Once in a blue moon Somethin’ good comes along Once in a blue moon Every thing’s not goin’ wrong
— Van Morrison, Once in a Blue Moon
Have lots on my plate this morning so wasn’t going to post anything today. But I thought I at least needed to note that today is February 29th.
Leap Day.
That odd extra day that pops up every four years, offering us hopes that it will inject some special oomph into the doldrums of winter. It usually doesn’t meet our expectations but the anticipation and hope it offers are its real thing. It’s up to us to take advantage of the opportunity given by this bonus day.
For some reason, I equated Leap Day with the idea of a Blue Moon. I guess it’s that both are relatively rare occurrences that offer us a chance for something new. Whatever the case, let’s listen to a Van Morrison tune, Once in a Blue Moon, from back in 2003. I am somewhat torn about Van Morrison. I have long heard accounts of him being an egomaniacal dick but his descent into the world of conspiracy theory in recent years had me wondering if I could indeed separate the art from the artist. Personal feelings aside on his conduct and opinions, his work has often been marvelous throughout a very long career.
Hitherto I have used the words imperfect and perfect merely to distinguish between work grossly unskillful, and work executed with average precision and science; and I have been pleading that any degree of unskillfulness should be admitted, so only that the labourer’s mind had room for expression. But, accurately speaking, no good work whatever can be perfect and the demand for perfection is always a sign of a misunderstanding of the ends of art.
This for two reasons, both based on everlasting laws. The first, that no great man ever stops working till he has reached his point of failure: that is to say, his mind is always far in advance of his powers of execution, and the latter will now and then give way in trying to follow it; besides that he will always give to the inferior portions of his work only such Inferior attention as they require; and according to his greatness he becomes so accustomed to the feeling of dissatisfaction with the best he can do, that in moments of lassitude or anger with himself he will not care though the beholder be dissatisfied also. I believe there has only been one man who would not acknowledge this necessity, and strove always to reach perfection, Leonardo; the end of his vain effort being merely that he would take ten years to a picture, and leave it unfinished. And therefore, if we are to have great men working at all, or less men doing their best, the work will be imperfect, however beautiful. Of human work none but what is bad can be perfect, in its own bad way.
The second reason is, that imperfection is in some sort essential to all that we know of life. It is the sign of life in a mortal body, that is to say, of a state of progress and change. Nothing that lives is, or can be, rigidly perfect; part of it is decaying, part nascent. The foxglove blossom, — a third part bud, a third part past, a third part in full bloom, — is a type of the life of this world. And in all things that live there are certain irregularities and deficiencies which are not only signs of life, but sources of beauty. No human face is exactly the same in its lines on each side, no leaf perfect in its lobes, no branch in its symmetry. All admit irregularity as they imply change; and to banish imperfection is to destroy expression, to check exertion, to paralyze vitality. All things are literally better, lovelier, and more beloved for the imperfections which have been divinely appointed, that the law of human life may be Effort, and the law of human judgment, Mercy.
–John Ruskin, On the Nature of Gothic Architecture: And Herein of the True Functions of the Workman in Art
I have written many times here about the importance of imperfection in my work, about how perfection is a false state of being as far as art is concerned. The wonderful passage above from John Ruskin very much summarizes many of my thoughts on the subject. There are a number of lines in these paragraphs that resonate with me, especially that imperfection in some sort is essential to all that we know of life. and the idea that every organism is in a transitory state of constant decay and rebirth.
The perfection is in the imperfection.
Don’t know if I have ever mentioned him here before but John Ruskin (1819-1900) was one of the most influential people of the 19th century. He was a writer, philosopher, art historian, art critic and polymath, as well as a highly talented painter. He wrote on subjects as varied as geology, architecture, myth, ornithology, literature, education, botany and political economy. His writings on art and architecture have resonated for generations, exerting great influence on artists, writers, aesthetic movements, architects, critics, etc.
Art historian Kenneth Clark summarized Ruskin’s writings on art and architecture into the streamlined list of eight features shown below. I always felt, based on the era in which he worked and from reading some of his earlier writings, that Ruskin’s thoughts on art might not fit in with my own views. But the more I read on and from Ruskin and the scope of the creators influenced by Ruskin, I was pleasantly surprised. Most of the items on this list very much align with my thoughts and he even describes, in a way, the need for the organic feel in a work, that idea that I often refer to as a ‘sense of rightness.‘
If you’re interested in art, it’s worth taking a few moments to read.
