Redtree Times

Niche– At Principle Gallery, Alexandria

“As he was about to climb yet another dune, his heart whispered, “Be aware of the place where you are brought to tears. That’s where I am, and that’s where your treasure is.” 

― Paulo Coelho, The Alchemist

When I am painting, especially in the runup to a solo show, I can often tell how effective I believe the work is by my emotional response to it. I often experience cathartic moments with many pieces where I see the meaning the painting holds for me, how it mirrors my emotional state and how I view myself and the world.

Sometimes tears flow in these moments. They are not sad nor are they happy tears.

They are tears of recognition and acknowledgment of the human condition. Tears of catharsis.

The painting shown here, Niche, had such an effect on me in the studio. I took it off the easel and set it down against a shelf then stepped back to take it in from a distance.

Within moments, my eyes were filled with tears.

I immediately saw the painting as a representation of my life as a painter. Maybe the closest I will ever come to doing a self-portrait. It is a modest painting, clear and colorful. The rolling field rows in the foreground generally represent work and labor for me and here I could only see them as representative the tens of thousands of hours spent alone in the studio working to create work that spoke some sort of truth.

But the part that hit me hardest was the narrowness of the canvas and how the Red Tree found its place to shine between two other trees. I could only see that as representative of my career as a painter. I live and work in a narrow niche, one that is simply stated and far apart from the art world in general. I don’t even know what to call my work or how others classify it. Neither highbrow nor lowbrow, it will never be swept up in movements or schools of art, never cited as part of some -ism in art history. It will never be the subject of big museum retrospectives or serious study from art critics. My life is too small and insular to warrant such things and I don’t have the will or energy to seek them.

It is, as I said, a narrow niche in art and in life. But that was not the part that brought the tears. No, it was the fact that I had this small, limited niche in the first place. It was the recognition that I had carved out such a niche with only my limited talents and mind that made me cry. I guess that I saw myself in this tree in that moment. And, even seeing all its limitations, it pleased me for having created something worthwhile from so little.

My niche might be small and narrow. But, good or bad, it is mine.

I am sure to many that seems like a small and simple thing. Maybe so. But even small and simple things sometimes make up the best part of a life.

Sometimes they make you cry.

Wasn’t planning on writing this this morning. Didn’t really want to share so much, to be honest. Certainly didn’t want to admit to crying. But I thought this painting deserved sharing my full reaction to it. It earned it.

Here’s a Ray LaMontagne song to go along with it. This is Such a Simple Thing. Seems about right.

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Blaze— Now at Principle Gallery

Each minute bursts in the burning room,
The great globe reels in the solar fire,
Spinning the trivial and unique away.
(How all things flash! How all things flare!)
What am I now that I was then?
May memory restore again and again
The smallest color of the smallest day:
Time is the school in which we learn,
Time is the fire in which we burn.

—Delmore Schwartz, Calmly We Walk Through This April’s Day (1937)

The last week has been a real test of my resolve. As noted here in the past, there is always a substantial letdown in the weeks after any opening. It feels like a bout of depression, deep and dark. Fortunately, I have come to recognize it as being short-lived which makes tolerating it much easier.

However, coupling this with the pressure of a looming deadline for my upcoming West End Gallery show and high temperatures and humidity that I don’t tolerate well leaves me feeling exhausted.

My get up and go has got up and gone.

Fortunately, I have been able to maintain focus in my work. It’s been a struggle. I sometimes feel like I have to bind myself to my easel like Odysseus lashing himself to his ship’s mast to resist the Sirens’ song and destroy his ship on the rocks of their island. There have been many days recently when I would love to follow the Sirens’ song anywhere but here. But I remain bound to my easel (interestingly, the main support on the easel is called a mast) and the enticement fades in the distance and the resulting work has been all I could ask for.

I thought I would share the one older piece from my current Principle Gallery show. It is a 2014 painting titled Blaze. From the very moment it came off my easel it has been a favorite of mine. It hits on every mark for me and still gives me a tremendous feeling of satisfaction when I look at it. It just feels right. Complete and alive. It reminds me that our energy and enthusiasm are a burning fire that constantly needs to be fueled. Once that flame has went out, rekindling it is a difficult thing.

The fact that it has never found a home has been vexing so I decided to show it once more in the new larger frame I introduced this year that has an architectural feel, as though you are viewing the work through columns or pillars. Like it was in a temple of some sort.

I am including this painting that is special to me along and the final verse of a 1937 poem from poet Delmore Schwarz (Lou Reed was his student at Syracuse University and was influenced by his work) that ends with a line–Time is the fire in which we burn— that serves as a refrain throughout the poem.

Because I am hoping that today’s triad of image, word and song serves to fuel my own flame, I am also including Whoop and Hollar from Ray Wylie Hubbard.  Hubbard wrote another favorite of mine, Up Against the Wall, Redneck Mother, for the late Jerry Jeff Walker (who is from Oneonta, by the way) in 1973. If this song doesn’t get your fire cooking you best look for the kerosene or something.

Your pilot light be out.

