Redtree Times

Gustav Klimt- Beech Grove I

Whoever wants to know something about me – as an artist which alone is significant – they should look attentively at my pictures and there seek to recognise what I am and what I want.

—Gustav Klimt

I shared this quote from the artist Gustav Klimt several years ago. The post it was in didn’t have any commentary, only the quote and several of Klimt’s lesser-known paintings, not the famous pieces like The Kiss. I love his landscape paintings, especially his trees, and would surmise, adhering to his own words, that he had a high regard for the landscape and trees around him.

That’s a pretty simple observation. Maybe that’s one of the things he would expect a viewer learn about him from his work. Maybe not. Perhaps he was thinking about how he valued organic forms, the beauty of color or the intimacy of the embrace.

It made me wonder how much any artist really reveals of themselves in their work and what viewers might take from my own work. Does the impression of the artist that viewer has from looking at the work jibe with the reality of the artist or even the artist’s desired perception of themself?

I don’t know that there is an answer for those questions that applies to every artist. I suppose if an artist paints freely without contrivance, they might well reveal much of who and what they are. I can think of many artists whose work I admire who I feel have done just that.

Maybe it doesn’t really matter. Maybe so long as someone sees something they can connect with in any one work, the whole of the artist doesn’t play any part. There are certainly works that I admire that reveal little to me of who the artist is as a person. That makes sense since you seldom know who a person is from a single encounter.

I would certainly hate to have anyone base their impression of me on one encounter. After all, how many people have I come across on days when I am not at my best?

Yikes.

I guess knowing the artist comes with a number of encounters, after an artist has established a recognizable voice in their work. Then the viewer can pull out the subtle, unconscious elements that hint at who the artist is in reality.

Okay, that’s enough. This was meant to focus on Klimt’s paintings. Here are some of my favorite from his landscapes along with a video featuring a larger body of better-known work from Gustav Klimt put together by a Brazilian musician, Juliano Cesar Lopes, who creates musical scores for films under the name JCSL Studio Recording. He has produced a number of short films like this one as a showcase for his skills.

Maybe you will now Klimt a bit better after watching? Who knows?

Gustav Klimt The-Sunflower, 1907

Gustav Klimt- Church in Cassone

Gustav Klimt, The Big Poplar, 1902

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Point of Contact, 2016

The world is full of magical things patiently waiting for our wits to grow sharper.

–Bertrand Russell

These handful of words from the great British thinker Bertrand Russell succinctly sums up the idea behind much of my work. And that is that there is a world of wonder within our grasp if only we make the effort to recognize the patterns and forces of which they are comprised.

I have said before that we are part of a greater pattern. I believe that it can be found in two simple ways– either looking inward or looking outward. Since we are formed from and dwell within this pattern, we can find parts of by examining our own inner world, our thoughts and dreams. Or we can examine the world immediately around us for the hints of the pattern that are everywhere if only we can recognize them.

Unfortunately, in this busy modern world we too often find ourselves doing neither. We live in a sort of limbo where we are mesmerized by the glossy lure of technologies that occupy our every moment. It keeps us in a state of limbo where we are neither looking inward or outward, as our eyes and thoughts are transfixed by the screen in our hands.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m no technology-resisting Luddite. I embrace and depend on the wonders of this technology as much as anyone. And laud it when it serves a real purpose, when it expands our knowledge and transmits it to the far corners of the world. The possibilities for the good benefits from technology are seemingly endless.

But none of it matters if we lose contact with the greater powers and wonders that surround us every day, forces and patterns that patiently wait for us to unravel the magic that makes them invisible to us.

I know to some that this sounds like a bunch of mumbo jumbo. Maybe the idea of great forces and patterns surrounding us seems a bit loony to some. I get that. But set that aside, if you must, and simply consider the benefits of looking away from your smartphone or laptop for a short time each day to examine the inner and outer world outside of that screen. Maybe if we do this on a regular basis our wits will sharpen to the point that we will better see that world of magical things as Bertrand Russell pointed out.