Art is not a matter of taste, but involves the whole man. Whether in making or perceiving a work of art, we bring to bear on it feeling, intellect, morals, knowledge, memory, and every other human capacity, all focused in a flash on a single point. Aesthetic man is a concept as false and dehumanising as economic man.
Even the most superior mind and the most powerful imagination must found itself on facts, which must be recognised for what they are. The imagination will often reshape them in a way which the prosaic mind cannot understand; but this recreation will be based on facts, not on formulas or illusions.
These facts must be perceived by the senses, or felt; not learnt.
The greatest artists and schools of art have believed it their duty to impart vital truths, not only about the facts of vision, but about religion and the conduct of life.
Beauty of form is revealed in organisms which have developed perfectly according to their laws of growth, and so give, in his own words, ‘the appearance of felicitous fulfilment of function.’
This fulfilment of function depends on all parts of an organism cohering and co-operating. This was what he called the ‘Law of Help,’ one of Ruskin’s fundamental beliefs, extending from nature and art to society.
Good art is done with enjoyment. The artist must feel that, within certain reasonable limits, he is free, that he is wanted by society, and that the ideas he is asked to express are true and important.
Great art is the expression of epochs where people are united by a common faith and a common purpose, accept their laws, believe in their leaders, and take aserious view of human destiny.
Whoso would be a man, must be a nonconformist. He who would gather immortal palms must not be hindered by the name of goodness, but must explore it if it be goodness. Nothing is at last sacred but the integrity of your own mind. Absolve you to yourself, and you shall have the suffrage of the world.
–Ralph Waldo Emerson, Self-Reliance
I came across an article that discussed the parallels between Ralph Waldo Emerson’s description of self-reliance and the music of Prince. As odd as it sounds, it was a convincing argument, stating that the freedom needed to create requires the type of non-conformity and self-reliance that Prince possessed.
And that probably holds true for any artist. The artist has to be willing to stand alone, eschewing the impositions of society and going where they need to go in order to reach their artistic vision. And, in doing so, not needing the affirmation or approval of others.
Emerson put it this way:
We are such lovers of self-reliance, that we excuse in a man many sins, if he will show us a complete satisfaction in his position, which asks no leave to be, of mine, or any man’s good opinion.
I am not going into this very deeply. Just a quick thought that made sense to me this morning. Let’s listen to a song from Prince that very much lines up with Emerson’s words. You see it in this verse:
Don’t talk if it’s against the rules Just walk away and be a fool That’s what they want ya to do So you got to walk like you want to make it Don’t walk like you just can’t take it Go on and walk on any side you like Don’t walk wherever they tell you to, psyche The sun will shine upon you one day If you’re always walkin’ your way
Give a listen if you’re so inclined. Not a bad way to kick off a Tuesday morning. Good stuff…
And if you can’t shape your life the way you want, at least try as much as you can not to degrade it by too much contact with the world, by too much activity and talk.
Try not to degrade it by dragging it along, taking it around and exposing it so often to the daily silliness of social events and parties, until it comes to seem a boring hanger-on.
— Constantine Cavafy, As Much as You Can
Constantine P. Cavafy (1863-1933) was a Greek poet who lived his entire life in Alexandria, Egypt. His work often captured the sensual and exotic cosmopolitan feel of that city and that time. Readers of Lawrence Durrell and his Alexandria Quartet, in which Cavafy appears as a character, will well know that feel of which he wrote.
Though Cavafy was known for his poetry among the Greek community in Alexandria he spent most of his life working as civil servant. He didn’t actively seek widespread acclaim, turning down opportunities to have his work published while often opting to print broadsheets of his poetry that were distributed to only a few friends. His work didn’t realize wider acclaim until later in his life (and afterwards) when his friend, novelist E.M.Forster, wrote about his work, describing him as a Greek gentleman in a straw hat, standing absolutely motionless at a slight angle to the universe.