Now get the hell out of here. My flame is starting to rage and you might get burnt.

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The Heart Warms— Now at Principle Gallery, Alexandria

The whole course of human history may depend on a change of heart in one solitary and even humble individual – for it is in the solitary mind and soul of the individual that the battle between good and evil is waged and ultimately won or lost.

–M. Scott Peck, The People of the Lie (1983)

I thought since many of us are experiencing extreme heat, that the painting above from my current show at the Principle Gallery, The Heart Warms, would provide a cool respite. But the meaning behind this piece for me has little to do with air temperatures.

I see it as being about the difference one caring and empathetic person can make in a world that often seems uncaring and sometimes outright hostile.

A warm heart willing to stand apart in a cold world.

I used a passage from the late M. Scott Peck, who is best known for his book The Road Less Traveled. This is from his The People of the Lie which is an examination of evil based on his experiences as a clinical psychiatrist. Peck, who died in 2005, noted that a lack of empathy is among a list of prevalent traits among he observed in those who could be categorized as evil. It’s an interesting list (you can find it on Peck’s Wikipedia page under Theories) that seems to fit a certain narcissistic presidential candidate to a tee, even though it was written in 1983.

He also writes about how mass movements and crowds that arise behind leaders with these characteristics often cause their followers to lose or set aside their empathy and personal sense of personal responsibility. Sounds familiar, here in the moment and in every authoritarian regime throughout history.

That’s why the single caring person willing to stand against malignant ignorance (Peck’s term) of the crowd is vital in defeating all forms of evil. And that’s what I am seeing here, a reminder to stand against such evils. To be indifferent at such a time is to set aside any empathy one might possess, to deny the importance and power of one’s own singular voice.

Again, a lot to ask of a simple painting. You might not see it that way at all and like it for other reasons. Or not. That is the way of art.

Here’s a song to go with this all. It’s a lovely and moving performance of the classic Ben E. King song, Stand By Me, from Tracy Chapman. It was from a performance in 2015 during the last few months of the David Letterman show. Good stuff.

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All of humanity’s problems stem from man’s inability to sit quietly in a room alone.

–Blaise Pascal, Pensées 

A Time to Listen– At Principle Gallery

I was looking for something to attach to this new painting, A Time to Listen, that is included in my current Principle Gallery show, when I came across this post from about nine years back. The idea of sitting alone in silence in a room or listening silently in the great wide open seemed to be cut from the same cloth. Humans are often uncomfortable in silence or in listening to anything other than the sound of their own voices. I thought this quote from Pascal spoke for my painting. This is what I wrote in that original blog post:

This oft-quoted line from French mathematician/philosopher Blaise Pascal from back around 1660 shows us that even in that 1600’s world without smartphones and the constant crackle of 24/7 electronic and social media the idea of sitting in silence made most people anxious.

It’s an interesting thing to ponder. As I sit here, a little before 7 AM in my quiet studio, I can hear the thump of a bass from someone’s car stereo probably almost a mile away as it goes down the road. That is someone who obviously isn’t ready to embrace silence and believes that they are doing everyone else a favor by breaking it up so we won’t be bothered by it.

Hard as it is to admit, I was that guy at one point in my life. Noise was a way of making my presence, my existence, known.

The literal lion’s roar or barbaric yawp.

It was all an existential scream that tried to break through the ever-growing wall of sound from the outside world that threatened to obscure everything, melding all the noises into a huge suffocating drone of anonymity.

But my noise made no difference. No single sound, no one angst-filled scream could break through and show that I was indeed alive, that I mattered.

No, proof of existence was found sitting quietly in a room alone.

It wasn’t always easy. In the silence there is nowhere to hide from every random thought, every fear, every diminishment of yourself. But silence provides the gift of acceptance after a time and every relived thought and moment, good or bad, becomes equally part of the make-up of yourself. You come to realize that proof of your existence is in this acceptance and not in that barbarous scream that you once thought would leave a scar on the world as that proof.

It sounds too simple, I know. But simplicity is sometimes very difficult and I still find myself struggling to stay in the silence, to not revert to screaming out.

But most days I find that it is worth the effort.

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Deep Right Field– Now at Principle Gallery 

“If somebody came up and hit .450, stole 100 bases, and performed a miracle in the field every day, I’d still look you right in the eye and tell you that Willie was better. He could do the five things you have to do to be a superstar: hit, hit with power, run, throw and field. And he had the other magic ingredient that turns a superstar into a super-superstar. Charisma.”

-Leo Durocher

Willie Mays, the Say-Hey Kid, died yesterday at the age of 93. Growing up in the 60’s as a baseball fan, Willie was the gold standard at a time filled with legendary players. Like Durocher said above, he could do everything, often winning games without getting a hit. Such were his tools.

And more than that, he made it look effortless. Everything he did had a sense of inevitability. Sure, you knew he was going to make that crazy catch in the field. or that he was going to hit that home run. Or that he was going to steal that base or score from second on a sacrifice flyball. 

He made the game look so easy, making the extraordinary ordinary. People came to expect it.