And if we can achieve that maybe we can one day achieve one of Russell’s great hopes, taken from his 1954 book, Human Society in Ethics and Politics:

I allow myself to hope that the world will emerge from its present troubles, that it will one day learn to give the direction of its affairs, not to cruel swindlers and scoundrels, but to men possessed of wisdom and courage. I see before me a shining vision: a world where none are hungry, where few are ill, where work is pleasant and not excessive, where kindly feeling is common, and where minds released from fear create delight for eye, ear and heart. Do not say this is impossible. It is not impossible. I do not say it can be done tomorrow, but I do say that it could be done within a thousand years, if only men would bend their minds to the achievement of the kind of happiness that should be distinctive of man.

It’s one of my great hopes as well. On some days I sense that we are closer to achieving this than it seems while on other days it feels as though we are doomed by our own greed and selfishness.

But the hope remains and perhaps one day, maybe a thousand years from now, if we have endured the damage done to ourselves by our greediness and have sharpened our wits, we will realize that hoped for state of being.

Maybe…

This is a post from 2016 that I have edited, including the addition of the last Russell passage. The painting at the top, Point of Contact, is from that time and is one of those paintings that has returned to me. Probably because I associate it so closely with the sentiments in this blog post, it remains a favorite of mine.

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Joni Mitchell- The Mountain Loves the Sea- watercolor 1971

Everything comes and goes
Marked by lovers and styles of clothes
Things that you held high
And told yourself were true
Lost or changing as the days come down to you
Down to you
Constant stranger
You’re a kind person
You’re a cold person too
It’s down to you

— Joni Mitchell, Down to You

Yesterday marked the 50th anniversary of the 1974 release of the album Court and Spark from Joni Mitchell. It has been a favorite of mine for those many years, though sometimes it fades from my playlist for a short while. But it always breaks back onto it and each time it does it feels like hearing it anew for me. The same of thrill and appreciation in hearing each song. It has aged well, at least to these ears.

Thought it would be a good morning to replay a post from back in early 2020 about the influence I found in it along with a song from it I haven’t played here before, Down to You.

Over the years, I have often been asked about influences on my work and I often list several artists that I feel pushed me in certain directions. Then I also point out that there have been influences that fall outside of the painter mode. For example, literature, poetry and film come immediately to mind. Then there’s pop culture such as cartoons and comics, television and so much more. I’ve mentioned that there was a Coca Cola tv ad back in the 80’s that featured saturated colors– reds and golds– that stuck in my mind for years before I began painting.

There are so many contributing sources of inspiration.

I mention this today because as I was looking for a piece of music to play this morning, I came across the old Joni Mitchell album from 1974, Court and Spark. It was a great album, one that I loved even as a teenage boy. I had not listened to it in several years but each of the songs was imprinted in me by this time.

I also hadn’t looked closely at its album cover for many, many years though it was a beautiful cover, cream colored with a small watercolor painting, The Mountain Loves the Sea, that Joni Mitchell had painted a few years before, tastefully in its center. It had a simple elegance that I recognized, again even as a teenage boy. But it was just one of those things that, because I had seen it so many times before, I didn’t look with any attention at all.

But I looked closer today at the painting in the cover’s center and was surprised at how much my own work sometimes held echoes of this little painting. I would never thought of Joni Mitchell as an influence beyond her music but looking at this little image made me rethink that.

Maybe it was just one of those little things that push you, without your knowledge, in one direction or another. Influences that you internalize and can’t recognize or name until you come face to face with them. We all have them, those small things we take in and blend together to make us who we are.

I am glad this album was one of those things for me.

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 When you feel colors, you will understand the why of their forms.

–Oscar Bluemner

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A Matter of Perspective— At the Principle Gallery

“As for the dead”, she went on after a moment, “I have always thought that the dead think of us as dead. They have rejoined the living after this trifling excursion into quasi-life.”

