Redtree Times

Exiles: Martyr, 1996

Whenever we encounter a human being in such a way that we feel absolutely certain of the infinity of that person’s worth and the eternity of his or her life, that is Easter.

–Eugen Drewermann, Dying We Live: Meditations for Lent and Easter

Can’t say that I am a religious person, religion never being much of a part of my upbringing. I never attended a single Easter service and pretty much thought of the day in terms of chocolate Easter bunnies and colored eggs in my youth. But I respected the traditions and stories of the Bible and of the other religions as I picked them up through the years and understood the solemnity and importance of faith, even if my own was sometimes lacking. Christ’s resurrection as a metaphor for change and rebirth in one’s own life always resonated with me, much like the sentiment expressed above from German theologian Eugen Drewermann.

That being said, I thought I might play a little music this morning that had to do with the fact that it is Easter Sunday.

I have always been drawn to and moved by the passion and conviction of the great gospel songs especially when performed by those blessed with the talent to elevate the material, such as Mahalia Jackson, Sister Rosetta Tharpe, and all so many others. Sam Cooke, one of the greatest pop and R & B stars of the 50’s and early 60’s, was also a great gospel singer. I loved his voice and could listen to him sing the phone book but when he sang the gospel, it was often magic. Here’s his version of Were You There (When They Crucified My Lord), which is an old plantation spiritual that fits in with the day and, performed by Sam Cooke is as I said, magic.

The post above is most a replay from back in 2014. I added the passage from Eugen Drewermann and added one of my early paintings from the 1995-96 series, Exiles.

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Obstacles

Isn’t it strange how princes and kings,
and clowns that caper in sawdust rings,
and common people, like you and me,
are builders for eternity?

Each is given a list of rules;
a shapeless mass; a bag of tools.
And each must fashion, ere life is flown,
A stumbling block, or a Stepping-Stone.

–R. L. Sharpe

I came across the short poem, Bag of Tools, above recently and it caught my eye with its simple yet insightful message. Looking deeper, into it, I found that it is often quoted and there are even videos of people reciting it, including one with Maggie Smith that was used in an ad for a large bank.

But who was the author , this R. L. Sharpe and when was it written?

There is little info on the poet and I have seen the poem dated 1890 as well as 1809, although I felt the earlier date was just a misinterpretation of the 1890. date. So after a bit of digging, I came across one little blurb on a forum that stated about the poet:

He was born in the 1870s and died in the 1950s.
For years he worked with his father, Edwin R. Sharpe,
who owned The Carrollton Free Press and a printing shop in Carrollton, Georgia.
In his later years he traveled a lot, mostly freelancing for magazines
of the ’20s and ’30s.

I can’t vouch for the accuracy of the info although I have seen a number of references from books of the early 20th century with attributions from an R.L. Sharpe in Carrolton, GA. I wonder if he ever realized the possibility that his words would one day become so widespread? He obviously fashioned a stepping-stone.

The post above is from back in 2015. I wasn’t going to post anything today but wanted to get the taste of yesterday’s post abut self-doubt out of my mouth and mind. I came across this post and felt that it applied in some way, that we use the tools we are given and make the best of it in our journey through life.

Along with the bag of tools we are all also given obstacles that arise along the way. For some– like those filled with self-doubt– these stumbling blocks prove to be the end of the line, a reason to stop struggling ahead. And for others they provide an opportunity to learn and grow and even as motivation to keep fighting forward.

They become, as in Sharpe’s verse, stepping-stones.

It all comes down to our resolve. Or so I believe. We have all seen people given bags of tools filled with greater talents and attributes that seem so much greater than our own fail to move beyond their own stumbling blocks.

And others whose tool bags seem spare and unremarkable conquer the obstacles presented to them with ease.

Maybe resolve is one of those tools in their bag that is missing in those others?

I can’t say.

But I will tell you that I am searching my bag of tools for a little resolve. I know there’s some in there somewhere. I got stepping-stones to build…

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Merit Badge — At Principle Gallery

The writer who loses his self-doubt, who gives way as he grows old to a sudden euphoria, to prolixity, should stop writing immediately: the time has come for him to lay aside his pen.

–Colette, Speech on being elected to the Belgian Academy

If the words above from Colette, the French writer who lived from 1873 until 1954, apply to painters as well as writers then I am in no danger of laying down my brush anytime soon. At 3:30 this morning I was wide awake, my mind racing, thoughts bouncing around like crazy.

Most of these thoughts concerned my work. Or rather, worries about my work. Or should I say, worries about my possible delusions about that work? Is it any good? Or am I just punch drunk from staring at it from inches away every day?

I don’t know. It felt like my brain turned suddenly into mashed potatoes. Not a great feeling at 3:30 AM.

I am working towards my two annual solo shows, as I have done at this time for many years now. I know from experience that there are going to be peaks and valleys of elation and utter dismay during this time. Even knowing that by this afternoon the panic may have transformed into satisfaction of some sort doesn’t help much in the moment. It feels crushing and the self-doubt grows into the larger fear of being exposed as a phony, an impostor who has finally reached the end of their ruse.

