No Mail– 2010
You can get so confused
that you’ll start in to race
down long wiggled roads at a break-necking pace
and grind on for miles across weirdish wild space,
headed, I fear, toward a most useless place. The Waiting Place…
— Dr. Seuss, Oh, The Places You’ll Go!
Looking at this painting yesterday in the studio reminded me that I need to let folks know that I will not be sending out my annual Christmas card this year. With all that is going on personally, I haven’t been able to produce a card and will be too busy or preoccupied to do the addressing/mailing part. Plus, we are in belt-tightening mode which played a small part in this decision.
It wasn’t an easy decision. I have been sending them out for well over twenty years now and I get messages from so many people who say they enjoy and look forward to them each holiday season. So, it feels kind of weird to not be sending them this year. Maybe next year I can resume. Sure hope so.
Also, for those of you who have reciprocated in the past, please refrain as we no longer receive mail at our former PO Box 25. If you feel the desire to do so anyway, please contact me via email for an address.
Looking at this painting also brought back the memories from my childhood that always arise from looking at this piece. The painting, No Mail, is another orphan, one of those pieces that went out into the world 2010 and came back without being able to find a home. I normally try to figure out if there is an apparent flaw in these orphans and sometimes there is something that is just not right in its composition or some other technical aspect that degrades it somehow. But sometimes I notice that these pieces are often pieces that I see as being more personal, more connected with my own life’s narrative. Pieces where I see more in them than might not be apparent to others. This painting falls into this category. It evokes a certain time and feeling so vivid in my memory that it immediately emerges for me when I look at this painting.
I went back in the archives for the blog and found what I had written about this piece several years back. I’d like to share it just to show the connections that some paintings make even though they may not reach out to everyone. It’s very much about the anticipation that comes with waiting, something I am all too acquainted with these days. Waiting is often the bane of a child’s existence. It was for me back then and it remains so, stuck here as I am in the Waiting Place.
[From 2010]
This is a piece that’s been bouncing around my studio for a month or so, one that I call No Mail. It’s a smallish painting on paper, measuring about 8″ by 14″. I haven’t decided whether I will show this one or simply hold on to it. It’s a matter of whether I believe others will see anything in it rather than me wanting to keep it for myself. Maybe it’s that I see a very personal meaning in the piece that is reflected in the title and I can’t decide if it will translate to others.
For me, this painting reminds me of my childhood and the house I consider my childhood home, an old farmhouse that sat by itself with no neighbors in sight. Specifically, this painting reminds me of exact memories I have of trudging to the mailbox as an 8- or 9-year-old in the hot summer sun. There’s a certain dry dustiness from the driveway and the heat is just building in the late morning. It was a lazy time for a child in the country, especially one that didn’t live on a farm. Late July and many weeks to go before school resumes. The excitement of school ending has faded, and the child finds himself spending his days trying to find ways to not be bored into submission.
The trip to the mailbox is always a highlight of the day, filled with the possibility that there might be something in it for me. Something that is addressed only to and for me, a validation that I exist in the outside world and am not stranded on this dry summer island. Usually, the tinge of excitement fades quickly as I open the old metal mailbox and find nothing there for me. But occasionally there is something different, so much so that I recognize it without even seeing the name on the label or envelope.
It’s mine, for me, directed to me. Perhaps it’s my Boy’s Life or the Summer Weekly Reader. I would spend the day then reading them from front to back, reading the stories and checking out the ads in Boy’s Life for new Schwinn bikes.
Oh, those days were so good. The smell of the newly printed pages mingling with the heat and dust of the day to create a cocktail whose aroma I can still recall.
But most days, it was nothing. Just the normal family things– bills, advertisements and magazines. Or nothing at all. The short walk back to the house seemed duller and hotter on those days.
That’s what I see in this piece, even though it doesn’t depict everything I’ve described in any detail. There’s a mood in it that vividly recalls those feelings from an 8- or 9-year-old, one of eager anticipation and one of disappointment that came in those childhood days with no mail.
Sigh.
Redtree Times 