— Lawrence Durrell, Justine, The Alexandria Quartet

I was listening to some music yesterday while painting and the lyrics at the end of one song made me think of a blog post I had begun to put together some time ago but had never finished. The song was Spanish Mary, which is an unpublished Bob Dylan song that was part of a project several years ago, The New Basement Tapes, that had a topflight band of musicians covering this group of unrecorded Dylan songs. The super talented Rhiannon Giddens provided banjo and vocals for this song.

The lines that caught me were:

Is it a mystery to live?
Or is it a mystery to die?

As I said, this question on the nature of life and death reminded me of a post I had started to assemble months ago but never finished. It included the line at the top from Justine, the first book in the Alexandria Quartet from Lawrence Durrell. which raise the question of whether being dead is our natural state of being and that our lifetime here in this world is merely a dream or a rite of passage to the plane of existence that is death.

The Durrell line instantly reminded me of a favorite film, A Matter of Life and Death. It was released in 1946 and is from director Michael Powell, who along with producer Emeric Pressburger, were creators of some of the most creative and interesting films made in the 1940’s and 50’s. Most notable are The Red Shoes and Black Narcissus.

A Matter of Life and Death, released in the UK as Stairway to Heaven, is the story of an RAF bomber pilot in WW II who unexpectedly survives the crash of his plane as it is returning from a mission. I say unexpectedly because he is supposed to have died and the agent of death has already been sent to retrieve him. When the pilot, who has somewhat recovered and has fallen in love with an American Army nurse caring for him, is confronted by the agent of death he refuses to comply. It leads to a wonderful legal battle that takes place in the realm of death. I guess it is called heaven but it doesn’t have the religious connotations we attach to that word.

I am not going to go any further with this synopsis. It was the imagery of heaven in that film such as the one below with the resident dead peering down at the living and this concept that death is true state of being and that our time here is basically a short sojourn or dream that made me associate it with Durrell’s line as well as attach the painting at the top, A Matter of Perspective, which is about our perception of our existence and place in the universe.

It’s all very Philosophy 101 stuff. At least, I would imagine it is since I never took that class in my limited schooling. That’s probably why I never posted this. It seems too rudimentary, even naive. But even so, it is interesting to roll it around in your head once in a while and wonder if this is merely a dream before we begin actually living.

Well, living in death. It is a matter of perspective, after all.

You figure it our for yourself. Here’s that Dylan song, Spanish Mary, from Rhiannon Giddens.

A Matter of Life and Death- 1946

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Dare to Know (Sapere Aude)

Enlightenment is man’s release from his self-incurred tutelage. Tutelage is man’s inability to make use of his understanding without direction from another. Self-incurred is this tutelage when its cause lies not in lack of reason but in lack of resolution and courage to use it without direction from another. Sapere aude!- ‘Have courage to use your own reason!’- that is the motto of enlightenment.

― Immanuel Kant,  What Is Enlightenment?

[First posted in 2017]

Sapere Aude!

From the Latin, meaning Dare to Know.

I came across the passage above from the 18th century philosopher Immanuel Kant and felt immediately that it was a great match for this new painting. In fact, I am calling this piece, 11′ by 15″ on paper,  Dare to Know (Sapere Aude!)

The Red Tree here is removed away from the influence and shading of the other trees and houses in the foreground, out of darkness and into the light. There is a light about the Red Tree and a sense of freedom in the openness of the space around it. It is free to examine the world, free to seek the knowledge it craves, and free to simply think for itself.

It’s a great idea, this concept of enlightenment and one that we definitely could use today. Too many of us form our own base of what we believe is knowledge by relying on the thoughts and opinions of others, often without giving much consideration as to their truthfulness, motives, or origins. Or we shade our base of knowledge with our own desires for how we believe reality should appear, holding onto false beliefs that suit us even when they obviously contradict reality.

In short, there is no enlightenment based on falsehoods, no way to spin darkness into light. Enlightenment comes in stepping away from the darkness of lies and deceptions to see the world as it is, with clarity. It means stripping away our own self defenses and admitting our own shortcomings, prejudices, and predispositions.

It may not always be the desired outcome one hoped for, but it is an honest reality. And maybe that is enlightenment, the willingness to face all truths with honesty.