I know, again from experience, that the remedy comes in getting to work, so I am getting to it. I feel somewhat peeved that I spent any time at all this morning writing this. the panic of self-doubt, though sometimes paralyzing, can also be a tremendous motivator.

That being said, I am feeling pretty damned motivated at the moment…

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Riding Rhythm– At West End Gallery

All journeys have secret destinations of which the traveler is unaware.

—Martin Buber, The Legend of the Baal-Shem (1955)

I’ve been thinking about the line above from Martin Buber, about how we often don’t recognize the reason for or the purpose behind what we seek. I think that is why we are so often somewhat disappointed when we reach the end of any journey, attain a long-sought goal, or reach an endpoint of any kind.

There often seems to be a feeling of being letdown after reaching our destination. Maybe we expect too much. Maybe we think there will be a noticeable transformation that will alter how we and others view us or will help us deal with every day in a better way going forward. Maybe gained wisdom or insight will have been bestowed upon us.

That seldom happens.

But maybe, even though we don’t feel satisfied, we are changed. We might just not know in what form this change came or how it changed us. Maybe only time will reveal how we have been changed. And maybe then we still won’t recognize it as it might be subtle and gentle.

Bear with me here. Just thinking this morning, wondering to what secret destination I am headed.

Hmm. Here’s a song in that vein that I’ve shared a couple of times over the years, I’m On My Way, from a favorite of mine, Rhiannon Giddens.

Good travels to you all.

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This place is a dream. Only a sleeper considers it real. Then death comes like dawn, and you wake up laughing at what you thought was your grief.

–Rumi

I am hoping this is the case.

My friend, Brian Pappalardo, died yesterday in the evening around 8 PM. if this life is a dream then Brian lived a nightmare for the past three years. I am hoping that he has woken from this dream and is laughing at us in our sorrow and grief, him knowing that it but a dream from which he has left to return to reality.

I wrote about Brian here a couple of years back when we did a fundraiser for his medical expenses, a year into his medical odyssey. In that time, he had been hospitalized with severe pulmonary problems a number of times, been intubated and on a respirator, had a trach tube, had to learn to talk, walk, and use his hands again, underwent surgeries including one recently for a serious hernia, had several serious infections, experienced kidney failure, and on and on.

So much that my memory is more than likely failing me here. More than anyone should have to experience in any one life, let alone over three years.

But Brian was a great guy, a fact well known to all who knew him, who was able to maintain an ever-hopeful outlook throughout this time. Even when he was in dire situations with his health, he was still quick to laugh and to make a wisecrack. When we talked on the phone, I always gauged his condition on how much he laughed during our conversations. I figured if he was laughing his attitude was good and he would be okay. And right up to our last conversation a week or so ago, that remained a true indicator.

This last trip to the hospital came less than two weeks ago, after a fall that had breaking his leg. All the many ailments of the past three years finally converged on Brian. It was just too much for his beleaguered body and last week was on life support.

Brian was, as I said, a great guy and a loyal friend to so many people. His sister Karen, who has sacrificed so much of herself over the past few years serving as a caregiver for Brian, was surprised at the huge outpouring of care and concern from people from all over when news of Brian’s condition was made known. Brian himself was surprised to hear from so many folks who, in many cases, he had interacted with many years before. He was an easy guy to like.

Gentle in spirit, Brian liked to hear the stories of others which served him well in his long career as a journalist and editor for our local newspaper, the Star Gazette. It also endeared him to many of his caregivers who were often coaxed into sharing the details of their lives by Brian’s inquisitive nature.

I could go on. Let me just end by saying that this dream life lost a truly good guy. I hope that wherever Brian is right now in the real Reality, he is giving that big Brian laugh.

Catch up with you later, Brian. Until then, be good.

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Coolway— At West End Gallery

Mama take this badge from me
I can’t use it anymore
It’s getting dark too dark to see
Feels like I’m knockin’ on Heaven’s door

–Bob Dylan

Just leaving this here for this week’s Sunday Morning Music.

For a friend.

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Silent Crossing– At Principle Gallery

All I know about music is that not many people ever really hear it. And even then, on the rare occasions when something opens within, and the music enters, what we mainly hear, or hear corroborated, are personal, private, vanishing evocations. But the man who creates the music is hearing something else, is dealing with the roar rising from the void and imposing order on it as it hits the air. What is evoked in him, then, is of another order, more terrible because it has no words, and triumphant, too, for that same reason. And his triumph, when he triumphs, is ours.

― James Baldwin, Sonny’s Blues

I wasn’t going to write anything this morning. I am feeling a little distracted by other things plus I am just super busy here in the studio. But there was a convergence of elements that changed my mind.

First, while listening to music right after I came into the studio, Little Girl Blue from Janis Joplin came on. I’ve written a bit here in recent times about finding catharsis of some sort in my work and, for me, few singers create that feeling of catharsis with their work like Janis Joplin.

Her performances often remind me so much of the passage above from James Baldwin, which is in itself a triumph. You don’t hear her music– you feel it. And that’s because, like Baldwin writes, she is dealing with something pulled from the void, something terrible and painful, and transforming it into a gift for those who can feel it.