I think that’s a marvelous description– standing absolutely motionless at a slight angle to the universe. It gives an image of one being slightly askew from the rest of the world. And that is what the poem at the top is somewhat about– in not contaminating the uniqueness of yourself are by overexposing it in meaningless ways.
As someone who often feels a bit askew, this sounds like sound advice to me. That being said, I will now leave before I become too much of a boring hanger-on.
You can go to the moon or walk under the sea, or anything else you like, but painting remains painting because it eludes such investigation. It remains there like a question. And it alone gives the answer.
–Pablo Picasso, Picasso and His Art, 1975
It was cold and clear last night under a full moon last night. There’s a certain power in its appearance on such nights. Not Lon Chaney, Jr. in The Wolfman power though I guess it does have that sort of power as well. No, it’s more life-affirming, more indicative of our connection to everything.
Illuminating. I guess that would be the right word here. The moonlight takes away the deathly darkness that envelopes most nights, creating new forms and shadows that gives permission for your imagination run wild.
It’s much like Picasso said about painting, it remains there like a question and it alone gives the answer.
Maybe the question is the answer on such nights.
I don’t know. You probably don’t know either. And that’s as it should be.
Some questions need to be unanswered, to just hang out there like the moon.
Sigh…
Okay, here’s this week’s Sunday Morning Music. Its title, The Moon, is on point for today’s subject. It’s from The Swell Season which is comprised of one of my favorites, Glen Hansard, and Marketa Irglova. You might remember them as the young couple in the wonderful film Once. This a lovely and fitting tune.
“I sit in the chair and think about the word chair. It can also mean the leader of a meeting. It can also mean a mode of execution. It is the first syllable in charity. It is the French word for flesh. None of these facts has any connection with the others. These are the kinds of litanies I use, to compose myself.”
― Margaret Atwood, The Handmaid’s Tale
Reading this passage from author Margaret Atwood made me chuckle a bit because it reminded me of how my mind often operates in the morning. Just bursts of things with the vaguest of connections to each other, somehow finally leading to something tangible. I think it’s a necessary trait for writing this thing and maybe for my painting as well.
The fact that she chose a chair also made me think about the Red Chair that has appeared sporadically in my work for the past 20 years or so. Maybe I chose it because, like Atwood’s litany of thoughts on the chair, it can spur many thoughts and interpretations. It certainly spurs on curiosity about it. During the openings for most of my shows, I inevitably get a number of questions about the meaning of the Red Chair.
Dawn of Memory
The empty chair itself is a simple and powerful symbol of respect in many cultures for past ancestors or someone loved who is absent. Many folks have told me how they see their own deceased family members in those chairs. It can represent grief or loss. I personally see the chair as a symbol of personal memory, seeing the chair as a representation of myself in the memory of past experiences. These are just a couple. I am sure it is symbolic of other things as well.
The questions about the Red Chair increase when it’s suspended in a tree such as in the painting shown above on the left, Dawn of Memory, which is at the West End Gallery now as part of the ongoing Little Gemsexhibit.
How the Red Chair came to be aloft in the tree is a story that began when I was a kid. I’ve told it innumerable times at openings and Gallery Talks over the years but here it is again:
Growing up, we lived in the country in an isolated old farmhouse with an old barn across the road. I happened to drove by the old place about ten years back and snapped this photo of the old barn, now in a much more advanced stage of decay than when I was running around there. It was pretty solid and complete at that earlier time, though seldom used. In front of the barn, to the left of it here and just out of the shot, is a large and old stone chimney, all that remains from the home of an early settler to the area, a coach driver who was killed there in an Indian raid in the late 18th century. A small cemetery with old slate stones from that family and a few others was nestled in the edge of the forest nearby. For a kid, it was a place filled with memory and myth, a great place to play and let your imagination run wild.
One summer when I was 8 or 9 years old, I came across a dead woodchuck lying next to the barn. I don’t know how he died. He didn’t appear to have been shot or attacked in any way. He was just there– dead.