I think Clete Boyer, who played against Willie, put it best:

“I hit the ball and said to myself, ‘What’s the condition of the outfield? By that, I was measuring how far it would roll when it hit and whether I’d get a double out of it or a triple. And then, running toward first base, i said ‘ Oh hell, He’s out there’. And without even looking, I slowed down. And when I looked up, he was lobbing the ball back to the infield after the catch. And none of those San Francisco fans even gave him a cheer, outside of what you’d normally hear for any put-out. i guess they expected it same way I did.”

Just grateful to have seen him play. Thank, Willie, for inhabiting the imaginations of so many kids like me. The Say-Hey Kid was one-of-a-kind.

Here’s a song from The Treniers that celebrates the greatness of the young Willie in 1954.

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Shoot the Moon— At Principle Gallery

So blind is the curiosity by which mortals are possessed, that they often conduct their minds along unexplored routes, having no reason to hope for success, but merely being willing to risk the experiment of finding whether the truth they seek lies there.

–René Descartes, Rules for the Direction of the Mind (1628)

Don’t have much to say this morning. Little time to waste after Friday’s opening of Continuum at the Principle Gallery as I am already neck deep in work for my next show.

To be honest, it feels good to be back at work, especially with a deadline looming overhead. It clears the mind. Once the brush hits the paint and the paint hits the canvas, doubts and worries are momentarily pushed aside.

The mind’s fog breaks and it’s clear sailing as I try to find my own little slice of the truth I seek.

Or a reasonable facsimile.

You can never tell what is real these days.

Here’s song to carry with you while on your own search. It’s a live performance of The Great Gig in the Sky from Pink Floyd and their classic Dark Side of the Moon album. I think it pairs well with the piece at the top from the Continuum show, Shoot the Moon. The song, like the painting, is wordless. But it is filled with great waves of emotion, that rise and fall. It is a song that always makes me stop to listen.

All you can ask of art of any type.

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Back in the studio again this morning after the opening of Continuum: The Red Tree at 25, at the Principle Gallery on Friday evening. The work looked just as I had hoped on the gallery walls and a very good crowd showed up. That was not something to be taken for granted given the extreme heat, in the mid 90’s, in the area that day. It was good to see familiar faces and new ones, as well.

Thank you for everyone who made it to the show. I so appreciate you taking the time to spend a little time with me at the gallery. And special thanks and affection to Michele, Clint, Taylor, Owen and Sierra for their friendship and all the hard work they put in to for a show like this. It has been and honor and a great pleasure to have been able to have this show every year for the past twenty-five years.

A quarter of a century.

I know that this means little to anyone but me and I’m okay with that. It’s just that at a certain age you sometimes look back to see where your journey has taken you and hhen I look back now, I see these 25 shows at the Principle Gallery as part of my path now. It has meaning for me in the work that has been shown in them and the many wonderful people who I have met there through the years.

It’s become an ingrained part of my life.

Thanks for being part of it.

Okay, moving on. Here’s this week’s Sunday Morning Music selection. Thought Steely Dan and their Reelin’ in the Years from 1972 would be appropriate.

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Come the Brightening— At Principle Gallery

The sun rose on the flawless brimming sea into a sky all brazen-all one brightening for gods immortal and for mortal men on plowlands kind with grain.

—Homer, The Odyssey

Show day!

Tonight is the opening for Continuum: The Red Tree at 25 at the Principle Gallery in Alexandria, VA. There is an opening reception that runs from 6-8:30 PM. I will be there to talk with anyone who cares to chat about the work on the walls. Or anything at all. Your choice.

There is a link below to a virtual walkthrough of the show. It gives you a better idea of the sizes and presentation of the work. Believe it or not, the colors of the paintings and the frames are somewhat deeper than shown in the walkthrough as they wash out a bit with the lighting required to create it. So, if you like it here, you’ll like it even more in the gallery.

As noted here and in the show’s title, this marks my 25th consecutive solo exhibit with the Principle Gallery, starting with the Red Tree show in June of 2000. It was my first real gallery show and at that point I had no idea if there would be a second, let alone a third, fifth, tenth, or twentieth. I sure as hell was not anticipating heading out for a 25th show in Alexandria.

But somehow it has come to be. Most of it is the result from the support and encouragement from gallery owner Michele Marceau and her belief in the work. I can’t fully express my gratitude and appreciation for the many things she has added to my career and life. She has encouraged and allowed me to experiment and expand over these 25 years, never trying to dictate the direction or scope of the work.

Over the past 25 years, some things appeared for only a short time and others became the heart and soul of my work.

The Red Tree, for example. 25 years later and it still somehow resonates and feels new with each incarnation.

Like the Dude in The Big Lebowski, the Red Tree abides.

All I can ask.

Hope you can make it to the Principle Gallery tonight. If you do, look for me–I’ll be the sweaty, uncomfortable and confused looking guy hovering about.

Here’s the link to the virtual walkthrough:

https://my.matterport.com/show/?m=AmSFWLvk1zC

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