That is indeed a triumph of catharsis.

And that’s what I needed this morning. That’s all I got. Give a listen then let yourself out. And don’t slam the damn door.

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Nightbloom— At West End Gallery

All the knowledge I possess everyone else can acquire, but my heart is all my own.

–Goethe, The Sorrows of Young Werther,  1774

One of the primary factors in my finding my way to art was the fact that whatever I created would be all my own, a reflection of what I felt was my own truth. Art–painting in my particular case– was the one place in this world where I could have total control, the one place where I could set the rules and chose what criteria would satisfy my own needs.

I would be using materials and knowledge available to everyone else, just like the knowledge referenced in Goethe’s quote above. But what made art so appealing was that there was the opportunity to take these materials and knowledge and transform them into something quite different than the person sitting next to you equipped with the same materials and knowledge. The difference between the two coming in one’s experiences and emotional perceptions and responses to the world.

For some, it is an academic exercise that uses the materials and knowledge by the book with little of their own self invested. For others, it is a battleground in an existential struggle to be heard, to have their voice have meaning of some kind.

The real difference between these two comes from how much one is willing to totally reveal their self in this work, how they interpret the materials and knowledge they are given, and how much of their heart and soul they are willing to put on display. For me, having my own heart evident in my art was always an existential effort– if I couldn’t make something that was uniquely my own then I would not be pursuing it for long.

You know, this is a pretty simple quote on the surface, but it is one that makes me struggle in discussing my own relationship to it. As has been said here before, simple things are often not so simple.

Busy this morning so I am sharing this post from 2015.

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Constantin Brancusi- The Kiss

One day in Switzerland, in front of a beautiful mountain there was the most beautiful of cows, and she was contemplating me in ecstasy. I said to myself,” I must be someone if even this cow admires me.” I came closer; she wasn’t looking at me, and she was relieving herself. That tells you what you need to know about fame.

–Constantin Brancusi

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This was a favorite anecdote of famed sculptor Constantin Brancusi(1876-1957) concerning an incident as he took the long trek on foot from Bucharest to Paris as a poor young man seeking fame and fortune. He found both but the influence of his peasant roots in Romania remained with him.

His story of the unimpressed Swiss cow is a pretty good reflection on the nature of fame, even the type acquired through great deeds. Fame is something created by other people, not something that is displayed on oneself.

When all is said and done, we’re all pretty much the same– famous or not– in the eyes of that peeing cow.

It reminds me of when I first began showing my work in a gallery while I was still working as a waiter in a pancake house. I had neither fame nor fortune but I would go to openings and people would praise my work, telling me how great I was. It felt like fame, in its own small way. I could barely get in my car to drive home because my head was so big by the end of the evening.

But at 6 the next morning, there I was, pouring coffee for truckers and families who were less than impressed by the praise lavished on me the night before.

Shut up and pour the coffee.

It served as a big pin prick that brought my head quickly back to its normal size.

Those folks at the restaurant were my peeing cows.

It’s a lesson that I try to remember when things are going too well and I find myself beginning to believe that I am something more than I really am– a simple schlub watching a cow pee.

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This post first ran here in 2015. It never fails to make me smile and realize that I remain that simple schlub. I ran it again a few years later in 2018 with the following intro:

I was watching a deer this morning in the lawn outside my front studio window as it stood staring intently at me. I wondered what it made of me as our eyes locked. Then I noticed that it was simply taking it’s morning dump. It made me chuckle, reminding me of a quote from the sculptor Brancusi that I shared here a few years ago. I thought this would be a good morning to replay it.

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In the Light of Stillness— At Principle Gallery

Being is not a steady state but an occulting one: we are all of us a succession of stillness blurring into motion on the wheel of action, and it is in those spaces of black between the pictures that we find the heart of mystery in which we are never allowed to rest.

—Russell Hoban, Fremder (1996)

The new painting above is included in the 30th Anniversary exhibit at the Principle Gallery that opens on Friday, March 22.

It is titled In the Light of Stillness and is 18″ by 24″ on canvas. As in this piece, I have myself employing snow in several new pieces recently. I often associate snow with stillness. There is something wonderful in the muffled quiet it produces.

Walking down our long driveway on a snowy night has such a sense of stillness. No traffic sounds from the road and when a vehicle does pass its sound is muted and soft. A whisper. Sometimes the quiet is so absolute you can hear the snowflakes rubbing against each other as they fall or as they land on your hat.

It is a comforting feeling for me, like the universe, and I along with it, is taking a moment to catch its breath. That might why I try to create a sense of warmth in these snow scenes.

I understand that snow might not have that same effect for many people. Traveling in it or not being able to travel in it, shoveling it, plowing it, slogging through its melting slush, its cold sting when the winds blow it, etc.– there are a lot of negative associations attached to it.

There have been many times in the past when I have stood trembling with wet and cold hands and feet and an aching body from dealing with the snow for hours. My perception of it then is much different than what I see in this painting. But a short stroll in a quiet snowfall erases all those negative connotations and, absorbing the stillness, I feel as one with the universe.

For me, there is nothing better.

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