As the summer progressed and he decayed and dried out, a vine passed through his body and by summer’s end was suspended a foot or two in the air. To the eyes of a child this was something magical. I was struck by the power of the earth to reclaim its creatures. Everything, our whole existence, seemed very ephemeral after that…
The idea of a tree growing through and lifting an object such as a chair, which is very representative of human existence, is a continuation of that early fascination. It wasn’t until I had painted several pieces with the hanging chair that I began to also see the symbolism of the empty chair, which in some cultures represents the recently deceased. That is what I often see now in that hanging tree– the family members and ancestors who have passed on.
Again, this is my interpretation of this work. I am sure others see things of their own in these pieces. It means something has clicked between them and the painting.
And that’s a good thing. All I can ask of it.
This is a post from 2014 that has been reworked and added to. I thought I would make it into my common triad by adding a song. The song is Norwegian Wood from the Beatles and their Rubber Soul album. This song isn’t really about chairs outside of the line:
She asked me to stay And she told me to sit anywhere So I looked around And I noticed there wasn’t a chair
So, in fact, it is about an absence of chairs. Aah, it doesn’t matter. It’s a song that I like, one that rests in the chair of my memory, and that good enough for me this morning. Give listen if you’re so inclined:
As for me I am neither happy nor unhappy; I lie suspended like a hair or a feather in the cloudy mixtures of memory. I spoke of the uselessness of art but added nothing truthful about its consolations. The solace of such work as I do with brain and heart lies in this — that only there, in the silences of the painter or the writer can reality be reordered, reworked and made to show its significant side. Our common actions in reality are simply the sackcloth covering which hides the cloth-of-gold — the meaning of the pattern. For us artists there waits the joyous compromise through art with all that wounded or defeated us in daily life; in this way, not to evade destiny, as the ordinary people try to do, but to fulfil it in its true potential — the imagination.
–Lawrence Durrell, Justine, The Alexandria Quartet
Without sharing it, the other day I wrote about this passage from author Lawrence Durrell which had set me off thinking about the power of the imagination. Or, at least, the purpose of the imagination.
People have been attempting to define the meaning and purpose of art forever. This passage, for me, is as close to my own inner understanding of the meaning and purpose of art as I have ever come across. It speaks of the silences required in order to rework the reality of this world in order to make visible the underlying patterns that move us. I can certainly agree with that.
But the part that captivated me most was its assertion that art is not a distraction or diversion from life. We don’t turn to art to get away from life.
No, we turn to art in order to confront life.
Art allows us to heal our wounds, understand our defeats and hopefully achieve catharsis, which Durrell describes as a joyous compromise. Most of us react most intensely to work that speaks to own wounds and defeats. In it, we recognize the underlying pattern and, by doing so, can understand the source of our pain then deal with it.
Okay. That’s enough. I have work yelling at me to get to it. Besides, I could go on and on about this and probably say less than I have already said. Writing is often, like painting, about leaving space for the viewer to insert their own meaning and experience.
That space, that silence, is where it becomes art.
The nose of a mob is its imagination. By this, at any time, it can be quietly led.
— Edgar Allan Poe, Marginalia
I wasn’t planning on writing anything today. Work has been going well and I wanted to get at it. But I woke up at well before 5 AM with my mind whirling thinking about the power of the imagination. This stemmed from a passage from author Lawrence Durrell that I will share at a later date.
This passage got me thinking, as I lay there in the dark, how our ability to imagine is that trait which defines us as a species, allowing us to create and visualize a future. It solves problems and has been responsible for every inch of progress we have made as humans.
But, as it is with all things, there is a polarity of opposition. A flipside of the coin.
While we might imagine better things for ourselves and others, we can also imagine the worst. Our imaginations are often affected by forces outside our own minds, leading us to feelings of fear and loathing. Our fear is more often than not an act of imagination than it is a fear any true threat.
Authoritarian movements are built on their ability to manipulate the mob’s imagination, fostering and growing fears among its followers. For as effective as fear is as a motivating force, there is a fault in this method in that it dwindles in effectiveness over time.
Every authoritarian movement eventually fails and this comes about for one reason: It robs the imagination of a future.
While the imagination of the mob can be controlled for a short period of time, the imagination ultimately seeks the future.
The imagination is always forward looking and adaptable and ever-changing. It continuously seeks improvement and understanding.
