, which was just GMyers, not yet GC. I wasn’t aware that there were several artists named Gary Myers at that point. I never showed this piece but liked it enough to title it. I was most likely listening to that song around the time I painted it. Its theme of feeling as though you were living out of time, that you might be best suited for a different era and place, appealed to me.

I could relate to that then. Still do on most days.

Give a listen to the song. Good winds and currents to you, Jimmy. Thanks for the music and the inspiration.

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Dissolve– 2011

“Summer has no day,’ she said. ‘We can’t possibly have a summer love. So many people have tried that the name’s become proverbial. Summer is only the unfulfilled promise of spring, a charlatan in place of the warm balmy nights I dream of in April. It’s a sad season of life without growth…it has no day.”

― F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise

Aah, the relief of being released from the grim grip of August…

I have long told of my extreme dislike of August on this blog. It has been with me as long as I can remember, extending back to my earliest memories. It’s like an inborn trait (or curse) written in my genes that has come through generations of ancestors who suffered the dog days of August in a similar way.

As a result, each first day of September feels like a day of liberation. This year, the universe even conspired to give us a lovely and brisk 49° morning to mark the occasion. I have noted this day most every year since I started writing this blog back in 2008. Yeah, it’s been that long. Hard to believe since it often feels like I ran out of things to say about 2009.

Every year on this day I share a version of the classic September Song. It has long been one of my favorite songs and becomes even more so with each passing year as it becomes more and more personally relevant.

Written by Kurt Weill with lyrics by Maxwell Anderson, it was first sung, surprisingly, by Walter Huston in the stage production of Knickerbocker Holiday back in 1938.  Since then it has been covered by literally hundreds of musicians and singers throughout the world. I have listened to and played many of them here from a wide variety of artists. As it is with most great songs, most of them are wonderful renditions. It’s just that good a song.

It’s a bittersweet and slightly melancholy reflection on the passing of time, that inevitable march to old age symbolized in the turning of leaves and the shortening of the days. These precious days, as the song says.

I have played a favorite version from Willie Nelson a couple of times over the years. I love the spacing of the silences in his phrasing for the song. It really captures the feel and meaning of the song for me. This year’s version is from Willie playing along with his son’s band, Lukas Nelson & Promise of the Real. Lukas covers the vocals and does a fine job in emulating his father’s version of the song.

FYI, Lukas and his band were the backing band for Neil Young for several years and also appeared as the band for the character portrayed by director/star Bradley Cooper in the 2018 A Star Is Born movie. Lukas also wrote most of the music for the film, collaborating on much of it with Lady Gaga.

It’s a fine version for this year’s September 1. I chose the painting at the top, Dissolve, because as I was listening to a version of September Song from Willie Nelson, I was looking at an image of it. Willie’s silences in the song and those in the image seemed to mesh together so well that it surprised me. Made me think that the reason that September Song resonates so strongly for me is the reason that this painting holds so much meaning for me. It was painted back in 2011 and after making the rounds of the galleries including a couple of years on display in a DC area design center, finally came back to me about 5 or 6 years back.

I think of it as my own September Song. See for yourself. Take a look at it while you listen to Willie and Son.

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