To dare to know.

Sapere Aude!

The post above has ran a few times over the past seven years. The painting shown in it is one from early 2017 that made the rounds to the galleries and came back to me. This baffled me because it was and remains a favorite of mine, one that really burned itself deep into my memory. In fact, it hangs on a wall directly behind my desk here in the studio and I often find myself swiveling around to gaze at this piece. I always find something in it that sets me thinking.

My own preference for it might be as much about the meaning I attach to it as its actual visual content. I see it as being a symbol for seeking and verifying truth on your own, without the overriding influence of any one person or group. For me, it is a symbol of everything that stands against the cultish Groupthink we’re seeing around the world where people blindly adhere to beliefs in individuals and ideologies that defy reality and all logic or reason.

It is about being brave enough to look at the reality of things with clear eyes and an open mind. To have the courage to acknowledge and face the reality of the moment based only on your own judgement.

This may sometimes disappoint. You might sometimes be proven wrong and not get you the results you desire. Even so, it gives you the clarity of truth and free thought that allows you to determine how to best move ahead. 

Kant’s ‘Have courage to use your own reason!’ might well define our ultimate freedom. And unfortunately, in a country that constantly extols its freedoms, few have the courage use this freedom.

I certainly don’t have that courage often. But this painting and its meaning are a constant reminder, occasionally allowing me to muster the bravery to think freely on my own.

And that gives me hope that enlightenment is still possible– for myself and for all of us.

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Winterglide– Coming to Little Gems, West End Gallery

The unconscious self is the real genius. Your breathing goes wrong the moment your conscious self meddles with it.

–Bernard Shaw, Man and Superman, 1903

The painting at the top, Winterglide, is new, a 12″ by 12″ piece on panel that is going to be part of this year’s Little Gems show at the West End Gallery in early February.

I like the feel of this piece, its ease and coolness. For me, it’s like taking in a breath of cool air that instantly takes away the heat of an overstressed mind. That goes for the way it was painted as well. It came easily and without much thought. More instinctual than intellectual. Shaw’s line above seems to mesh well with how this painting appeared– my brain was pretty much left out of the equation.

I’ve been working lately with pieces that feature snow-covered rolls in the landscape. I find the process I employ in these pieces very meditative. Again, more instinctual, allowing me to get away from the thought process. It allows the colors carry the emotional feel of the piece. The whiten of the top snow layer both cools and unifies the underlying colors.

It kind of allows the eye to glide through the piece. That’s where the title, Winterglide, originated.

As I said, I like the feel of cool freshness in this painting. Like that cool breath, it steadies my thinking.

And sometimes that is all I need.

Here’s an appropriate song for this week’s Sunday Morning Music. It’s the transcendent remake from KD Lang of the old Hollies song, The Air That I Breathe. For some unknown reason, I have only played a couple of KD Lang songs over the many years I’ve been doing this blog. It’s surprising because I am a big fan of her work and she has delivered some legendary — and I mean legendary–performances over her career. If you get a chance, listen to her Shadowland which she made with Owen Bradley, the producer of the late great Patsy Cline, whose voice, like Lang’s, was able to soar to emotional heights carrying us mere mortals along for a glorious ride.

Listen in a dark room if you can. Pure magic.

Give a listen and give your mind a rest this morning. Good stuff…

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The Moon Resonates– At Kada Gallery, Erie, PA

Society, as we have constituted it, will have no place for me, has none to offer; but Nature, whose sweet rains fall on unjust and just alike, will have clefts in the rocks where I may hide, and secret valleys in whose silence I may weep undisturbed. She will hang the night with stars so that I may walk abroad in the darkness without stumbling, and send the wind over my footprints so that none may track me to my hurt: she will cleanse me in great waters, and with bitter herbs make me whole.

–Oscar Wilde, De Profundis

Keeping it simple this morning. Even so, there’s a lot to consider in this simple triad of word, image and song.

Words from Oscar Wilde‘s letter from his time imprisoned in Reading Gaol, a replay of a favorite Neko Case song and a wistful painting. I think they blend together pretty well and reflect my mood in the moment.