And it is always with us, everywhere. As Albert Einstein pointed out in a 1929 interview:
I am enough of an artist to draw freely upon my imagination. Imagination is more important than knowledge. Knowledge is limited. Imagination encircles the world.
Imagination encircles the world.
It remains elusively independent, as hard as authoritarians may try to control it. They may divert imaginations with their manipulations but eventually the instilled fear held by the mob turns inward towards the force trying to control it. The controlling force which they once saw as the answer to their fears now becomes source of new fears.
The remedy becomes the disease.
And the imagination of the mob begins working overtime in order to solve this newly recognized problem.
The imagination of the mob seeks a new future.
Okay. That’s my thought for the morning. I am sure there are flaws of logic and contradiction in my thinking and I have spent too much valuable time away from my work. Nonetheless, I felt like I had to write this just to get my thoughts on paper. Unfortunately, while we have imaginations, we also easily forget things much too soon. I would have forgotten this by this afternoon.
This forgetfulness is also the same with the mob, the reason why we are always faced with the same patterns of behavior. Same fears and manipulations and so on.
I believe that we are lost here in America, but I believe we shall be found. And this belief, which mounts now to the catharsis of knowledge and conviction, is for me–and I think for all of us—-not only our own hope, but America’s everlasting, living dream.
–Thomas Wolfe, You Can’t Go Home Again
I have been on a break from the blog this past week. It has allowed me to divert much of the time that would be spent writing this post to painting. It’s been good.
But I still find myself doing many of the same things that are used in writing this blog such as chasing thoughts and ideas down all kinds of rabbit holes. That’s something I would do even if I didn’t write this blog.
I have been captivated this week by the word catharsis. It is from the Greek, meaning purification and now refers to act of purging emotions through the expression and release of these emotions. For me, painting and my emotional response to the work itself often provides catharsis. I am focusing on that as a theme for my solo shows this year.
Doing some research led to the quote above from You Can’t Go Home Again, the posthumously published 1940 novel from Thomas Wolfe. It’s one of those books that have been on my must-read list for decades but I somehow never got to it. As I do with most of the quotes I employ here, I did some background research, trying to find the context in which it was used originally. The book was about a successful author who leaves his provincial hometown to write in NYC and travel throughout Europe in the 1920’s and 30’s. In it, he writes of the parallels between the inherent greed in capitalism that led to the stock market crash of the late 20’s and the rise of the authoritarian movements of the 1930’s– Fascism, Naziism and our own home-grown America First movement. It is his disillusion with the world that leads him back to his hometown in the late 30’s, before the outbreak of WW II.
I found that this passage was from the final chapter of the novel which is titled Credo. This line begins a rather remarkable longer passage that dealt what felt like a body blow to me. It captured much of what I have felt about this country for most of my adult life, that we have never truly fulfilled the promise of this nation but that the potential to do so remains alive. While we sometimes feel as though we are on the track to reach our potential, we often succumb to those who try to manipulate and prey on our dreams for their own dark desires.
It feels as though it could have been written for this very moment in time, as dictators abroad and greedy manipulators here grab for more and more. It serves as a warning yet is hopeful. I urge you to read the passage below or, if you would rather listen, I have attached a video reading of it below.
And this being Sunday morning, I am sharing my weekly Musical Selection. I thought that a recording from the late great Chet Baker would fit in perfectly since the title is the same as that from Wolfe’s book, You Can’t Go Home Again. I couldn’t find anything that directly said that the title of this composition was directly related to the book but it has a bittersweet feel that I imagine would echo the book’s.
As for my break, I will probably continue it a bit longer them begin to post randomly until I feel like getting back to my old ways. I know that this is a long read so if you made it this far today, thanks. It is, as always, much appreciated.
Now, here’s that passage from the final chapter, Credo, of Thomas Wolfe’s You Can’t Go Home Again:
I believe that we are lost here in America, but I believe we shall be found. And this belief, which mounts now to the catharsis of knowledge and conviction, is for me–and I think for all of us—-not only our own hope, but America’s everlasting, living dream. I think the life which we have fashioned in America, and which has fashioned us–the forms we made, the cells that grew, the honeycomb that was created–was self-destructive in its nature, and must be destroyed. I think these forms are dying, and must die, just as I know that America and the people in it are deathless, undiscovered, and immortal, and must live.
I think the true discovery of America is before us. I think the true fulfilment of our spirit, of our people, of our mighty and immortal land, is yet to come. I think the true discovery of our own democracy is still before us. And I think that all these things are certain as the morning, as inevitable as noon. I think I speak for most men living when I say that our America is Here, is Now, and beckons on before us, and that this glorious assurance is not only our living hope, but our dream to be accomplished.
I think the enemy is here before us, too. But I think we know the forms and faces of the enemy, and in the knowledge that we know him, and shall meet him, and eventually must conquer him is also our living hope. I think the enemy is here before us with a thousand faces, but I think we know that all his faces wear one mask. I think the enemy is single selfishness and compulsive greed. I think the enemy is blind, but has the brutal power of his blind grab. I do not think the enemy was born yesterday, or that he grew to manhood forty years ago, or that he suffered sickness and collapse in 1929, or that we began without the enemy, and that our vision faltered, that we lost the way, and suddenly were in his camp. I think the enemy is old as Time, and evil as Hell, and that he has been here with us from the beginning. I think he stole our earth from us, destroyed our wealth, and ravaged and despoiled our land. I think he took our people and enslaved them, that he polluted the fountains of our life, took unto himself the rarest treasures of our own possession, took our bread and left us with a crust, and, not content, for the nature of the enemy is insatiate–tried finally to take from us the crust.
I think the enemy comes to us with the face of innocence and says to us:
“I am your friend.”
I think the enemy deceives us with false words and lying phrases, saying:
“See, I am one of you–I am one of your children, your son, your brother, and your friend. Behold how sleek and fat I have become–and all because I am just one of you, and your friend. Behold how rich and powerful I am–and all because I am one of you–shaped in your way of life, of thinking, of accomplishment. What I am, I am because I am one of you, your humble brother and your friend. Behold,” cries Enemy, “the man I am, the man I have become, the thing I have accomplished–and reflect. Will you destroy this thing? I assure you that it is the most precious thing you have. It is yourselves, the projection of each of you, the triumph of your individual lives, the thing that is rooted in your blood, and native to your stock, and inherent in the traditions of America. It is the thing that all of you may hope to be,” says Enemy, “for”–humbly–“am I not just one of you? Am I not just your brother and your son? Am I not the living image of what each of you may hope to be, would wish to be, would desire for his own son? Would you destroy this glorious incarnation of your own heroic self? If you do, then,” says Enemy, “you destroy yourselves–you kill the thing that is most gloriously American, and in so killing, kill yourselves.”
He lies! And now we know he lies! He is not gloriously, or in any other way, ourselves. He is not our friend, our son, our brother. And he is not American! For, although he has a thousand familiar and convenient faces, his own true face is old as Hell.
I have never described, even in the diary, the act of self-murder which takes place after my being with people. A sense of shame for the most trivial defect, lack, slip, error, for every statement made, or for my silence, for being too gay or too serious, for not being earthy enough, or for being too passionate, for not being free, or being too impulsive, for not being myself or being too much so.
― Anaïs Nin, Mirages: The Unexpurgated Diary of Anais Nin
Coming across the passage above from the diary of Anais Nin, I recognized very much the same feelings that I have described here many times before after attending openings and gallery talks. A kind of mental autopsy takes place much like the one she details above.
For me, this feeling also extends to writing this blog at times, especially during the period before openings and talks when my focus is on promoting the event and my work. By the time the event takes place, I am mentally drained, exhausted from showing my own work and reading my own words about it.
Even knowing that it has provided a valuable service for my work, it just seems too much when I get to that point. It is a much more difficult and draining task than creating the actual work.
And that’s how it is at this moment. It’s time for a short break from this public diary. It might be a week or two or even a month. Or two. There’s no real plan. It’s kind of like my work, done by the feel of it, so who knows?
But I will be back. This open conversation has been going on for over 15 years now and it’s become part of my daily routine, so I won’t just stop entirely.
Just a break to recharge my batteries a bit and reestablish purpose.
Here’s some Sunday Morning Music from the immortal Janis Joplin, Piece of My Heart.
Redtree Times 