I guess that’s good enough for a quiet Friday morning in January.

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A Rising Peace– At Principle Gallery

A new moon teaches gradualness
and deliberation and how one gives birth
to oneself slowly. Patience with small details
makes perfect a large work, like the universe.
What nine months of attention does for an embryo
forty early mornings will do for your gradually growing wholeness

–Rumi

I wrote about a very early piece yesterday, commenting on a couple of details in it that intrigued me. They were small things–an edge of mixing color, a loose run of paint, the exposed layers of glazed colors. Not things that carry the narrative (if there is one) or define the piece to the casual viewer but small things that give it life.

Looking at that piece made me think about the importance of these small details in my work and process. My personal judgement of my paintings is often based on these small details and my reaction to them. A fleck of underlying color that barely shows, a brush bristle in the paint, exposed ridges of the gessoed surface’s texture, a partial swirl of a thumbprint, and so many other little details that are easily overlooked add layers of depth to the painting for me. They have little to do with the perceived subject of the painting but often carry as much emotional weight and meaning.

I have often talked and written about how one of the challenges in the studio is to not become bored with what I do, to continually find and create excitement in the work for myself. These details are fine examples of how that excitement comes about in the process of creating a painting. It can sometimes be a long and boring process, especially on larger paintings, with periods where the life and excitement of the piece evaporates. The whole thing feels flat and dull at these times.

But having one of small edge of paint come to life or the texture underneath suddenly pop creates small bursts of excitement. These small bursts build on one another and carry through to the whole of the painting. A good painting, at least to my eye, is filled with these small details.

It’s much like the Rumi line at the top: Patience with small details makes perfect a large work, like the universe.

Let me be clear, they are not details for the sake of having details. I have tried to create paintings filled with detail and have failed spectacularly, creating boring and cluttered messes. No, these are details that almost all unintentional in their origin. They come from the work and the process.

That is when most work is best, when it comes organically and is not contrived by the mind.

That’s my opinion, anyway. Now get out of here– I have to work on one of those forty early mornings that Rumi mentioned. Looking for that wholeness…

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Early Work: Dance Hall, 1994

It takes little talent to see clearly what lies under one’s nose, a good deal of it to know in which direction to point that organ.

–W. H. Auden, The Dyer’s Hand and Other Essays, ‘Writing’, 1963

I was looking for something else this morning in my computer files when I came across the image above of a small piece done in my earliest painting days. It’s a loosely done watercolor of the old Dance Hall that once stood at a local amusement park, Eldridge Park. I painted this structure a number of times back then.

I have always skimmed by this particular piece, never taking a moment to stop and examine it with a more probing eye. Its first impression just never hit for me and I mentally devalued it as just a failed experiment. In fact, the small original is stored with a bin of old work that I keep meaning to destroy.

But something made me stop and look at the image this morning. There were many things in this little guy that I liked. The looseness of it and the spew lines at its bottom, for example. The color of the yellow of the sun where it meets the color of the roof. I found it infinitely more intriguing now than I did at that time. It made me wonder what might have been had I continued working in that manner.

That, of course, is a fool’s errand. Wondering what might have been is a futile exercise, especially in this case. This little piece served its purpose (and an important one) and was part of my creative evolution. I took parts of it with me and moved on to the next piece, already heading in a different direction, pulled by forces that might not show in this piece. At the time it was painted, I was already seeing a different future that it portended.

As a result, I gave it little thought at that time for the piece it was. It just felt like an exercise and not an entity of its own. Not the kind of thing I would ever show to anyone though for some reason I did sign it in pencil at some point. It was early on because the C hadn’t yet entered my signature.

But this morning I began to see it as its own being. And I liked it. I am not saying it is a great piece. It’s not. But it is so much more than I gave it credit for the past almost 30 years. And I am grateful for the things that it gave me then and for the unexpected pleasure it gives me now as it is.

I guess those are the best kind, those small unexpected pleasures.

And that gives me an idea for another post…

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